“Nice. That’s awesome, man.” Dylan played a quick bluesy riff, then folded his hands across the guitar and leaned in toward me. “So, what do you like about her?”
It’s funny, because as much as I’d thought about Rose since we’d first met, I wasn’t really sure how to answer him. I liked a lot about her, of course. Her smile, the dimple below her lip, the way her hair blew in the breeze, her insane musical talent. The way she didn’t seem to mind all the things that went wrong. She made me feel like I could be myself. She made me want to be with her. But I didn’t exactly feel comfortable telling any of that to Dylan, someone I barely knew.
“I don’t know,” I muttered. “There’s just something . . .”
“In the way she moves?”
“No, it’s something—”
“In the way she knows?”
I looked up at Dylan and finally caught the joke. He held a closed fist over his mouth to keep from laughing.
“Ha! You like the Beatles?” I asked Dylan.
“Who doesn’t?” he replied, strumming a few chords from “Something.” It reminded me of my conversation with Rose.
Then again, everything reminded me of Rose now.
Maggie bustled back into the living room then, sliding her phone into the pocket of her jeans.
“Thanks for waiting,” she said, handing me some cash. “Hey, D, my friend Angie has two extra wristbands for BuffaloFest tonight. You want them?”
“Hell yeah,” said Dylan. “I’ve hardly left the house in weeks.”
“BuffaloFest?” I asked. “Is that the carnival down by the river?”
“Every summer!” Dylan replied. “It’s an institution around here.”
“Sounds fun,” I said, though I wasn’t so sure.
“It’s awful,” confessed Maggie. “But an awesome kind of awful. You guys should go!”
An uncomfortable pause followed. Maggie had just put us both on the spot, but Dylan especially—as if he didn’t have a hundred friends he’d rather go with. I opened my mouth wordlessly, but Dylan recovered first.
“Yeah, man, we should go,” Dylan said. “Meet you there at eight?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Dylan and I walked down the carnival’s main causeway, occasionally stepping over black electric wires that snaked their way across one another to power iffy-looking rides. We took turns renaming them: the Barf-a-Whirl, the Not-So-Funhouse, the Humper Cars, Ali Baba’s Death Machine . . . you get the picture. The aroma of corn dogs, asphalt, and body odor saturated the stagnant June air.
Every few minutes, we’d stop so Dylan could catch up with someone he knew. It didn’t take long to realize why he was so well liked—the dude was nice to everyone. And I mean everyone. Including me. Every time we got stopped, Dylan introduced me as “Zeus from Chicago” and explained that I was new to town. A few kids remembered me from school, but most of them didn’t. I stopped trying to keep track of names after it became clear Dylan knew half the population of Buffalo Falls.
Before long, twelve of us stood near the Gravitron. Dylan’s group of friends had a favorite summer tradition—seeing who could survive the ride without regurgitating a corn dog or deep-fried Twinkie. Once they found out I’d never been on such a contraption, the friendly chatter turned to urgent persuasion.
“Dude, it’s like a ritual. You have to come with us,” said a guy named Joe or maybe John but definitely not Justin.
“No, I’m good, thanks. The guy operating it looks like an escaped prisoner,” I replied, “not to mention he’s lit like a bonfire.”
“Come on, Zeus! It’s a rite of passage in Buffalo Falls,” urged a girl who I think was Katie, but may have been Jenny. “I’m sure this ride has a four-star safety rating.”
“Out of what, a hundred? No, you guys go ahead. I’ve already met my vomit quota this month.”
I tried backing away from the group, but Dylan put his hand on my shoulder. He looked me in the eyes, smiled, and nodded to the ride. “You’re coming with us.”
As I flashed my wristband to the attendant, I advised the group that I wasn’t responsible for my stomach contents ending upon or near them. We boarded the spaceship of death and took our spots.
If you’re like me and unfamiliar with the Gravitron, allow me to explain. Basically, it’s a UFO-shaped unit with lots of flashing lights. Inside, the walls are lined with vinyl pads from floor to ceiling. A bearded man in cut-off jean shorts sits in the center working levers and switches like the Great and Powerful Oz. Once the whole operation starts spinning, centrifugal force sticks everyone to the wall like bugs smashed on a windshield.
I couldn’t wait.
I’m kidding.
I could have gone to my grave without ever experiencing the Gravitron’s pleasures, but peer pressure’s a beast.
We took our places and waited for the ride to start. Then, slowly, we spun. When the lights began to blur through the opening in the ceiling, I shut my eyes. I felt my brain get sucked to the back of my skull as the speed increased. At its top velocity, the floor dropped out, a scenario that I was neither warned about nor prepared for. A sound escaped from my throat, much like a dog makes while getting his tail stepped on. I braced for the inevitable equipment malfunction. But when I opened my eyes, I was still firmly cemented in place by the laws of physics. We spun for another minute, like a flying saucer about to launch. Finally, the ride slowed down, my stomach returned to its normal resting place, and we all stumbled from the Gravitron in varying degrees of vertigo.
“See, man? It’s not that bad. And you didn’t even hurl!” said Dylan.
I swallowed the extra saliva that had pooled in my mouth, still fighting the urge to puke. I held my thumb and index finger together in an okay sign.
Dylan turned to the group. “We’ll catch up with you guys later. I’ve got a few more initiation rites in store for Zeus.”
For a split second, I imagined myself being wheeled out of BuffaloFest on a stretcher. We said our good-byes as the group headed off toward a ride called the Freefall, which looked like it had been pieced together with chicken wire and paper clips.
“All right, now let’s get you a funnel cake,” said Dylan. While my stomach wasn’t fully on board with the decision, I played along. He led me a short distance to a neon-colored hut, brightly lit from within by fluorescent tubing. Dylan ordered our food, and then we continued to walk as we ate. After a while, he looked at me with a powdered-sugar mustache. “Verdict?”
Despite my initial reluctance, I’d devoured half the tower of powdered-sugar-covered dough like a starved hound. “I think I just got diabetes,” I replied.
“I told you it’s good,” he said, inhaling another mouthful. We were polishing off the last few bites when Dylan’s phone dinged and interrupted our feast. He licked the sugar from his fingers and pulled it out. A smile crept across his face, illuminated blue from the screen. “Check it out,” he said, turning it toward me. A brunette, blue-eyed beauty wearing a tank top and pajama bottoms looked back at me making a pouty face. The text said MISS YOU followed by six exclamation points.