“You’ll see.”
I followed him, noticing for the first time that his jeans were torn at both knees and that his t-shirt was too big and too dirty. He pushed his crooked bangs out of his face and threw me that mischievous look again.
We were standing outside one of the hulking RVs that were the carnies’ homes.
“What’s your name?” I asked suddenly.
The boy paused, his hand hovering over the door handle.
“Kes,” he said at last.
My nose wrinkled. “That’s a funny name.”
He shrugged. “I know. What’s yours?”
“Aimee. Pleased to meet you.”
I cringed immediately, knowing that it was the sort of thing Mom would say.
Kes grinned and scratched his narrow chest, pushing a finger through a hole in his t-shirt. Then he pulled the door open and stepped inside.
“Aimee, meet Mr. Albert.”
I didn’t see him at first. He sat so still, that my eyes drifted past him, but then he bared his teeth and hissed at me.
I gasped and jumped backwards.
“It’s alright,” said Kes, wrapping his long fingers around my hand. “He won’t hurt you—he just doesn’t know you yet.”
He took a step forward, towing me behind him, then dropped my hand.
“Hey, Mr. Albert,” he said softly, reaching out slowly.
“It’s a monkey!” I breathed, my eyes wide with wonder.
Kes nodded. “He’s a tufted capuchin from Venezuela.”
He reached out and the tiny creature leapt into his arms, cuddling against Kes, and wrapping thin arms around his neck.
“Shouldn’t he be called “Senor Alberto?” I said.
Kes burst out laughing. I hadn’t meant to be funny, but it seemed to happen all the time at school. I didn’t mind it too much today because Mr. Albert pulled a face and reached out to touch my hair. He tugged it gently then started chattering away at me.
“He likes you,” Kes said confidently. “Do you want to hold him?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never held a monkey before.”
Kes smirked at me, and I lifted my chin.
“Alright then.”
“You have to ask him,” said Kes.
I thought he was teasing me again, but his face was serious, his dimple nowhere to be seen. I looked back at the monkey who was watching me warily.
“Mr. Albert,” I said, “would you like me to hold you?”
The monkey chattered and screeched, and my hands trembled as I held them out. But then, quite suddenly, he jumped into my arms, as light as a cat, his long tail wrapping around my wrist.
I squealed and Mr. Albert pulled my hair, a little harder this time.
Kes frowned. “I told you—he doesn’t like loud noises.”
“Sorry,” I whispered. “Sorry, Mr. Albert.”
Kes beamed at me. “He likes it when you talk to him.”
I stroked the monkey’s soft fur, smiling as he jabbered softly in my ear.
His face was that of a little old man’s, but his eyes were round and bright. I stared at his tiny fingers and leathery palms, feeling his warm dry paw on my arm. His expression was so knowing, I felt as if he could see every dream I’d ever had. I wondered if he was a magic monkey. Here, in this place, it felt like magic was possible.
Kes watched me, a smile tugging at his pink lips. I smiled back shyly, not used to being studied so intently.
“Can I see inside?” I asked, changing the direction of his gaze.
Kes frowned. “There’s not much to see.”
“Well, show me your bedroom.”
He pulled a face. “I can’t. It’s in the main part of the RV. There’s only one bedroom and that’s Grandpa’s. Mine’s a pullout under the table.”
“Oh,” I said, not sure what to say.
“If it’s hot, I sleep outside.”
“I’ve never done that,” I admitted.
Kes looked puzzled. “Why not?”
I shrugged. I’d never even camped in the backyard. I couldn’t imagine my father doing something so undignified.
There was a gulf between Kes’s world and mine—and for some reason the thought made me sad.
“We could take Mr. Albert for a walk,” Kes suggested suddenly.
“Is that allowed?”
Kes lifted a shoulder, so I wasn’t sure if that meant yes or no. I followed him out of the RV, Mr. Albert clinging to me, his dark eyes unblinking, lips pulled back in a wide grin.
It was only slightly less stifling outside, and my clothes were sticking to me. I wiped my forehead with my fist and blew my hair out of my face.
“You’re kind of skinny, aren’t you?” Kes observed. “How old are you?”
My cheeks flushed a dull red. “I’m ten,” I snapped. “How old are you?”
“Eleven next birthday,” Kes replied, grinning.
“That’s the same age as me then,” I pointed out.
He shrugged again.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go to the coconut stand. Mr. Albert likes coconuts.”
“I’ve never had one,” I admitted.
Kes squinted at me. “You’ve never had a coconut?”
“That’s not weird,” I said stoutly. “I don’t know anyone who’s had a fresh coconut.”
As we walked toward the midway, several of the carnies called out to Kes. He waved but didn’t stop, weaving his way under the guide ropes and past the canvas tents until we were at the back of the coconut stand. He zipped in under the tarp and snagged a coconut that had rolled to the floor.
I heard someone yelling and Kes ran out laughing, a large hairy coconut clutched to his chest.
“Come on!” he said, looking over his shoulder and beaming at me with pride as the tarp shook and quivered as if something very large was trying to get through.
We ran laughing, Mr. Albert clinging to my shoulders like a furry backpack, his paws holding my hair like reins.
Finally, we stopped in the shade of the Ghost Train, our backs to the faded outline of ghouls.
Kes expertly cracked open the coconut on a tent peg and showed me how to suck out the milk as it dribbled down his chin and stained his t-shirt. Then he wiped his hand across his mouth and passed the coconut to me.
I’d never tasted anything quite like it—sweet and sour, all at the same time.
Mr. Albert pulled my hair harder.
“Ow!”
Kes laughed. “He wants some, too.”
Mr. Albert slipped down to the dirt and greedily drank the rest of the milk. Then Kes split the coconut shell into pieces and showed me how to scrape off the meat with my teeth. It was much nicer than the milk, and I gorged myself on the sweet flesh.
Sighing contentedly, I rubbed my tummy and lay down, staring out at the shimmering heat and flawless sky. Kes lay next to me, and we listened to Mr. Albert chattering to himself.
“What’s it like living in a carnival?” I asked, my voice distant and sleepy.
“I dunno. What’s it like living in a house?” he replied.
“Haven’t you ever lived in a house?”
“During our winter break, we have a log cabin by Arcata Bay,” he said. “But it’s not like a house.”
I thought about that, what it must be like traveling all the time, always moving, never staying.
“You must have seen loads of places,” I sighed.
Kes shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
“What was your favorite?”
His forehead wrinkled.
“I liked Carhenge. That’s in Nebraska.”
“Car what?”
“It’s this huge wheat field, and all these cars have been planted in a circle and stuck in the ground. They’ve even got a ‘62 Cadillac. And they’re all painted gray to make them look like they’re made of stone.
I frowned, trying to imagine it, then realization struck.
“Oh, like Stonehenge?”
Kes shrugged. “I don’t know what that
is.”
I smiled. “Anyway, I thought you were going to say the Grand Canyon or something like that.”
“Yeah, that was cool, too.”
Kes had been to Chicago and Las Vegas, walked through Times Square and had swam in both the Atlantic and the Pacific Ocean. Everywhere I mentioned, he had a story of something amazing. Yes, it sounded magical.
“Where do you go to school?” I said at last, grasping for something ordinary that at least would sound familiar.
“I don’t.”
His answer shocked me. “Not at all?”
“Nope. You can’t learn anything in school.”
“That’s silly!”
“No, it isn’t!” he shot back. “I know everything about the carnival, and that’s all I need to know.”
Getting an education was like the Holy Grail in my house. We were hardly ever allowed to take a day off sick, only if we had a temperature that was sky high or we looked as pathetic as a skinned squirrel, and Mom knew that the teacher would send us home anyway.
Kes’s voice lowered. “I’ve never been to school,” he admitted shyly. “I don’t like books. Yeah, I hate books.”
“How can you not like books?” I squeaked, gaping at him.
I could imagine hating a book, but I couldn’t imagine anyone ever saying that they hated all books.
“There must be some books that you like?” I tried again.
Kes pulled a face and shook his head.
“What about ‘The Hobbit’?” I asked, mentioning my current favorite.
“Never heard of that,” he said. “What’s a hobbit?”
“I’ll read it to you,” I said, my voice filled with confidence.
I was good at reading—it was the only thing I did well, as far as my parents were concerned. But thinking of that made me realize that Mom and Dad would be looking for me.
“I’d better get back now,” I sighed.
Kes looked disappointed.
“But it’s been the best birthday ever!”
He blinked a couple of times. “It’s your birthday today?”
“Yes, that’s why I wanted to go to the carnival. It’s my birthday treat.”
“If you come back tomorrow, I’ll show you loads of other cool stuff,” Kes offered.
I chewed a fingernail while I thought about it.
“I’d like to, but I don’t know if Mom and Dad will let me.” I sighed. “But I’ll be able to see you from my bedroom window. I’ll wave, even though you won’t know I’m doing it.”
Kes frowned. “You live in that white house on the road?”
“That’s right!” I said surprised.
“I’ve seen it. It has a big ole hickory tree in the garden.”
I grinned at him. “I climb that tree every day. I hide there when I don’t want anyone to find me.”
Kes grinned back and I knew I’d shared a secret with him, just like he’d shared Mr. Albert with me.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you to your mom and dad.”
We wandered along the midway, and I held my head up proudly as every eye swung in our direction, people doing a double-take when they spotted Mr. Albert. I loved it and I hated it. Kes was unaffected, sauntering along with his hands in his pockets, calling greetings to the other carnies.
When I saw my father, I froze. His face was red with anger, and a purple vein throbbed in his forehead. Worse still, he was talking to the Sheriff, pointing a finger in his face and shouting.
“Is that your old man?” Kes asked.
I nodded, my stomach threatening to spew up coconut.
Mom saw me first, and she cried out, running toward me. But before she could touch me, her trembling hand clutched her throat and she shrieked.
“What is that thing?!”
Mr. Albert objected to the noise and bared his teeth at her, yammering loudly and spitting, his small face wrinkled with fury.
Dad and the Sheriff ran toward me, and I was afraid they’d shoot Mr. Albert, but Kes calmly unfolded the little monkey from my waist and swung him up onto his back, grinning the whole time.
His smile died when a hard-faced carnie strode toward him and grabbed his upper arm, spinning him around.
“What are you doing messing with a townie girl?” he snapped. “And you’ve got work to do.”
“Just wanted to show Mr. Albert to her, Grandpa,” Kes said sullenly.
The man’s lips thinned further; he plucked Mr. Albert away with one hand and casually backhanded Kes with the other, knocking him to the ground.
I stood there, stunned. I’d never seen anyone get hit before. In my house, the punches were always verbal.
Kes wiped away a trickle of blood from his lip and pushed himself to his feet.
“You alright, Miss Aimee?” asked Sheriff Smith kindly. “That boy hurt you at all? He … touch you … or anything?”
“No!” I said sharply. “He showed me Mr. Albert and we ate a coconut. He was nice to me. When I said I had to get back, he took me here right away.”
The Sheriff and my Mom exchanged looks, but my father’s expression told me I was in big trouble. No one seemed to care that Kes had a split lip, and that made me mad.
“You’re all being really mean to him,” I cried, my own lips trembling. “It was the best birthday ever until you all spoiled it!”
Jennifer gaped at me in admiration, and it was only then that I noticed she was wearing the pink cowboy hat.
“Come along now, Aimee,” said Mom. “Time to go.”
I sighed and wiped my hands on my shorts, determined to show better manners than the adults.
“Bye, Mr. Albert. Bye, Kes. Thank you for inviting me to your, um, home.”
Kes grinned at me, seeming to forget that he was still bleeding.
“Bye, Aimee. Happy birthday!”
His grandpa dragged him away by the collar of his t-shirt, holding him so tightly, Kes’s feet barely touched the cracked ground.
“Do we have to go home now?” whined Jennifer. “I wanted to see the rodeo show.”
I stared at her in surprise—I knew that was a danged lie. Then she winked at me and my breath stuttered in shock. Jennifer never did anything nice for me, but she had today. I grinned back at her, then ducked my head as Mom gazed at her suspiciously.
“Aimee doesn’t deserve to see the show,” Dad snapped.
“I expect she was led astray by that boy,” Mom replied blandly.
That wasn’t even the smallest bit true, not really, but I held my tongue, because this way I’d get to see the show.
Mom held my hand so tightly she was in danger of twisting it right off. At least that’s what it felt like.
We followed the crowd toward a field behind the towering Ferris wheel, where four tiers of ramshackle bleachers were arranged in a U-shape. Slowly, they began to fill with people who seemed happy and carefree.
Dad led us to a set of four seats at the furthest point away from the popcorn-snacking hordes.
I wished I had some cotton candy or a hotdog to eat, but I knew there was no chance of that now. But I was content to see the show.
The sun was at the back of our necks, slowing cooking us like hogs on a roasting spit. Jennifer was so pink that her freckles seemed to be three dimensional, and Dad’s nose looked like all it needed was some barbecue sauce. Mom said I took after my Grandmother Luiza. I shared her straight brown hair and olive complexion. The kids at school called me The Mexican or Chippewa when our teacher, Mrs. Oioli wasn’t around. I didn’t care; I imagined carrying a tomahawk to school in my backpack and casually getting it out at lunch break. That would stop the comments, I was sure.
But I wasn’t immune to the heat that sizzled around us, scorching the grass to a dull brown so even the air smelled like burnt paper.
But then the mournful cry of a bugle cut through the drowsing crowd, and we all sat up, stiff with expectation.
A pony galloped into the arena carrying a cowboy. Either he was very young or v
ery short; I couldn’t tell because his face was covered by a bandana. Two more ponies followed, ridden by men wearing sheriffs badges, their mounts weaving around like barrel-racers, pretending to chase the young cowboy. I could see their flanks heaving, their nostrils wide and their ears forward. I didn’t know much about horses, but these ones looked as excited as I felt.
The sheriffs and cowboy careered around the arena, jumping on and off the ponies with the same ease that I’d walk down the stairs, so casual, but so daring.
Every time it looked like they’d catch the little cowboy, he dodged out of their grasping hands, leaping to the side, vaulting over the saddle as the pony zigzagged, following instructions I couldn’t see. The crowd’s ooh’s and ah’s, gasps and laughter rippled around. I was on the edge of my seat, watching the ponies dance and the cowboy’s incredible acrobatics.
With a final show of bravado, the cowboy leapt to his feet, so he was balancing on the pony’s racing back, then he somersaulted off, losing his hat and his bandana slipping.
I saw Kes’s dimple and wide smile, and I couldn’t help jumping to my feet and shouting my delight along with the rest of the crowd.
By then he was already ‘my Kes’.
Tap.
Pause.
Tap.
I looked up from the book propped on my pillow and scowled at the window.
Tap.
This time I saw a tiny stone bounce off the glass and tumble down. I sat up, surprise and excitement rushing through me.
When I crawled across my mattress and opened the window, staring at me from twenty feet away, hidden by the thick leaves of my hickory tree was Kes, grinning and waving.
I waved back, then gasped as he ran lightly along the slender branches and launched himself through my window, just at the moment when I thought he was sure to fall.
He landed cat-like on the floor, then stood up, brushing leaves and dirt onto my rug.
My mouth dropped open, feeling as if my world had slipped out of focus. Boys didn’t just jump through my window.
Kes stuffed his hands in his pockets and raised his eyebrows. Maybe he was waiting for a round of applause. Maybe I was waiting for him to disappear in a puff of smoke, because I was certain he couldn’t be real.
I poked him with my finger and he flinched, a flash of anger darkening his slate-gray eyes.
The Traveling Man Page 2