“You can do it!” Lyla yells, louder than before. “Don’t listen to this asshole. Ten. Nine. Eight.”
I join her. “Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One!”
There’s a battle cry from up top; then Nikki jumps.
She plummets from the coaster, her yelp dying in the wind. A knot forms in my stomach as she soars toward the ground, but then the bungee cord meets resistance and she’s bouncing back up. I exhale through puffed-out cheeks. She did it. We all did it. There’s a low groan overhead as Nikki bounces, but it’s barely audible over our cheers.
A loud crack splits the air.
It all happens so fast I don’t realize what’s going on until it’s too late. Nikki screams as she hurtles toward the pavement; above her a gaping section of the track has split in half and is crashing after her. Nikki hits the blacktop with a crunch. The track follows, and we all scream and leap back, shielding our faces from the metal and wood flying in every direction in a deafening symphony of noise. And then it’s over.
A final screw tinkles along the cracked pavement. A heavy silence follows, blanketing the park.
“Nikki!” Lyla yells.
We run over, surrounding her body. Nikki lies limply on her side in a heap of wood and twisted metal. She isn’t moving.
Lyla falls to her knees. “Are you okay?”
“You promised,” Nikki whimpers. “You said I wouldn’t get hurt.”
I let out a breath. She’s alive.
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t think—I thought…” Lyla scrubs her hair back from her face, pulling her ponytail loose.
“I didn’t mean it.” Hartley stands back from the group, her eyes wide with shock.
“It’s not like you made the track break,” Farrah says.
“Forget about that!” I snap. “We’re going to turn you over, okay, Nikki?”
I gently turn her onto her back, the way I’ve seen countless paramedics do on medical TV shows. Her eyes fly open at the movement, and she cries out in pain.
“Sorry, sorry!” I say.
Nikki’s arm lies on the pavement next to her, as if it’s not attached to her body; blood oozes from the road rash across her whole left cheek. My stomach pitches. I’ve spent my whole life in hospitals, seen enough gory shit—usually happening to me—to fill more than one horror film. I should be immune to this stuff.
Get it together, Callahan.
“All right,” Lyla says in a soothing voice. “Don’t panic. Your arm is probably broken.”
“Ya think?” Farrah says.
“We need to call 911,” I say.
“Are you stupid?” Hartley says. “Then we’re all caught! They charge people for trespassing out here.”
“Really, Hartley?” I say. “You’re worried about your record?”
Nikki groans.
“She’s right,” Lyla says. “No cops.”
She’s the last person I would have expected to agree with Hartley, and I gape at her in shock. “We can’t just leave her here like this. She needs help.”
“No one said anything about leaving her.” Lyla keeps her voice calm and commanding.
Farrah starts pacing with her hands in her hair while Nikki writhes on the cement.
“All right,” I say. “We’ll drive her to the hospital and drop her off in the ER. We can think up an excuse on the way.”
No one argues.
“Can you walk?” Lyla asks.
“I don’t think so,” Nikki answers.
“Okay, that’s no problem.” Lyla scoops her up, grunting as she struggles to her feet. Nikki howls as Lyla repositions her body in her arms.
Lyla lumbers toward the main entrance. Though the walk seemed long on the way in, we didn’t cover as much ground as I thought. In moments we’re at the hole in the front gate, the four of us fumbling and swearing and shouting directions as we try to fit Nikki’s limp body through the gap.
When we finally get her through, I sprint ahead to get the car. It’s not until a wet cough chokes out of my throat that I realize what I’m doing. If Mom were here right now, she’d force me to sit down and take ten hits of my inhaler. She’d take care of me.
But she isn’t here, and it isn’t about me. For once I’m not the sickest one in the room.
I fall into the front seat of the car, fingers shaking as I start the engine. Up-tempo zydeco music filters through the speakers, starkly at odds with the mood of the night. I turn off the radio and skid into the parking lot.
Nikki cries out as Lyla struggles to get her into the backseat. The rest of the girls climb in, and I speed back to the interstate.
“What’s the excuse?” Farrah asks as soon as we’ve topped 70 mph—faster than Nikki would prefer, but something tells me she’d approve this once.
“She slipped and fell in the shower,” Hartley says. “Just go with something simple so it doesn’t sound made up. I broke my arm once just sitting in a chair. Weird shit happens.”
“At two in the morning?” Lyla challenges.
“And she got road rash on her face from all that cement in her shower?” Farrah says.
“You got anything better?” Hartley says.
“Yeah, actually. She fell off her roof.”