“Shut up before you get us all caught,” Farrah hisses after her. I’m amazed she hasn’t keyed into the fact that Hartley will do the exact opposite of what she’s told. It would be better to say nothing and let her run herself out, but Farrah’s eyes follow Hartley’s every move. The battle between these two is far from over.
We finally reach the base of the coaster. The metal-and-wood tracks are so far up they’re lost in the churned clouds.
“So what do we do now?” Nikki asks.
“I thought you were the smart one.” Hartley jumps up and catches onto a track just over her head, undone shoelaces dangling from her sneakers like lop-eared rabbits. She hoists herself up easily, then starts jogging up the coaster. My stomach launches into my throat.
“Be careful!” Nikki says, then mutters, “Oh my God, she’s going to die. I’m going to witness someone’s death. I’m going to need therapy for life.”
Farrah walks to where the track nearly meets the ground and climbs after Hartley.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Nikki clambers onto the track. “When was the last time this thing was safety-checked? The whole thing could collapse at any moment. They don’t condemn parks for no reason….” Her mutterings fade as she climbs away from us.
Pressure builds in the pit of my stomach, getting bigger and bigger by the passing second, like a hurricane building momentum.
Maybe they were right to doubt me. Climbing onto that thing seems impossible, never mind taking a “leap of faith” when I get to the top, whatever that means. I know what I think it means, and I hope to God I’m wrong.
“Hey, are you okay?” Lyla asks.
I flash her an uneasy smile and switch the flashlight to my other hand so I can wipe my sweaty palm on my pants.
“Yeah.” I grit my teeth. “No, actually.”
“It’s scary, right?” Lyla peers at the track stretching into the gloomy sky. “But if they can do it, we can too.”
“It’s not just that,” I say. I bite my lip, but who am I kidding? It’s going to come out sooner or later, if she doesn’t already know. Besides, she was away for an illness last year. She’ll understand. “I’m sick.”
But she doesn’t react the way I thought she would. Her eyes narrow. “Really? You seem fine to me.”
“I have CF—”
“I know that,” she interrupts. “Everyone knows that. But right now, I mean. You seem fine.”
“That’s not how it works. If I exert myself, my lungs will fill with mucus and I won’t be able to breathe.”
“I don’t mean to be an asshole,” Lyla says. “I just think you might be making an excuse for yourself.”
My first instinct is to be offended. Who does she think she is? She didn’t even know my name before today. But…maybe she’s right. It’s not like I’ll be running a marathon. Maybe the buzzy feeling in my body isn’t my lungs waiting to attack. Maybe it’s just fear.
I dig my inhaler out of my bag and slip it into my back pocket, then drop my purse and the flashlight in a patch of tall grass and climb onto the tracks. There’s no railing, and the rusted frame’s barely wider than an escalator. I become uncomfortably aware of every part of my insides, my lungs stiff with tension.
“I’m right behind you,” Lyla calls, encouraging.
The wooden planks creak and groan as I take my first shaky steps, climbing over a gnarled tree trunk trying hard to push through the coaster. I keep low to the track, my movements slow but steady.
After a minute I glance down. Bad idea. My stomach vaults into my throat. If I were to fall now, I’d break something—maybe lots of somethings. I might even die.
I spot my purse in the grass. It looks like nothing more than a speck from up here.
“You okay?” Lyla asks behind me. “I’m still right here.”
I manage to nod and push myself forward until my legs are screaming and sweat coats my brow. Every few steps I blow air forcefully through my lips, to keep my lungs open. Finally, finally, we reach the rest of the group. I pat my back pocket for my inhaler, then bring the blue plastic to my lips and suck in two huge lungfuls of mist, taking deep breaths through my nose until I feel my chest expand. I’d love to hork up some phlegm right now and really clear my chest, but I have a feeling the other girls wouldn’t approve.
“Took you long enough,” Farrah says, like she’s not gripping the tracks for dear life. Next to her, Nikki has her eyes closed so tightly I can’t be sure she’s not crying. It’s weird seeing her out of control.
Meanwhile, Hartley stands precariously close to the ledge, pinwheeling her arms like a swimmer about to take a dive. That’s when I notice she’s got a harness strapped across her chest and her feet are bound with some sort of cuff attached to a huge length of rope.
“What’s that?” Lyla asks.
“Bungee equipment, duh,” Farrah says. “It was all here waiting for us.”
“How do you know you put it on right?” I ask Hartley.