Jamie’s furrowed brow relaxes slightly. “Right?” She studies the photo Russ texted again. “That’s a wardrobe malfunction just waiting to happen.” She unconsciously adjusts the strap of her devil costume and looks at her phone in Maren’s hand. “Taylor, what should I do?”
Taylor shakes her head and smiles. “You shouldn’t be asking me. The only boy texting me right now is my dad.” She says this last part a little louder than she’d intended—which means the rabbit looks over his shoulder again. She pretends not to notice and continues. “Maybe just put your phone away for a little bit, and let’s go stuff our faces with caramel apples and mini donuts?”
Maren nods solemnly then adds loudly, “So that when we shit our pants from fear in the Thicket, it’ll be an extra good show.” She cuts her eyes toward the eavesdropping rabbit and laughs.
Jamie’s furrowed brow relaxes as she bursts out in high-pitched peals of laughter and shakes her head. “Ew. You’re so gross, Maren.”
Taylor giggles too. “Not what I had in mind. But probably gonna happen. Let’s just relax, have a good time, and forget about Russ for a while? Maisie’s party will still be going on when we’re done here … if we still wanna go.”
Maren reaches inside her coat pocket to pull out a large blue water bottle. “So … I was going to save this for later, but Sergeant McSearchy up there seems to be extra dedicated to his job.” She nods toward the front of the line, where yet another mask is being confiscated. “And now seems like the right time anyway.”
Jamie and Taylor look at each other in confusion. “You want to … get hydrated?” Taylor asks.
Maren laughs and unscrews the cap to the bottle. “Yep. I wanna get real hydrated. As hydrated as possible.”
As she opens the bottle, Taylor catches a whiff of something sharp and acrid. “Maren!” she whispers in what she hopes comes out as mock shock instead of actual shock. “Oh my gosh. Where did you even get that?”
Maren shrugs. “It’s not like my parents lock it up. And it’s not like we haven’t had a drink before now.”
Taylor considers this. It’s technically true. At a sleepover a couple months earlier at Jamie's house, they’d smuggled a beer out of the fridge while Jamie’s mom was at her hot yoga class. They each took turns taking small sips while they waited for the water to boil for the macaroni and cheese.
Taylor is surprised when Jamie reaches for the bottle gratefully. “Bless you, Mare.” She tilts the water bottle back and takes a long swig, making a face. “That needs a chaser so bad,” she chokes out in a whisper. “It’s called a chaser, right?” Taylor can smell the acrid sharpness on her breath now.
Maren laughs and takes the bottle from Jamie, throwing back at least a shot without flinching. Then she offers the bottle to Taylor.
Jamie looks on expectantly. So Taylor reluctantly takes the bottle and swallows a bigger gulp than she’d intended—as if it really were water. It tastes like nail polish remover, and she can feel it burning all the way down her throat, settling in her empty stomach like lava.
She gasps and coughs while Maren makes a show of whacking her on the back as the rabbit turns around in line yet again. “Went down the wrong tube,” Maren says loudly, holding up the half-empty bottle. “Nothing to see here, Bugs.”
Jamie giggles gleefully and takes another sip of vodka. “Hurry, let’s finish it before we get any closer to the guard,” she whispers as they creep forward in line. Taylor can see the security guard’s face more clearly now. He’s younger than she thought initially, with a patchy red beard on a patchier ruddy face. He has thinning brown hair under his hat and is wearing an expression that says he’s not messing around here.
Taylor nods and takes a second—smaller—swig of the bottle. It’s not as bad as the first one, and she manages not to make a face.
“Atta girl,” Maren says, nudging her and taking another drink from the bottle.
By the time the water bottle is empty, they’re only a dozen people away from the metal detector. As they huddle at the last fire barrel, Maren turns and tosses the water bottle into a trash can a few feet away. She laughs out loud when it bounces off the side and into the grass with a plastic thwack. “Nothing but net.”
Jamie giggles and stumbles against Taylor, who is starting to feel a trickle of dread beneath her growing buzz. Will the security guard be able to tell that they’re drunk? Will he make them leave? Will he call her dad?
“Guys, act sober,” Taylor whispers urgently, nodding toward the guard and wiping the smile off her face. “Just until we get inside.”
Maren stands up straight and salutes her, “Yes sir. Yes zombie ma’am, I—”
Jamie interrupts with another snort of laughter. “You guys, look.” She gestures to the front of the line again.
Taylor sees who she’s pointing at. A girl wearing an enormous pair of sweatpants and a thick hoodie. The sweatpants are so big that the security guard is making her turn her pants pockets inside out.
“Is that a costume?” Maren says, shaking with laughter and grabbing Taylor’s arm. “Oh my god.” She steps forward in line and pokes the rabbit in the back. “If so, it might be worse than yours, Bugs!”
The rabbit, for once, ignores her. Maren shrugs it off, turning back to watch the girl in the sweatpants. “I would literally die if anyone saw me wearing pants that big.”
Taylor laughs too, but as she watches the girl tuck her pockets back into her sweats, she realizes she’s wearing almost the same outfit.
CHAPTER 25
He waited to get in line until the girl with the purple wig appeared. She couldn’t seem to stop touching the two vampires who fell in line beside her. She batted her long, sparkly false eyelashes, which had been applied a little crookedly, while she flirted and giggled.
She was carrying a conservative but decent-sized purse—nothing security would worry about. It had purple flowers embroidered along the soft knit surface that just matched her hair. And the zipper is already open a few inches.
He gets in line behind the girl and the vampires. And then he waits for the right moment.
Ten minutes later, a commotion up front at the mental detectors captures the crowd’s interest. As the line moves a few feet forward collectively and everyone cranes their neck to see, he takes a larger step than he needs to. Then one hand moves to the knit purse as he gently jostling her other arm.
She even doesn’t notice. Or turn around. And he doesn’t apologize. Instead, he deftly slips the knife out of his coat and drops it inside her half-zipped purse.
The ticket line is only a little longer than it was fifteen minutes earlier. But it is significantly denser. Everyone has packed together more tightly. The thrill-seekers are anxious—but not necessarily impatient—to get inside. The periodic scenes at the metal detector provide ample entertainment as a pre-show. And the steady drip of adrenaline, the anticipation of the wait, is half the fun. The anticipation is only building. In his veins most of all.
When the girl with the purple hair reaches the front of the line, she tosses her purse onto the table casually, oblivious to the quiet thunk. Then she pulls her coat pockets inside out and patiently in front of the haggard-looking rent-a-cop with the tan hat who is frisking her vampire friends.
The rent-a-cop checks the girl’s pockets and nods for her to join her friends on the other side of the metal detector while he searches the knit purse with the purple flowers.
After a few seconds, the rummaging stops.
The rent-a-cop slides the zipper fully open, leaning down just slightly, to confirm what he’s found without lifting it out of the purse.
Then he pivots on his heel to look at the girl with the purple wig, who has turned away from him, whispering something to one of the vampires.
In one swift motion, the guard buries the knife in the barrel with the rest of the contraband he’s confiscated. He does it quickly, before anyone waiting in line sees it.
Unlike the other contraband busts of masks a
nd black lights, he doesn’t yell. Although his face turns the same shade of red. It’s impossible to hear what he’s saying, but it’s painfully easy to read the expression on the girl’s face. Confusion. Then panic. Then horror and desperation.
Paul Blart is clearly ready to kick her out of the Thicket—maybe even call a real cop. But as he jabs a finger at the parking lot, she starts to cry. Big tears that streak her gaudy makeup and make her look more like a child than whatever sultry celebrity she’s trying to impersonate.
The ticket line has gone impressively quiet, attuned to the fact that something interesting is happening at the front. The girl blubbers loudly now, swearing up and down that it isn’t hers. That she’s never seen it before. That someone must be playing a prank on her. She glances accusingly at the two vampires in her party, who hold up their hands as if they are being held at gunpoint. Their mouths are frozen in small Os of disbelief.
The security guard’s expression says that he might be willing to let her through just to make her shut up. She hasn’t said the word knife yet. But she’s getting louder. More hysterical.
Finally, he relents, leaning close to her ear and placing the purse back in her hands while she nods dramatically, snuffling and wiping at the tears that are still coursing down her cheeks. She glancing fretfully at the kids in line behind her who stare in horror and fascination.
When the rent-a-cop finally steps back, the girl ducks her head and hurries away from him, toward the darkness of the plaza and the thumping rhythm of the DJ booth.
The two vampires trail after her. And then the line moves forward, the incident all but forgotten.
When it’s his turn, he pays for his ticket in cash and allows the red-faced guard to inspect his coat pockets and turns his pants pockets inside out before he steps through the metal detector.
Squeaky clean. Not even a cursory glance at the thick fleece sweatshirt he’s wearing that’s been lined with coils of thin kevlar rope, or the innocuous plastic pen that casts a faint blue-white light when you click the top, or the latex gloves beneath the wool mittens on his hands.
He smiles as he walks through the looming corridor of hay bales then into the dark melee of the main plaza. With each step, he can feel the coil of the kevlar winding across his stomach and back in small loops. He’s not surprised it worked. But he is pleased
When he’s safely ensconced in darkness, he turns around to look back at the brightly lit ticketing area where the front half of the line is visible. His gaze settles on the table beside the metal detector. The bin of contraband is filling up rapidly.
He allows the pulse he’s been reining in to rise just a little.
CHAPTER 26
To Taylor’s relief, she’s standing inside the main plaza.
The security guard with the patchy beard failed to notice how long it took her to successfully unzip her coat. And when he checked her pockets, he made no indication that he could smell the vodka on her breath—although she could certainly smell his. Taco Bell, if she had to guess.
Even Maren had been waved through without more than a terse warning that the ribs in the skeleton costume’s corset might set off the metal detector. They didn’t. Although Maren had offered to take the corset off if necessary, earning her a thin smile and a hat tip from the guard.
Now that they’re past the security station and the ruddy-faced, sour-breathed guard, Taylor feels the alcohol warm her all the way down to her toes.
The snow is spitting tiny flakes again, and she sticks out her tongue in a clumsy effort to catch some. Grabbing Jamie’s arm to keep her balance, she tilts her head back toward the swirling white dots that are just visible in the flashes of flickering light from the DJ booth.
Taylor closes her eyes and breathes in. The sweet, slightly putrid smell of the corn syrup factory has been edged out by a melange of hot oil and sugar, along with something dark and earthy. It smells like Halloween, she decides.
The sound of calliope music floats through the darkness, and when she opens her eyes she sees an enormous, wheeled Jack-in-the-box emerging from the shadows. The box trundles toward them along a wide dirt trail. The lid is open a few inches.
When the box comes within a few feet of them, Maren steps directly in front of it, her hands on her hips. “Let’s see it,” she slurs, twirling her wrist in the air and stumbling over to peer beneath the lid.
The box stops, and so does the calliope music. The lid closes completely.
Maren laughs and reaches out, presumably to pry the lid open. But before she can touch it, the box explodes with a deafening scream and a shower of blood and guts.
Taylor shrieks and Maren leaps to the side, tumbling into Jamie.
The calliope music starts up again as the box trundles forward. Taylor realizes that the blood and guts are actually confetti, streamers, and beads in different shades of red.
It’s basically an enormous party popper.
“That was freaking amazing,” Maren exclaims, hugging Jamie, who is still trying to catch her breath.
They continue toward the strobing lights of the DJ booth. Already the music is so loud that it’s hard to hear much else—besides the intermittent screams. The phrase “Severed heads,” is repeating in a monotone voice, beneath the thumping bass rhythm of a heartbeat.
Taylor startles again as a clown wearing a camo jumpsuit leaps out from behind a blind of dry corn stalks. He manages to surprise a cluster of teenage boys huddled around a fire barrel. One of the boys is so startled that he spills the bag of popcorn he’s holding. The clown fist-pumps the air in a slow spiral as he slinks back into the blind of corn.
Taylor grins, realizing that she’s been steeling herself for a preschool version of the Thicket. After all the protests and the talk of “new safety precautions,” she was worried the scares would be watered down.
Thankfully, the Thicket is still solidly PG-13. She keeps her eyes on the thin tuft of orange hair that is just visible between the thick stalks of corn as the clown waits for the next group of kids to congregate around the fire barrel.
They hit the food trucks first, loading up on corn dogs, caramel apples, french fries, lemonade, and a family pack of fresh mini donuts drizzled in caramel and bacon bits. They eat their stash while they wait in yet another food vendor line.
There’s plenty to keep them entertained while they wait. A full production of “Thriller” starts up every twenty minutes on the lawn near the DJ booth. And the plaza is crawling with scarers intent on sneaking up on unsuspecting kids in the darkness. Usually, some of the scarers are local kids who agreed to this gig for free in exchange for extra credit in senior drama. The program has been suspended this year.
Staked signposts direct thrill-seekers toward the different attractions across the plaza. There’s a kiddie maze that gets a meager amount of use on weekends, an enormous corn maze on the other side of the plaza, a long row of “corn cannons” where you can shoot ears of corn at zombie mannequins, and a fortune-telling tent behind the ticket trailer.
But none of these lesser attractions draw much attention.
The tide of dark figures in the plaza are either in line for food vendors or drifting steadily toward the entrance to the wooded trails.
The line for the old corn syrup cabins snakes along the inside wall of the plaza and through switchback after switchback of cordoned ropes and hay bales staggered with more large “If you see something, say something” signs.
It’s going to be at least an hour’s wait from the time they get in line for the cabin trails. Taylor can’t even see the end of the line from here.
Scarers dressed as bug-eyed clowns, ax murderers, and other boogeymen weave in and out of the cordoned ropes, popping out of the darkness near the fire barrels and skulking between hay bales.
As the girls approach the end of the line, Taylor spots a security guard holding a radio. The guard is leaning against the trunk of a limbless pine tree. Just in front of him, from somewhere within the line for the wooded tr
ails, a chainsaw roars to life. A shrill chorus of screams cuts through the din in the plaza.
The line breaks apart, and a gruesome Jason wearing a dingy white hockey mask appears. He’s chasing a thin blond girl who has angry red slash-marks across her face. Presumably, the girl is an actress.
The security guard doesn’t look up from his radio.
“Better-than-sex french fries, better-than-sex donuts, better-than-sex corn dogs.” Maren ticks off the loot as she takes a bite of each food and sighs happily, ignoring the chainsaw performance and neatly stepping through a wide break in the line.
The coat that was wrapped tight around her shoulders earlier is now halfway unzipped to carry her share of the food. She’s wedged the stick of the corn dog into the cleavage at the top of her corset, with the caramel apple in one hand and a cardboard container of french fries stuffed in the inner pocket of her coat.
Jamie looks thoughtful as she finishes chewing a bite of caramel apple. “You know, you’re so right. Why does everyone talk about sex so much, anyway? Like, it was fine, but it wasn’t as good as this food.” She grins and takes another bite of a caramel apple.
Taylor nods like she knows, reining in a smile as she watches Maren’s obvious internal struggle to stop herself from making a comment about “lovemaking.”
Taylor is a little surprised that Jamie hasn’t asked for her phone back yet. Whether it’s the lingering buzz from the alcohol, Maren’s pep talk, or the enormous pack of mini donuts tucked under one arm, Jamie is smiling again. Taylor secretly wonders—maybe hopes—that this might be the end of Russ and Jamie. He’s nice enough, as high school boys go. But she far prefers single Jamie—and single Maren, for that matter.
As they get to the end of the line, Maren focuses her attention on trying to take a bite of the corn dog that’s still wedged into her corset. When she finally succeeds, Taylor and Jamie cheer.
“Hey, baby—can I have a bite?”
The voice comes from further up the line. Taylor feels her senses struggle to rally beneath the warm fog of the vodka buzz. Her gaze settles on a boy with his back to a fire barrel in line. He’s about seventeen, she’d guess, but it’s hard to tell with the black stubble he’s painted across his chin. The boy cranes his neck to get a good look at Maren, who has paused her efforts to take another bite of the corn dog. However, she hasn’t removed it from her cleavage.
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