“Of course I’m skipping college to look for him. What kind of a future wife would I be if I didn’t?”
“More like a Stepford wife. He doesn’t want to meet you now. He wants more time to, what do they say, sow his wild horses. If he’s really your MTB, he’ll be around even when you’re old and saggy.”
“Better than being young and saggy. How many pumps of butter are you adding to your bathtub of popcorn? Do you think your MTB is going to be thrilled when she discovers it’s you she’s supposed to be in love with?”
“Is that how it works?” That was Luke. “When you meet the person, do you still have to fall in love? Or is there a chemical reaction that feels like love instantly? What if you’re in love with someone else at the time? Does that just go away?”
No one had an experience-based answer for that. I didn’t want to share my story of humiliation with Jared Mason, especially since I wasn’t certain that he was really in love with me to begin with. But I did wonder.
“In that one movie” or “on Maury” were the only points of reference we had. Maury went from a daytime television show whose paternity tests exposed “you are NOT the father” to a daytime television show whose tagline became “you are NOT the soul mate.” They even devised a smock with a sheer panel that fits directly over a guest’s chest that can be ripped open with Velcro to reveal their Empty’s Name. Keeping it classy, Maury.
A few seasonals had left work at Haunted Hollow to find their MTBs, but since they never returned, we were still left wondering. The older full-timers never gave straight answers.
“It feels like you’re floating on a cloud of cotton candy, and then you start shitting rainbows.”
“It’s more of a physical sensation, like when you eat too much Thai food.”
“I’ll show you what it feels like if you want, sweetheart.”
Yeesh. The only person at Haunted Hollow who had anything remotely useful to say about Empties was Mr. Sam Hain himself. “Love is love. It’s going to feel good. It’s going to feel even better, it’s going to hurt like hell, and it’s always going to be confusing.…”
Cryptic, but at least he (vaguely) answered one of my queries. It’s not straight-up cloud-nine perfection all the time. It’s still love. And if it’s still love, then there can still be some mystery to it, some excitement, and, I pray to Chuck, some choice.
As we gathered on the final night of last season and chugged our Witch’s Brew, involuntarily scratching our mosquito bites and peeling our sunburn, conversation turned once again to MTBs. Alexander McMahon had recently sold his grandfather’s baseball card collection, unbeknownst to his parents, to pay for a Signature Scan. Instead of leaving for college, he was flying to Sweden, where his MTB awaited.
“I accept the intrigue of secretly flying to Sweden to get it on with a presumably gorgeous Scandinavian, but should true love really be about lying to your family? This isn’t fucking Romeo and Juliet,” I argued.
“And what if she isn’t gorgeous? What if she’s been using a fake photo?” Luke added.
“We Skyped. Her gorgeousness is official,” Alexander contended.
“But is that enough to know you want to spend the rest of your life with someone?” Luke prodded.
“It is when her name is on my chest and mine is on hers. You guys will understand when it happens to you. It changes everything.” Alexander nodded to everyone with the sophistication of a bobblehead, but at the time I thought maybe he knew something we didn’t know.
We seasonals milled out of the food area, hugging good-byes and promising to keep in touch during the school year. When it was my turn to hug Luke, our hug lingered. He whispered into my ear, “What if Alexander is right?”
I was confused as to which item he might be right about, but I allowed Luke to take my hand and pull me to a shadowy space behind the Wheel of Torture—really just a regular Ferris wheel with torture implements painted on the sides of the buckets. As Luke held my cheek with one hand, my hip with the other, he asked, “What if next year we won’t want to do this?” And he kissed me. It was blissful enough that when we were interrupted by the cackles of nearby revelers, I grabbed at a convenient fence to steady myself.
That was the last time I saw Luke until today. Back when he had a girlfriend, before he had the Name of The Girl imprinted on his body. And, damn, his body. All of a sudden he’s well above six feet tall, shoulders straining against his fitted fluorescent work shirt, veins roping down his inexplicably tanned forearms. He’s a fucking cover model for a Savannah Merlot novel. His hair is longer than it usually is at the beginning of the summer, longer even than it usually is by the end. The dreamer part of my mind wants to believe he stopped cutting it after our kiss, to freeze some piece of the moment. The thought feels ridiculous, until he smiles at me and those dimples, still deliciously intact, pop out just for me. Now I’m sure of it.
CHAPTER 8
“What the hell happened to you?” I ask Luke, attempting funny but realizing it may have read rude.
His laugh clears my conscience quickly. “Oh, this old thing.” He flips his hair dramatically, like he’s in on the joke of his newly expanded vessel. “My dad’s been training for his first marathon, and he dragged me into it. And I joined the swim team to help get into college.” He shrugs, way too modestly.
“All I got when I joined the swim team was a urinary tract infection,” I joke. But it doesn’t sound like a joke, and I cringe at my tragic attempt at casual. “Kidding! I don’t know why I just said that. Your Thor-like makeover is very distracting,” I admit.
“You should see him with his shirt off.” Adam Callas, Luke’s friend who runs the Terror Train, saunters over. Adam has not changed very much physically since last summer: same stocky build, same freckly skin and greasy black hair hidden under the same ratty Haunted Hollow baseball cap he’s worn with pride since he started working here.
“Hey, Adam, glad to see you’re as stunted as ever,” I mock him endearingly as we hug hello.
“Do I get one?” Luke asks. This is one of those moments that I have to place into storage for more dissection later. Does he want a friendly hello hug? Would he have hugged me if Adam didn’t? Is he jealous? Is he chill? Is he just doing this out of obligation?
When those superhero-worthy arms wrap around me, and my face lands on the pillow that is his chest, I don’t really give a shit what the answer is. What was the question?
The romance-novel moment (which I must remember to describe in detail to Uncle Jim) ends far too quickly as Adam shuffles around us, bragging, “I added a strap to the back of my cap! Look! My head grew!” He shoves his rancid hat in my face, and I’m forced to leave the paradise that is Luke’s chest. People should retire there; it’s that majestic.
“Perhaps you can celebrate by washing the damn thing. Why does it smell like yeast? You baking a loaf in there, Adam?” Luke grabs the hat from Adam and holds it above his head. “This is my new trick. What do you think?” He winks at me.
Do not wink at me, young man. There could be dire consequences.
“If I can be honest—can I be honest with you?” I ask in mock seriousness. Luke responds with a pensive nod. I continue. “It’s a little cheap. You’re tall. How tall are you?”
“Six foot four.”
Yowza.
“And Adam, you’re still a paltry…” I leave room for his reply.
“Five six. And a half,” he notes.
“We of the five six and a half”—I emphasize the importance of the half—“and under club don’t really think it’s cool or funny to mock our dainty stature.”
“I’m not dainty! I’m beefy!” Adam argues. “I wouldn’t say you’re dainty, either, Aggy.” And there it is. The first of countless times Adam will ogle my breasts this summer.
“Hey, man, not cool.” Luke whacks Adam in the chest with the putrid cap.
“Careful. This is very delicate material here.” Adam adjusts the cap back onto his head. I pass an appre
ciative smile to Luke.
Lest we manage to catch up on anything more than our changing appearances, Luke adds, “I like your hair. Did you change the color?”
“I added a few red streaks underneath, but they pretty much only show if I wear a ponytail.”
“You look good.”
Supersexyawkward silence follows. Does he, too, feel the pressure of the Name on his chest? The need to divulge anything and everything about our newly developed marks of soul mate–dom?
Mr. Sam Hain brandishes his impeccable timing and blares, “Pep talk!” over the loudspeakers. We head for the stage, where a weak glee club performs Halloween-themed songs and skits throughout the summer. Sam Hain’s shoulders take up nearly half the width of the paltry stage, and his stumpy arms wave robotically as he speaks.
“Seasonals, new and veteran, welcome to the most haunted summer of your life!” This elicits cheers from us old-timers. “Children expect to enjoy themselves here. Parents expect safety, cleanliness, and professionalism. I expect you all not to fuck up.” Giggles from the newbies, knowing nods from the vets. “Today we do a run-through. Foods and Retail, you will be tested on your knowledge of your stations and the layout of the park in case patrons ask you questions. Ride operators, you will be observed for following safety procedures to a T and proving you know what the fuck you are doing.”
“Sam Hain has really toned down the language this year,” Luke bends over to whisper in my ear. His hair tickles my cheek. It’s a good thing we don’t operate the same ride, or his distractions might cause a lawsuit.
“If you have any questions, ask your team members or supervisors. Try not to bother me with little details. I fucking hate that. Have fun!”
We applaud, some politely, some stupefied, as Sam Hain ambles off to smoke his last in-park cigarette before the season begins.
“How can one man be so intimidating and so comical at the same time?” Luke muses.
“I keep wondering when some poor, naive soul dares to approach him with the fact that Samhain, as in the actual festival of the dead, isn’t pronounced like Sam or Hain.”
“I weep for their future,” Luke agrees.
“Time to start spreading the rumor that he killed a man and fed him to the piranhas in Loch Mess. Adios, amigos!” Adam doffs his nasty cap and walks away.
“Will you please use your superpowers to dispose of his hat?” I look up at Luke.
“I don’t know. I’m afraid his head will fall off if he doesn’t have it with him. Like the woman with the—”
I finish his sentence. “—red string tied around her neck!” We nod concurrently and watch Adam strut toward the Terror Train.
“Shall we?” Luke offers me his elbow, and I hook my arm into his. We reach the Devil’s Dinghies, the bright red Beelzebub looming over the tunnel entrance gleaming in the summer sunshine. My shoulder is screaming from the height discrepancy. Totally worth it, of course.
“Catch you for lunch? I hear they have veggie burgers at the Hallowed Hamburger now.”
“You a vegetarian now that you’re Mr. Fitness?” I tease Luke.
“No, but I thought you were.” He scrunches his forehead in confusion. He has the scrunchiest forehead. How does he make a scrunchy forehead a thing?
“I was. Two summers ago, but my mom was afraid I would become anemic like her aunt Rhoda. Plus, I was having wicked corned beef cravings. I’m not great at committing.” I laugh.
“Yeah. I get that.” Quiet settles between us amid the rumbles and squeaks of the surrounding rides. “Guess I should test-run the Ghoster. My trainee is waiting.” He thumbs toward a guy bobbing his head to the beat of whatever music is blaring from his earbuds. “Can’t wait to tell him Sam Hain doesn’t allow headphones of any kind around rides.”
“You must remain focused at all times. These kids’ lives are in your skilled hands.” I wag my finger and deepen my voice in imitation of Sam Hain.
“That’s pretty good.” Luke laughs. “I’m gonna take my skilled hands over there now. See you at lunch?”
“Definitely,” I agree, and my eyes follow as Luke walks to the Ghoster.
Did he reference his skilled hands on purpose? How am I supposed to focus on the Devil’s Dinghies when a newly sculpted Adonis is one ride over?
More important, what was that cryptic bullshit about committing? Luke, you and your double entendres are going to be the death of me.
CHAPTER 9
Brian, a burly full-time member of the maintenance crew replete with piquant cigarette fragrance, fills up the water for the dinghies. Not that the dinghies are actual vessels in need of water; the bottoms of the small, rainbow-hued boats are slotted into a metal track that powers them at a brisk two-mile-per-hour clip around the ride. Passengers are amused by macabre—yet child-friendly—paintings of devils with whip-sharp tails, cooking up evildoers in cauldrons and stabbing each other’s butts with pitchforks. The wow factor (for the under-eight set) comes on the final bend, when you are plunged into the tunnel’s blackness (plunged, again, at two miles per hour) for a whopping sixty-six seconds. Just so you understand the madness that is Sam Hain’s mind, the story goes that when the tunnel was originally created, the length of time spent inside the tunnel was always hitting either sixty-five or sixty-seven seconds, but never sixty-six. Sam Hain would have none of that; 666 is the number of the beast, and many of the Haunted Hollow rides are scientifically engineered to hit marks including at least one number six. For example: The Devil’s Dinghies has six boats circle at a time, as does the Terror Train. The Carousel of Decline has exactly six of each ghoulish creature: six bats, six black cats, six goblins, six hairy spiders, six werewolves, and six garden gnomes. (Believe me: they’re creepy as hell. No one ever chooses to ride on them.) The number-six slot wins the majority of the time in the Crushin’ Roulette wheel game. (Kids sit on a spinning contraption as a spongy ball bops around like popcorn. When the ride stops, the ball lands in a hole in front of one kid. That kid wins a prize, in addition to the joy of being socked in the face multiple times by the bouncy ball.) Sam Hain is a math savant, for sure.
When Sam Hain couldn’t figure out how to get the Devil’s Dinghies to speed up or slow down the precise amount to make the tunnel portion sixty-six seconds long, he ordered maintenance (possibly ol’ smoky Brian) to hack off a portion of the tunnel itself. Today you could set your watch by the exactitude of the Devil’s Dinghies tunnel. And even if you couldn’t, no one would tell Sam Hain that.
I walk up to the control booth, an electronic panel housed underneath a meager fabric cover provided to prevent team members from passing out under the summer sun. The square canopy is approximately three feet by three feet, and with the control panel taking up a hefty portion of space, I consider how little shade Luke will be getting this summer. Can he even fit underneath it?
I have managed to go approximately five, nay, six minutes without thinking about Luke.
I run my fingers over the control buttons, but know I must wait for my supervisor, Carolyn, to go through the standard operating procedures with me before pressing may ensue. Purely a formality for me at this point; each year Carolyn tests the ride operators on their controls, and if we pass we receive a certification to run the ride. As rinky-dink as Haunted Hollow sometimes seems, Sam Hain plays by the rules to keep it open (plus, I figure he’s secretly got a storeroom of illegal substances he really would rather not be found due to poor operations practices). Each ride operator is quizzed, and if they fail to answer a certain number of questions correctly they receive a “green slip.” Then they attempt a retest. If you get a shit-ton of questions wrong (and really, if you do, you’d be better off drying cars outside the local gas station for tips), you get a pink slip and have to retest on a separate day. It gives you extra time to study and berate yourself that you have failed at button pushing.
While I wait for Carolyn, I lower the wooden plank used as a bridge to cross over the water and access the grassy island within the r
ide. This is occasionally necessary if a child drops something into the grass or if they get stuck in their seat belts and I can’t reach them. Today I step across the wood, twice the width of a balance beam and ten times as flimsy, to view the crumbling devilish paintings on the stone wall encasing the ride. Sam Hain assured me the paintings were to be retouched over the spring, but eye sockets and pitchfork prongs are still peeled away. I sag a little, my pride of three seasons with the Devil’s Dinghies tarnished a wee bit.
“Hey, Brian!” I call to the maintenance man, hose in hand and requisite asscrack on full display. I don’t know if he’s hard of hearing from so many years surrounded by machinery and screaming kids or if the splash of the filling moat cloaks my voice, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. I walk toward him and call his name again. Nothing. I’m two feet behind him now and realize he’s wearing can headphones, although I can’t tell if there’s sound pouring into them or if they are blocking sound out. Either way, I’m going to have to touch the guy if I want his attention.
I’ve never touched a full-time employee. Truth be told, most of us are scared of them. It takes a certain character to work year-round, life-long, for Mr. Sam Hain.
I opt for a gentle foot tap. That means my skin won’t actually touch any part of his body, but with the major crackage happening I have to make certain my foot placement is highly strategic. I take the toe of my gym shoe and lightly tap the side of his hip where there is still fabric from his Dickies pants working hard at covering his love handles. So much hair that I wasn’t meant to see.
The instant my foot makes contact with his body, Brian jumps fifteen feet into the air and drops the hose into the moat, where it immediately sinks to the shallow bottom.
“Jesus goddamn Christ, you scared the fuck out of me!” Brian shouts, and I stumble backward onto my butt in the grass. I’m really hoping no one saw this interaction because (a) I looked like a goober and (b) if Brian thinks I did anything to make him look stupid, he can make my life hell for the rest of the summer. There’s nothing like waiting an extra half hour on a scorned maintenance guy while fifty whining, shrieking five-year-olds bake in the sun. I listen for laughter and hear none, save for the clown chortles emanating from the nearby bathrooms (Sam Hain’s theory is that if kids are too scared to stay in the bathroom very long, the lines move quickly).
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