The dad laughs at my terrible puns, but Karen just nods and walks away, her perfect ponytail bobbing behind her. If my gloves had any degree of dexterity, the garbage-eating crows that flock to the park wouldn’t be the only birds she saw today.
“Dance, dance!” the boy shouts again, so I do.
* * *
• • •
Nick walks into the breakroom, stretching up his arms as he yawns. “Hey, Elouise.”
I’m furiously pounding Gatorade after my latest walkabout in the hot dog suit and I nod back, trying to squash down the butterflies. I’m too tired for this crap today; too tired for butterflies, and lies, and kindhearted sort-of-doofy hot guys that—
“About last night.” He bites his lip all sheepish-like, and I don’t want to find it adorable, I’m way too cranky for that, but I do.
I twirl the Gatorade bottle in my hands and chip away at the label. “What about it?”
He looks down, and a little of his hair, still damp from his last show, sticks to his face. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I say, because apparently lying is just something I do now. “Why?”
“No reason, I guess. Anyway, I found this on one of the picnic tables.” He opens his locker and pulls out Seeley’s shirt.
“Thanks.” I swallow hard and snatch it up. “I gotta run, I gotta go do rounds.”
I don’t catch the rest of what he says as I rush out the door and up the path, the sudden shift in temperature giving me an instant headache. I clutch her shirt a little tighter. Seeley’s got another hour or so left before her lunch break, but I don’t even care.
“Hi,” she says when I step into her booth. “What’s up? Nick doesn’t have another show for an hour and a half.” She looks all confused, and it kind of hurts that she thinks that’s all I came up here for.
“No, I know. I came to see you.”
“Oh.” Her eyes scan the carousel as it slows to a stop. “Hang on a sec?”
I lean back across the wall, folding and refolding her shirt from last night as she opens the gate and helps a few little kids with their seat belts. I remember when it was us up on the carousel; everything seemed so simple then. I wish I could find a way back to that.
When the last little kid rushes off to meet his mother, Seeley locks the gate and walks over to me. There’s nobody in line, unsurprising since the majority of the park has emptied out in this ungodly heat. Most of the people left are too busy trying not to drown in the kiddie pool to worry about hitting up the rides.
Seeley tilts her head. “What’s up, Lou?”
“I got this back for you.” I hold out the T-shirt.
“Thanks.” She tosses it on the shelf beneath the controls, like it burned her.
“You okay?”
She looks away, and I pull her into a hug so hard she almost tips over. “I hate fighting with you.”
“Yeah,” she mumbles into my shoulder. She steps back, grabbing a dustrag and some polish and walking back toward the carousel horses. “Did you and your dad make up yet?”
“Not yet.” I shift from foot to foot. “I’ve kind of been avoiding him.”
“You know how he is, Lou. He’ll probably say it wasn’t your fault and then make you waffles or something. Don’t get all worked up about it.”
I frown. I don’t even know if I deserve that after what I said to him. “Maybe.” I sigh. “Maybe he will.”
Oh god, I hope she’s right.
CHAPTER 18
I spend the next week with my head down, doing my best not to disturb the little bit of peace that has settled between me and Seeley. We’re good, but not great, and if I spend too long thinking about that, it feels like I can’t breathe. Meanwhile, my dad and I are still tiptoeing around each other, neither of us bringing up that night in my room. Which is why I’m currently chasing Mr. P down—because if the rest of my life is going to be one giant mess, then dammit, this park can’t be one too.
“Mr. Prendergast,” I call out. He’s making his way down to the front gates, probably to grab the cash drawers since we close in like fifteen minutes. Normally this would be the park manager’s job, but Mr. P gave him two weeks off paid because his wife had a baby. Mr. P is super big on family like that. Even if it means more work for him.
And today, it definitely does. Mr. P looks flushed and tired, sweat streaming down his face. He pulls a little rag out of his pocket and greets me with a smile. “What can I do for you, Elouise?”
“Um,” I say, losing my nerve a little. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
He looks a little bit surprised. “Of course. Is everything okay with your father?”
“Oh yeah, no, he’s great. This is about something else.”
“In that case, how about we meet back in my office in about five minutes? I have to get the cash drawers from the girls up front and then get out of this heat.”
“Perfect.” Now I have to just not lose my nerve for the next four minutes and fifty-nine seconds.
I dip into the first ladies’ room I pass, trying to ignore my reflection as I shove my head under the faucet and let the water run over me. I know I don’t have the face of a woman who walks into an office and demands answers—I have the face of a girl trying to be too many things at once.
But maybe that’s okay.
I wet my hands and dry them off on my pants, straightening up my back and squaring my shoulders. I could be her, maybe, that confident girl whose hair probably never escapes her ponytail, or who doesn’t care if it does. The kind of girl who Mr. Prendergast would have to listen to. Maybe I could be Elle, the real Elle, instead of mousy Elouise, or little Lou. I smooth my hair back a little more and paste on a smile, but it slides off my face into a frown. I look too much like my mother when I stand like this, confident and taking up too much space, so I slouch a little, just to spite her.
“I can’t do this.” I shove my hands in my pockets and walk out the door, fully intending to ditch Mr. P and slink away . . . except he’s there at the end of the path, smiling.
“Hello again,” he says. “Shall we?”
“Actually.” I glance back at the mirror once more. I can still sort of see her, that confident girl who maybe looks a little like her mother, waiting in the reflection where I left her. Screw it, what do I have to lose? “Actually, yeah, that’d be great.”
“What’s on your mind, dear?” He’s got his sweat rag out again, dotting it over his face with a casualness I’m not sure I’m on board with.
“So, basically, I was thinking about how you’re closing the park and I feel like I don’t want you to do that.” Oh. Awesome, Elouise. What a super compelling mature argument you just made. I’m sure he’ll definitely take you seriously now. Ten out of ten would recommend this approach. I sigh.
“I see.” He clears his throat. “And is this what you were coming to discuss with me?”
“Sort of?” I scrunch up my shoulders in a way that says I totally get how messed up this conversation is, but also that it’s way too late for me to back out now.
“I know this is a special place for you kids, I do, and I appreciate your input, but—”
“Hey, Mr. P,” Marcus says, cutting off our conversation. He’s changing one of the garbage cans outside the office, something we all take turns doing at the end of our shifts. “Thanks again for letting me use your car. I seriously owe you one.”
“You’re welcome.” Mr. P smiles, pulling open the door. “Thanks for all your hard work today.”
I follow him inside and drop into the seat across from him. “You let Marcus borrow your car?”
“His wouldn’t start, and he had to get his brother from summer school,” Mr. P says, like it’s no big deal. Like loaning out cars to kids they employ is something bosses do every day.
“See, that’s the thing,” I
say, leaning my elbows on his desk. “You’re always doing stuff to help us out, and I was thinking maybe we could return the favor.” I pull out my notebook. “Look, I’ve already been working on ideas. If it’s about money, we could do a GoFundMe or—”
“Elouise.” He smiles at me in that strained way adults do when they really, really want me to stop talking. “It means a lot that you would come to me with this, but I’m afraid it is what it is. Magic Castle Playland will be closing after this season.”
“You can’t really mean that,” I say. “I mean, that can’t be it.”
He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. “I appreciate how important this place is to you, Elouise, I truly do. But you have to understand that things change; circumstances, people, everything changes. Instead of fighting against the tide, what you really need to do is learn to swim in it.”
“What if I don’t want to?” And I wish that didn’t sound as petulant as it definitely just did.
“Welcome to adulthood.” He smiles, but it’s not a mean smile, more like a pity smile, and I think I hate that even worse.
CHAPTER 19
My dad isn’t home when I wake up the next morning.
This is a rare occurrence; rarer than, say, witnessing a cluster of migrating monarch butterflies, but not as rare as like seeing a Sumatran rhino up close or whatever. I mean, he goes to the grocery store and runs errands and stuff, but usually only when I’m at school or work. He has this thing about “always being present.”
It started after my mom left; I think he’s working through some guilt or something. I don’t know, it’s kind of cool, but also a little annoying. I never actually had that desperate need for his attention that he thought I did, but I felt as if he needed it, so I’ve always gone along with it. Or maybe I do have that need, but my needs have always been met. Huh. Anyway, I’ll have to unpack that later, because right now, with him gone, it’s the perfect time to snoop.
His workspace is totally covered with papers and files, disheveled in a way that only could ever make sense to him. I shift them around carefully, like an archaeologist on a quest. Somewhere there is a file labeled Prendergast, and I. Will. Find. It.
It’s not on his desk or in the file holder hanging over his desk or underneath it all in the stack beside his chair. I migrate to the file cabinet next—a place where files go to die—and I’m not expecting much. It’s rare that they ever make it back where they belong, all cozied up and alphabetical, without me helping him put them that way.
The garage door goes up, which, crap, means I have maybe one minute and thirty-seven seconds before Dad parks and is standing two feet away from me, asking me what the hell I’m doing going through his work stuff. I yank the drawer out, and there it is—filed right where it belongs between Pet Connection and Putt Putt Pavilion—Prendergast, W. I snag the file and pull it out, shoving it under my arm and then opening the drawer labeled M to hunt down the one labeled Magic Castle. I nearly rip that file yanking it out of the cabinet, which, man, that would have blown my cover for sure.
My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I race up the stairs to my room, and I barely get them stashed under my mattress before I hear him calling my name. I take a deep breath and grab a hair tie, wrapping it around as much of the mess on top of my head as I can while I walk into the kitchen.
He gives me a quick one-armed hug, wrestling with some bags as he does. “You’re up early.” He pulls a jug of maple syrup out of a bag; he must have been at the farmers market. “You want some food? I could use a few waffles myself.”
I guess this makes day nine of us pretending the fight never happened, then. I swallow hard and try to ignore the way the guilt twists up inside me. He’s being so nice, and I’m just standing here not apologizing for anything AND stealing his files to boot. Wow.
He tilts his head. “You okay?”
Not really, Dad, I’m kind of drowning in guilt over here, but . . .
“Yeah,” I say, snapping out of it. “Waffles sound great. I’m gonna grab a quick shower, okay?”
“Okay, kiddo,” he says. “Are we thinking Star Wars, Avengers, or plain today?”
“Avengers, definitely.” I smile, hamming it up as much as possible as I glide back up the stairs and race to my room. I kick the door shut behind me and pull out the files. Worst daughter ever, probably, but I’ll worry about that later.
See, I can’t stop turning over in my head how Mr. P said, “Magic Castle Playland will be closing” and not “I want it to be closing.” What if all of this is happening because he’s too proud to ask for help, even though he needs it? That makes it practically my duty to get to the bottom of this, and hopefully the stuff I took from my dad’s office will help.
My dad has always said Mr. P is one of his “highmaintenance” clients, which means Dad handles not only his business stuff, but every last bit of his private stuff too. I used to think that was super weird—like why would you want someone to know that much about you—but now, flipping through the files, I’m grateful for the info.
Granted, most of the papers in the files are boring junk, but there are a couple things that catch my eye. For one, Mr. P really has been making a ton of withdrawals, and his personal account balances have been looking pretty low lately. I flip over to the business file and page through, looking at the tax returns and the total income minus expenses and stuff. Dad taught me how to read profit and loss statements in the fourth grade, so this is all pretty standard stuff.
Magic Castle Playland brought in a nice income last year, sure, but it costs a lot more to run than I expected. So, yeah, he’s doing well, not like billionaire well, but well enough. Which makes it all the more weird that those numbers aren’t being reflected in his personal bank account.
I can use this, maybe. I mean, if it’s not the park itself that’s failing, maybe it’s just whatever those withdrawals are for that’s making him have to close up shop. All the little gears start twisting around my head, conjuring up ideas of fund-raisers and charity races and stuff. If I can replace some of that money . . .
I flip to the next page and see a proposal, well, an offer, really. I read a little slower, my eyes glazing over a little from all the legalese, but I can understand enough to get the gist of it. It’s from a land developer, and they don’t seem to care about the park at all, just the ground it sits on, and something about a chip manufacturing plant or something. A factory. A factory on top of Magic Castle? Nope. So much nope. I slide the files back under my mattress and hit the shower, more determined than ever to keep this place alive. At least now I know what I’m dealing with.
* * *
• • •
I spend my entire shower plotting and planning different ways to save the park, but as I walk back down the stairs and see my dad pouring over the waffle maker, I’m hit with a fresh wave of guilt.
“Hey, Lou.” He grabs a plate out of the cabinet and tosses a waffle on it. “You’re right on time.”
I try to smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace as I take my plate and make my way back to the table. He turns back around to tend to the next waffle, and I sit down and douse mine in syrup. And okay, I can’t take this anymore.
“Just so you know, I’m really sorry about the other night. I had no right to say the things I did about you and Mom.” I say it fast, all in one breath. “Sometimes I get so mad about it. I want to just scream at someone, and I can’t scream at her because she’s never here.”
My dad freezes, like he knows it’s so much easier for me to say this with him facing away.
“I don’t blame you or anything,” I say, cutting my waffle straight in half with my fork. “I know it wasn’t your fault. Like, I realize how much you guys used to fight and stuff. I know she left all on her own and I know she’s the one who stays gone. I just . . . it sucks sometimes, you know? And with everything else going on lately, it’s just been so mu
ch. I’m sorry that I say stupid shit to you when I can’t handle my life. And I hope that you don’t feel crappy because of me. That’s all.” I shove a forkful into my mouth before I mess things up even more, and hope that he hears what I’m trying to say and that somehow it helps.
He opens the waffle maker and slides his food onto the plate, carrying it over to sit across from me. It takes me a minute before I can look him in the eyes, but when I do, they’re all watery again. He swallows hard, and I slide the syrup toward him. We eat without saying another word.
When I get up to clear my plate, he stops me and gives me the biggest hug, and it feels like maybe, somehow, everything is going to be okay.
CHAPTER 20
“Okay, so here’s the thing: I didn’t want to just hang out tonight,” I say, shifting in my seat. I texted everyone to meet me at Dylan’s Diner under the guise of taking advantage of the stack of “20 percent off your entrée” coupons my dad got while doing their books—but, unbeknownst to them, this is really a strategy meeting.
“What now,” Seeley groans, which makes Nick raise his eyebrows in confusion and Jessa scrunch hers up.
I pull a few files out of my bag. “I also wanted to talk to you guys about this.”
“Schoolwork?” Nick frowns, but Seeley grabs a file and flips through it.
She looks up at me. “Did you steal these from your dad?”
“Borrowed.” I pull the papers back in front of me. “But that’s not important.”
“Okay, what’s going on?” Jessa crinkles up her nose a little, which reminds me of this little baby rabbit I saw once. It’s disgustingly cute, and she probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
I roll my eyes. “As you guys know, Mr. Prendergast is going to close down Magic Castle Playland.” I pause for effect. “Unless we do something to stop it.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Seeley says.
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