I slam the truck door shut and fasten my seatbelt. Then I unzip my purse to find the most recently read letter. Rooks cranks his truck and tells me not to read it until he’s out of my driveway.
“Your mom can’t hear us, but I feel weird reading that on the property of the Calloway Cottage,” he admits. “Some other girl is writing love letters to Seth, and you’ve been sitting there reading it in what could’ve been his future child’s bedroom.”
Wow. Way to go, Rooks. Great way to make me feel like I’m defacing a national monument or spray painting graffiti across the Taj Mahal.
I brush away the remark because I don’t have time to worry about stomping on sacred grounds in muddy boots. I read the letter, slowly and carefully to make sure I didn’t misunderstand something in my moment of shock last night.
“They’ve given you the blueprint to your future – the perfect factory job to support a family, the perfect home to raise your children, even the perfect future wife in Hanna. Could you really walk away from all that certainty just to be with me? Would you go?” I read the words as if it’s the first time I’m seeing them, with the same shock and awe as before.
I fold the letter and place it back with the others. Rooks doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t take his eyes off of the street.
“She’s not Hanna,” I reiterate. “But why couldn’t he just break up Hanna? Why did he feel like he had to stay with her when he wasn’t happy? It’s obvious that he wanted out.”
“You’re asking me?” Rooks says. “I think you should be directing those questions to Seth McIntosh. He’s the only one who really knows the answers.”
“Ha. Ha,” I say, hoping he feels the thick sarcasm in the air. “Maybe Hanna was pregnant and he had to do the right thing. Maybe that’s why they were getting married so soon. It was arranged by their families because they were expecting.”
Rooks shrugs. “I’m going to put this in the universe, and hopefully it won’t curse me,” he says. “But what if Seth isn’t the good guy? What if he met this other girl, wanted to be with her, but he couldn’t while Hanna was alive? Maybe he set the whole thing up, and his death wasn’t meant to happen. His plan failed. They all died. Back then, you married even if you weren’t in love. The only way out was death.”
When I think of the seventeen-year-old boy in his senior portrait plastered across the old newspaper, I just can’t buy into that theory. He wanted to make his own choices. He wanted a life that he planned for himself, not one that his parents designed for him. Then again, who knows if Hanna was actually pregnant? Her body was never found, so there was never an autopsy on any of these kids. Mom mentioned that someone’s arm was found in the water – one of the other boys – and traces of blood were discovered on the rocks, but all of these kids were shark food.
“I don’t think Seth was the bad guy,” I say. The streetlights are hazy outside the window, rushing by as we drive through an empty downtown street. “I just can’t get on board with that. He’s desperate for something more, but he’s not a murderer.”
Rooks laughs and looks over at me as he eases up to the next stop sign. “Piper, you’re biased,” he says. “You’re totally giving him the benefit of the doubt and not thinking of poor little Hanna. The guy was cheating on her. Do you really want to defend him?”
Ugh. Why does he have to put it that way? This was the great Coral Sands love story just days ago. Now it’s the big Coral Sands teen romance scandal.
I huff out a sigh like my mom does when she’s trying to get her point across. “Why do you have to ruin the moment? I want to believe that it was a tragic accident, not foul play,” I tell him. “And I don’t want the star of the story to be a bad guy. I need to believe he’s innocent until proven guilty.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll stop hating on the guy, but only because it means so much to you,” Rooks says. He flashes me a smile before pulling into a gravel parking lot. “Welcome to the county fair.”
The sparkling lights on the rides and game booths flicker like magical fireflies that were exported from a magical world. It’s as if they were given the night off from sparkle duty and invited to Coral Sands to light up the summertime sky. The colors swirl around like pieces of the sunset captured in bulbs.
I haven’t even walked through the gate yet, and I already feel the colors buzzing inside of me like adrenaline mixed with magical bumblebees. I bet this is the same place Seth met his mystery girl, the one who fascinated him and captivated him to a point that he was willing to put his entire future on the line just to be with her.
Seth was right about the carnival atmosphere. Maybe it is something about the lights or the smell of hot dogs and nachos. Maybe it’s the whirlwind of magic that is the carousel spinning or the sweetness of the cotton candy. But something about this place could make the biggest skeptic fall in love at a glance.
“Hector said they’re trying to find parking,” Rooks says, looking up from his phone. He slips it into his pocket and steps closer to me. “So what’s going on in that pretty head of yours? I can tell you’re thinking.”
“Flattery won’t give you my secrets, Mr. Carter,” I tell him, folding my arms over my chest. “You’re going to have to work harder than that to pick my brain.”
He narrows his eyes at me but smirks, which kills the serious vibe he was going for. I’m lucky that my poker face is better than his. There’s no way I would have told him that I think carnival lights put people under a love spell.
“I can’t believe you dragged us out here,” Hector mumbles as he and a brunette girl approach us. He’s clearly immune to the magic of this place.
“Hush,” she snaps back. “This is better than sitting at my house helping Mom plan for the big fifty-year anniversary memorial. This is something to do, so I’ll take it.”
Hector sighs in defeat and then throws his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder. “Natalie, meet Piper. You probably remember Rooks,” Hector says, motioning to Rooks and me with his free hand.
Natalie shrugs out from under her boyfriend’s arm. She’s not exactly what I expected. She wears cut-off jean shorts and a black baby tee with The Little Mermaid logo on it. I figured she’d be well-dressed, even for a summertime fair. She’d be presentable and not like a normal teen.
Natalie smiles. “Natalie Rhodes,” she says. “Daughter of Mayor Abigail Rhodes. Great-niece of Shark Island tragedy victim, Eileen Baker. You usually hear one of those phrases after you hear my name, but really, I just prefer Natalie.”
“Piper Davenport,” I say. “Girl who just moved into the Calloway Cottage. Hopefully I’ll be able to drop that phrase once the newness wears off.”
She laughs. “I really hate to be the one to tell you, but that will never wear off. This town refuses to let anyone move on. It’s still 1965, and we’re all mourning like it was yesterday. You’ll get used to it, though,” she says. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and links arms with Hector. “Let’s go escape for tonight.”
High-pitched screams come from a ride called The Cyclone that spins around in the air. A Ferris wheel sits toward the back of the fair. Its lights change from blue to purple to red to orange, glistening like an arcade game against the night sky.
Rows of vendors lead toward the Ferris wheel, games on the left and food on the right. The red and yellow signs advertise caramel apples, snowcones, funnel cakes, cotton candy, popcorn, hot dogs, and ‘the best lemonade on the planet.’
“Oh, how cute,” Natalie says, pointing toward a booth with a wall of balloons at the back of it. “I love the purple one.”
I follow her finger to a purple and white penguin hanging from the prize rack. Hector studies the balloons for a moment while the man behind the counter offers him a free dart throw, just to test his skills. Hector takes the bait. He pulls his arm back and throws the dart toward what are probably rubber balloons that are impenetrable. The dart bounces back and falls to the ground.
“Just two tickets to play,” the man says. “I�
��ll even give you a bonus dart.”
Rooks shakes his head. “It’s rigged, dude. Those things aren’t popping,” he says.
The word ‘rigged’ means nothing when testosterone is involved. Hector fishes into his back pocket for his wallet and heads toward the ticket stand that’s in between a cotton candy stand and Coca-Cola vendor.
“Wait up,” Rooks says, running behind Hector.
“Boys,” Natalie mumbles. She watches them purchase overpriced tickets, and then she looks at me. “So are you and Rooks dating or…?”
I shake my head. “He’s helping renovate my house,” I say. I completely hate saying it too. “We’ve been hanging out, but we’re not dating or anything.”
She doesn’t say anything else as the guys approach us. Hector hands over two tickets and takes another chance with the darts. It’s another epic failure. He forks over more tickets, and Rooks sighs dramatically.
“C’mon,” Rooks says, reaching for my arm. “We’re moving along. This will take all night.”
Hector says they’ll catch up before drawing back for another dart throw. Rooks and I stroll down past the caramel apples. A man shouts out for more people to give the Tilt-a-Whirl a spin, but only a few girls seem interested. They all huddle close together in the spinning cup, giggling before the ride even starts.
“Did you buy tickets too?” I ask Rooks.
He smirks. “Yeah, I’m going to try to beat this thing up here,” he says, pointing ahead.
A wooden booth, much like the others, has a blue and red sign advertising the Milk Bottle Throw. The man handling the booth tosses a ball into the air and catches it. He asks a man with small kids if he wants to give it a try, but the man declines and walks on.
“I thought these things were rigged,” I remind Rooks.
“They are,” he agrees. “Like the dart throw back there? Those balloons are barely inflated, and the darts are dulled so they pretty useless. And this? The bottles are weighed down and the softball isn’t a match for it. You have to know the trick.”
“And let me guess – you know the trick,” I assume.
“I guess you’ll see,” Rooks says.
He strolls up toward the booth, but another guy jumps in front of him. This guy is slightly taller than Rooks, maybe six-foot-one or six-foot-two, but he’s built like a defensive lineman. Rooks is tall but lanky. He’s fit, no doubt, but he’s more suited for baseball or basketball than football. This guy’s T-shirt hugs his body, showing off every ripple and muscle he’s worked so hard to build.
“Three tries,” the worker says, handing the guy a softball.
The girl with him takes his tub of popcorn and stands back as he flexes. She’s blonde, a shade lighter than my own hair, but she’s got awesome wavy beach hair that I don’t know if I’ll ever master. She watches him with a proud smile. She’s gotta be the girlfriend.
“Alright, babe,” the guy says. “This one’s for you.”
He smiles in a way that makes her swoon like a lovesick puppy. If she were a Disney cartoon, her eyes would bulge and sparkle with stars while pretty little hearts floated around her hair. She giggles and pops a piece of popcorn into her mouth.
The guy draws back and hurls the ball toward the middle of the pyramid of bottles. They don’t budge.
“That was a test run,” he says. “Let’s go again.”
Another miss. He tries a final time, but it’s another failure. He tells the man working the booth that it’s rigged and how he ought to be ashamed of hassling money out of people when he knows they can’t win. He wraps his girlfriend up in his arm, and they move along.
“Who’s next?” the man calls out, looking over at Rooks and me.
“Right here,” Rooks says, handing over the minimal tickets he bought with Hector.
I stand back awkwardly, refusing to look too hopeful or smiley like the last girl. Rooks squints his eyes and analyzes the position of the bottles while he twists the softball around in his hand. He shrugs his shoulders a few times to loosen up, and then he concentrates on the pyramid of milk bottles.
He hurls the ball toward them, in his best pitcher stance, but it bounces back unsuccessfully. He inhales and exhales before the second throw. Another bounce. The guy reminds him that this is his last shot, but Rooks seems unfazed. He repositions, like he’s about to throw the last pitch of a no-hitter, and then lets the ball fly toward the base of the bottles. They collapse.
An accomplished smile sweeps across his face. “How’s that for pitching?” he asks.
The man just shakes his head and tells him to ‘take your pick,’ pointing to the stuffed animals hanging from the ceiling. Rooks steps over toward them, studying them like this is the biggest decision he’ll make tonight. It reminds me of Mom’s great debate about Iceberg Blue.
“Since you don’t have any deer heads for the Tennessee girl, let me have that flamingo,” Rooks tells him, pointing toward a plushy pink stuffed flamingo.
The man grabs his rod and unhooks the flamingo from the ceiling. He hands it over to Rooks in defeat. It’s impossible to hide my own smile. I’m pretty sure this guy didn’t expect Rooks to pull it off when the previous guy couldn’t.
“For you,” Rooks says, handing the flamingo to me. “Your own little piece of Florida.”
I clutch the animal to my chest. “I’ll cherish it forever,” I tell him.
He laughs but Hector and Natalie interrupt before he can reply with a witty comeback. Natalie carries the purple penguin in one hand and has her other arm hooked around Hector’s arm.
“You actually won that?” Rooks asks, shocked yet slightly impressed.
“Nah,” Hector says. “You were right. It’s rigged. I finally just bought it off the guy. Gotta keep my girl happy, you know?”
Hector wiggles his arm free from Natalie’s grasp and pulls her to him in a hug. I imagined they would be an odd pairing, with Hector’s jaded attitude and Natalie’s family history, but they mesh together as well as caramel apples and cotton candy do at a county fair.
“We’re headed to ride The Cyclone next,” Natalie says. “You guys want to come with?”
Rooks shakes his head. “Thrill rides aren’t really my thing,” he says. “You’d have to carry me out of here. That stuff messes with my head.”
“Suit yourself,” Hector says. He laughs and looks at me. “Sorry you’ve got a boring date.”
Natalie waves back at us over her shoulder as they stroll toward the Tilt-a-Whirl and The Cyclone. The couple from earlier is in line at the The Cyclone, and Natalie rushes toward them. I didn’t take Hector to be the type to hang out with jocks, but he high-fives the guy.
“Well,” Rooks says, moving aside for a group of middle schoolers to rush by. “Where to?”
“Cotton candy,” I say impulsively. “Blue cotton candy, on a stick, not in a bag.”
“Wish granted,” Rooks says.
Rooks picks the last pieces of blue cotton off of the stick before I chuck it in a nearby trash can. Natalie and Hector were on their way to pick up a funnel cake for her mom before heading out. It’s been a long night of strolling past dart games and listening to the squeals from the rides that flip upside down.
But I’m not ready to leave. The atmosphere itself is alive and glowing, even late into the night with cars slowly leaving and the Katy Perry music dying out. There’s a sense of innocence and never-ending happiness here. It’s a sense of freedom, of throwing your worries away the second you step under the lights and hear the game booths ring when there’s a winner.
I hope the girl in the letters was able to find her escape and whatever she was looking for. Maybe it was her own version of Titanic. Maybe Seth was the Jack to her Rose, helping her break free before his own ship wrecked and left him stranded for eternity on the ocean bottom. Maybe this girl was able to get away and live the life she dreamed of in memory of him.
The lights of the carousel glow yellow like distant headlights dancing together along the interstate. It
spins slowly, carrying its horses in a circle. That’s when I see it – a tiger. Then a frog. And a zebra.
“Oh my God,” I say out loud before I even realize it. “The camel.”
“Wow,” Rooks says, staring at the ride. He quickly moves over to the outer railing and cranes his neck to see it moving around. “I bet it’s the same one.”
“You really think so?” I ask. That was over fifty years ago. I can’t imagine the carousel still running after all this time. “There’s no way.”
Rooks nods his head. “They’ve probably updated the lighting and maybe had a paint job or two over the years, but this is the same carnival that’s been hosting our county fair for decades. People love it because it reminds them of growing up and coming here. I bet it’s the same one.”
“This is where he first saw her,” I say, trying to conjure up a memory that isn’t my own. “She was with her friends, and she chose to ride the camel instead of a horse. She wanted to be different.”
A voice comes over the loudspeaker announcing the time and that this is the final call for all sales, games, and rides. What a buzzkill.
“I guess that’s our hint to get out,” I say, hugging the flamingo to my side. I’m never letting this thing go. Cliché as it may be, I’m secretly super goofy-happy that I’ve officially had a guy win a prize at a fair for me.
“Not yet,” Rooks says. “Let’s ride the Ferris wheel. I mean, we have to. It’s like a county fair tradition. You can’t go to something like this and not ride it.”
“Ferris wheel? With Mr. I Don’t Do Thrill Rides?” I ask. I shake my head. “No way. I’d prefer to not go home covered in puke.”
He throws his head back laughing. “I can do the Ferris wheel,” he says. “I could do the other stuff, but I hate how it makes me dizzy for an hour afterward. Hector loves that kind of stuff, so I was really just trying to get rid of him.”
The Summer of Lost Wishes Page 9