“You’re not the only one with something at stake,” Hartley says.
Lyla steps between Hartley and Farrah, physically wedging them apart as if she’s some sort of referee. “We don’t control who’s invited, okay? We don’t control any of this. We just have to get through it.” She looks at each of them, making sure they both understand. Hartley shrugs, and Farrah’s arms tighten across her chest, so Lyla keeps walking.
“Think people live here?” Nikki asks, unconcerned with the drama unfolding around her. “Like, homeless people?”
“What if some serial killer just lured his next victims to his lair?” Hartley says.
“Don’t be stupid,” Farrah shoots back, even as she edges closer to her.
“What? I watched a documentary on something like this,” Nikki says. “A Canadian RCMP officer used anonymous invites to get his victims out into the open, where he could trap them and skin them alive or something like that.”
“Ugh, stop!” Farrah says. “What is your problem?”
“I just like to be prepared for all possible outcomes,” Nikki says, plucking at her skirt.
“But seriously,” Lyla says. “Do you think someone’s watching us right now? The Society, I mean?”
I peer down the next dark, overgrown alley full of hiding places. Somehow the thought of a person—no, a society of people—watching us is worse than anything. The car is so far away now. If I wanted to leave, I’d have to go back by myself. I’d have to wait for them alone….
“It would make sense,” Hartley says. “If someone really is going to pony up a hundred K, he’d probably want to make sure we really are doing the dares. Whoa, check that out!”
She jogs up to a giant, defaced clown statue. Its nose and part of its cheek are bashed right off, and one eye is dangling out of its socket. Hartley sticks her foot in the clown’s leering mouth and attempts to climb, but she can’t get past the giant cheekbones.
“Would you get down from there?” Nikki says. “You’re wasting time again.”
“May I suggest gently removing that stick from your ass?” Hartley answers. But she jumps down and jogs ahead.
Torn pennant flags flap loudly from the roofs of the bumper cars. I shine the flashlight inside the rink, where shards of glass glitter in the dirt and rot creeps up the sides of the stalled cars like three-week-old leftovers.
We keep walking and pass a building painted in blues and greens bleached ghostly pale by the sun. Someone has written on it FEMALE ROACHES and MALE ROACHES, with arrows pointing in opposite directions to the girls’ and boys’ bathrooms. I think I’d sooner piss my pants than go inside.
There’s a rattle in the dark, and I swing the flashlight over to see Hartley walking precariously across the bucket seats of a giant swing, holding on to the rusted metal chains.
“Did you forget to take your Ritalin?” Farrah calls over.
“Get up here, guys. It’s fun!”
“I’m sure it is,” Farrah mutters. “Can we just get this over with already? Which one is the Mega Zeph? They all look the same in the dark.”
“It’s that one.” Hartley nods at a huge roller coaster that looms against the black skyline like the remains of a massive dinosaur. “I rode it once, when I was eleven. Dad took us here for my birthday. Think it was the only day in his entire life he wasn’t piss drunk.”
I don’t know what to say at the sudden revelation. Neither does anyone else.
“I came here twice when I was little, but I never went on the roller coasters,” Lyla says, breaking the tension. “My sister always refused to go on the rides. She said she just didn’t like them, but I knew it was because she was afraid of heights. We spent the whole time playing games instead.”
“You could have gone on the rides by yourself,” Farrah says.
Lyla shrugs. “Yeah, but I wanted to do what my sister was doing.”
“The games are a waste of money,” Nikki says. “They’re all rigged. I saw an exposé about it. You know that game where you have to knock the milk bottles over with a softball? The bottles on the bottom are filled with lead. And the balloons in the dart throw are only filled to, like, thirty percent or something.”
“I think I saw that exposé!” Hartley says brightly.
“Really?” Nikki says, matching her enthusiasm.
“No. You need to get out more.”
Nikki’s expression flattens. “Maybe you should stay in more.”
Hartley rolls her eyes. “I changed my mind. You need to get laid.”
“You’re such a dick,” Farrah says.
Hartley flashes a toothy grin, then jumps off the swings and yells, “Let’s do this, bitches!”