“Oh my God, check your mirrors before you change lanes!” Nikki says. “You almost hit that car!”
“What?” I peer into the rearview mirror. Sure enough, there’s a car just feet behind me. The driver blasts past, giving me the finger. My cheeks flame with heat. “I guess I’m tired,” I say. At least I have practice with that excuse.
“Well, wake up,” Nikki says. “I don’t want to get pulled over. And you’re driving ten over the speed limit. Slow down.”
Hartley sighs.
“What?” Nikki says. “Some of us have bright futures ahead of us.”
“I think I like you after all,” Farrah says, sharing a smile with Nikki.
“Hey, guys. Look at this.” I glance in the rearview mirror to find Lyla cradling her cell in her lap.
Hartley leans closer to look. “Shit,” she mutters.
“What? Let me see.” Farrah holds out her hand, and Lyla passes her the phone. I glance away from the road. On the screen are images of the park as it looks today, post-Katrina. The rides are rusted and covered with graffiti, and the place is overgrown with weeds.
“This doesn’t look so bad,” Farrah says.
“Keep scrolling,” Lyla says.
Farrah thumbs through the pictures and takes in a sharp breath.
I risk another glance over. Where the other pictures were taken during the day, these were taken at night. With the place plunged into darkness, the park goes from a little desolate and cheerless to an absolute nightmarescape, full of lurking shadows and menacing quiet, like the evil, twisted stepsister of Disney World.
“Look, here’s the Mega Zeph,” Nikki says, offering her phone.
The coaster looks like a relic compared to the steel, looping coasters of the rest of the park. This one’s made mostly of wood, and instead of crazy loops and inversions, it slopes up and down like some sort of sea serpent.
“How big is that thing?” Farrah asks.
“Hundred and ten feet, according to Wikipedia,” Nikki says, taking her phone back. “It says the majority of the wood is decayed, and the steel track is severely rusted. A large section has even rotted out completely and fallen to the ground.”
“Oh my God,” Farrah says.
“If you guys are done with your investigative work, I’ll check out the real thing,” Hartley says.
The jagged silhouette of Six Flags appears. I take the exit and follow the winding path toward the park. When we get close, I wedge the car into the tall reeds on the side of the road instead of using the huge parking lot out front. The last thing I need is for it to get towed or to show up on some security camera somewhere.
“Watch your knees,” I tell Farrah.
She twists to the side so I can open the glove compartment, where Mom keeps an emergency flashlight. I test the light and sigh with relief when it works.
We climb out of the car. Our shoes crunch on the gravelly pavement as we cross to the main entrance of the park.
The gate reaches way over our heads, but there’s a gaping hole in the wire where previous visitors have helpfully cleared a path. We duck inside one by one, pushing aside overgrown weeds.
The gate opens to a wide street bordered on both sides by battered gift shops and graffitied hotels. The silhouette of a huge Ferris wheel juts out against the sky like the giant spokes of a bike wheel.
What am I doing out here? I look back toward the car. Hartley catches me, and I whip my head forward.
We pick our way across the street, littered with damp papers and mildewy cardboard boxes, pieces of plaster and piping, even an old computer monitor. The flashlight dances smoothly across the destruction.
“This is creepy as hell,” Lyla whispers.
Walking through the fairground feels like a scene out of an apocalypse movie. I half expect slobbering zombies to limp out of the buildings toward us. The thought isn’t comforting.
A crumpled can of cola clinks past on a breeze. Metal squeaks in the distance.
Farrah shivers hard. She looks so out of place among all the rubble and darkness that I almost feel sorry for her.
Hartley must be thinking something similar, because she eyes Farrah like the emotional predator she is.
“What do you want?” Farrah says.
“You don’t need the money,” Hartley says.
“Don’t act like you know me.”
“I know about you, and I’m pretty sure Daddy would give you a hundred K if you asked him sweetly enough.”
“Don’t talk about my dad,” Farrah snaps.
“Whoa.” Hartley raises her hands in mock defense. “Since when do I need permission to talk about someone whose face is on the side of a bus? Isn’t he running for mayor or something? C’mon, Farrah Weir-Montgomery, why are you here?”
Farrah crosses her arms and gives Hartley an icy glare. “This is about me, not my dad. It can’t get out about me being here. The media would spin it like his daughter’s a wild child out of control, and it wouldn’t be good for him, okay?”