Doll Hearts

by Colleen Clayton

  “Threw up?” Dieter says, wrinkling his brows, like he doesn’t understand.

  “Vomited,” I say, holding my throat and making a gag face. “I need the blue sick powder.”

  “Oh, ja!” he says, reaching into a drawer to pull out a tangle of keys. Left corner on back vall is zeh closet. Smallest key.”

  He points to the back of the store as another customer steps up to the counter. Despite the heavenly air-conditioning, walking through the cramped shop makes me instantly claustrophobic. The aisles are filled with Peanuts dolls. That’s the park’s theme, Peanuts. The whole Peanuts gang is lined up and staring at me as I walk by them. Hundreds of dolls, figurines, key chains, mugs and trinkets are everywhere. Snoopy, Charlie Brown, and Woodstock are fashioned into every likeness of useless memorabilia that one can imagine. Plus, there are scads of Cedar Point souvenirs, too. A giant waterglobe catches my eye and stops me in my tracks. It has an antique carousel horse inside of it and the tag on the bottom says it plays “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

  My mother would go crazy bananas over this. Her face would light up with the joy of a thousand birthday candles. I pull my phone out and try to call her again. When she doesn’t answer, I hang up. I’ve already left enough unreturned messages.

  Staring at the globe, my heart aches so intensely that I can’t help but pick it up. I turn the key and shake it a little, listening to the tinkling song while watching the glittery flakes flutter around the horses. Resting my palms over the curves of the cool glass, I try to divine what the future holds for me and my mom but all I see is glitter and horses. Just as my eyes start to sting, a group of women searching for souvenirs turns down the aisle, jerking me out of my sad spell. I set the globe back on the shelf and carry on through the store toward a door on the far wall. As I walk, I make a vow never to shed a single tear at Cedar Point, or any other job I have for that matter. Crying at work is for weaklings.

  It takes me a second to find the right key but eventually I get the closet open and flip on the light. Stepping inside, I look around at the supplies. Windex, paper towels, a mop, broom, dust rags, a couple rusted cans of paint, broken mugs and damaged merchandise. No blue powder. I’m about to turn around and head back to the front but then look up and see it, a large container of QuickSorb Granules on the top shelf. It’s completely out of my reach so I step onto the bottom shelf and stretch my arm up. But it’s still too high so I continue my climb, stepping up on the second shelf.

  “Let me,” Dieter says, coming up behind me.

  I step down and let him reach over me to get it.

  “Monkey girl,” he says, looking down at me, smiling, as he grabs the powder effortlessly.

  This makes me laugh a little. He steps back out, giving me room to step out too. He hands me the powder then glances down at my nametag.

  “Julianne?” But his J’s sound like Y’s.

  “Right, yes,” I say, nodding, “Only with a J sound. Like juh.”

  “Yes, of course,” he says, “Joo-lianne. I get the letters mixed up.”

  I nod and hand him back the keys.

  “Well. Danke schőn,” I say, smiling, trying to be funny and failing, “Thanks for the sick powder.”

  “You mean threw up powder,” he says, joking back. “Sprichst du Deutsch?”

  He looks excited for a second, like maybe he’s found a kindred German spirit.

  “Sorry. Just one semester,” I say, and start to walk back toward the front of the store. “Guten morgen. Danke. Bitte. That’s about it before I switched to Spanish.”

  “Ach, it’s okay,” he says, “It forces me to speak my English.”

  “You’re doing great,” I say.

  “Danke.”

  “Bitte.”

  “Come again, monkey girl,” he says as I step out the doorway and back into the light. I wave and smile as I head back toward Raptor.

  Oh, wow, apparently the vomiteur was drunk. Now that it’s had a few minutes to really start boiling on the cement, it is especially putrid and reeks of beer. I gag and sprinkle the blue powder all over it. The powder actually makes it smell worse. Between the puddle of blue beer vomit, my blistered hands, my aching feet, the fact that zone one is the most shadeless area of the park, and the realization that my mother plans to avoid me like the plague all summer, I need to sit down. I don’t think it’s my glucose this time, I think my body is just rejecting zone one and worried about my mom and missing her.

  I know I shouldn’t miss her and I should be really angry with her and I am for the most part because, on paper, she’s kind of a rotten excuse of a mother. But she’s not all bad, I swear. She’s really not. She’s never hit me or called me a snotty name a single time in my life. Until the last year or so, whenever I had a choir concert or activity at school, she always came and sat the whole time smiling. It’s more than I can say for my dad who’s skipped more than his fair share of those types of things. He and Melody were too busy riding the waves in one of their many love boats, or he was off in the wilderness shooting at defenseless animals with strangers. My mother and the choir concerts count for something, right? And if she could just get help and maybe on medication she might be able to turn her life around like that Ginny woman said. I’m not giving up on my mom. No way. Never.

  I know we’re not supposed to sit on the job but I grab a seat on a nearby bench while the blue powder works its magic. I seriously have to sit for a minute or I’m going to be sick, too. No sooner do I sit than two gorgeous girls walk by. Even though they have no recognizable Cedar Point markings or nametags, I instantly recognize them as the ice-skaters that were talking to Brandon that day I dropped him off. Adriana, the Canadian brunette, sees me, does a double take, says something to Rigmora, and then they both walk over to me.

  “Hey, I remember you. You’re Brandon’s friend from high school!” Adriana says.

  “Hi, yeah,” I say, standing up, “Adriana and Rigmora, right?” and, while I feel hesitant, I’m glad to talk to someone that I sort of know.

  “Right,” Adriana says.

  Rigmora nods and smiles.

  “Joann, right?” Then she looks down at my nametag. “Oh, I mean, Julianne. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, shrugging and smiling.

  “So, you’re a sweep now. I see you have your bibbed overalls, your little yellow bow, your broom. Totally adorbs. So, how are you liking it so far?”

  My cheeks start to warm. And I don’t think it’s from the sun.

  “It’s great. It’s my first day but so far so good,” I say. “Just waiting for that puddle of vomit over there to congeal so I can sweep it up.”

  They both look over at the mess and frown.

  “Coaster gumbo,” she says, turning back to me. “You’ll get that.”

  I laugh. Coaster gumbo. Maybe Adriana’s not so bad.

  “So, have you seen Brandon around?” I ask. “I’ve looked for him at the—,”

  She interrupts me before I can finish.

  “Oh, my god. What time is it, Rigmora?” she says, grabbing Rigmora’s arm. “We have to get back.”

  Adriana looks at me closely, “We’re the principal skaters in the Grimm’s Fairy Tale Revue over at The Good Time Theater. I play Snow White and Rigmora plays Rose-Red. It’s different than the Disney version.”

  “Yeah, I remember you saying that before,” I say. “I’ll have to come watch sometime."

  “Yes, you must come watch,” Adriana says. “Anyhow, we have a last minute practice scheduled because a new girl joined the cast, so we have to get going. It was nice talking to you again, Julia.”

  I don’t correct her. She can see my nametag. She’s doing it on purpose.

  “Oh,” she says, looking back as they walk away, “A word of advice. If a blue-tag, meaning a supervisor, sees you sitting around, they’ll write you up. You really should be using the break trailer.”

  I nod as they walk away, and then make a mental note to myself never to step foot in the Good
Time Theater.

  I’m fried.

  Not just metaphorically but seriously, thoroughly sunburned.

  At the end of my shift, I hurry to the main employee station, grab my bag and head to the women’s locker room. In the bathroom on my way to a stall, I look in a mirror. I kind of jump a little bit because whoaaa…I knew I was burned but it’s a little worse than I expected. Julianne Bell equals Human Lobster.

  I splash some cold water on my face and pray that Melody has aloe vera at the house. The time on my phone says 6:30. The last ferry takes off at 7:00 so I have no time to waste. I hurry up and get my business done then run across the building to Dana’s office while scarfing down a granola bar.

  All the other employees are stopping at the laundry service to turn their uniforms in. There’s a complimentary laundry service that gets your uniforms all crisp and clean for the next time you work. But since I am apparently the smallest person ever to work at Cedar Point, I can’t make use of that little perk until I have my uniform altered. Plus, I have no time anyway.

  My feet, in addition to my hands, are raw with blisters and splinters. They didn’t have a size six in the required uniform tennis shoes so are special-ordering me a pair. I had to wear my own shoes today. Chuck Taylors were not designed for zone one.

  I sit and examine my shredded palms in the office lobby while Dana puts some papers away at her desk behind the counter. She works and files and hurries while simultaneously enduring some last minute rampaging from Alberta the Hun who makes sure to remark twice about Dana’s bright red lipstick.

  “This office isn’t one of your rave parties, young lady,” she says. “I don’t want to see that again.”

  As soon as Alberta turns her back, Dana mocks her. She makes her fingers into witch claws, bugs out her eyes and sticks out her tongue, revealing a piercing. Then she looks over at me and we both snicker.

  Despite Dana’s antics, my body throbs from head to toe while the wall clock clicks from 6:40 to 6:41 to 6:42. I start wondering what Melody’s made for dinner; calculating how long it will take for me to get to the house and start shoving the leftovers into my mouth.

  I pull a pack of fruit snacks from my bag and stare at the clock, worrying like mad that I’ll miss the last ferry.

  “Ten minutes! We can do this, I get priority parking!” Dana says.

  We race through the parking lot. When we arrive at her car Hutch is standing next to it waiting for us. She speeds the whole way, and as we roll by Hutch’s apartment complex, she barely slows down before he opens the back door.

  “Punch it, hookers! Yee-haw!” Hutch yells, as he leaps from her still moving car.

  Dana floors it the whole way to the ferry lot then pulls up as close as she can get to the gate. I get out and, just as I take a few steps, the ferry blows its horn and the water starts churning up around it. I stand looking at the ferry as it separates from the dock and floats off into Sandusky Bay.

  My heart sinks because now I’ll have to call my dad or Melody to come get me. Thirty minutes each way by speedboat. I glance over at the water-taxi boathouse and shudder to think how much a single-fare to Middle Bass might cost.

  “Hey!” Dana yells, from her car.

  I turn around, trying not to look upset or like I’m some dumb, stranded kid who doesn’t know what to do now, but I don’t think I’m hiding my panic very well.

  “You can stay at my place, I have a pullout couch!” she says. “You have to work in the morning anyway, right?”

  I nod and try to be calm and cool, not get teary-eyed.

  “Okay,” I say, “Just let me call my dad.”

  Then I walk back to her car, noting the heft of my bag, feeling relieved that my dad made me bring my long-acting insulin and that Melody loaded me down with snacks.

  Stuffed with her aunt’s homemade pizza and coated in a thick layer of aloe gel, I lie on Dana’s pullout couch and watch her play Xbox from the beanbag. “Auntie Gram” who lives in the main house has washed, dried, altered, and pressed my uniform. Dana gave me a long t-shirt to wear for the night. I’m sunburned from mid-thigh to my sock line, halfway down my arms and then, of course, all over my face and neck. I’m going to have the most hideous farmer’s tan ever.

  I can’t play video games with Dana because my palms are too blistered from handling the broom and dustpan all day.

  “So, other than the blisters and getting sunburned, how did your first day go?” Dana says, as her avatar kicks through a metal door and starts shooting at zombies.

  “It was good,” I say, trying to power through the headache that has cropped up behind my eyes. “Except there was this drunk guy who vomited outside Raptor and I had to clean it up.”

  “Coaster gumbo,” we say together, and then giggle.

  “Did you meet anyone? Any hot guys?”

  “Well,” I say. “There was a good-looking guy who works at the chocolate banana cart but I didn’t talk to him.”

  “The Diana’s Bananas cart near the Sky Ride? Dark-haired guy? Lanky?” she says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t bother. He’s married.”

  “What? He looks like he’s in high school!”

  “He’s twenty. Local guy. Married with two kids. I saw his emergency contact and W-2 forms.”

  “Okay. Well, I guess I can scratch Married Chocolate Banana Man off my list of potentials.”

  “Yes, indeed. Anyone else?”

  “This German guy in the Peanuts shop.”

  “Ooh, yeah! I think I know who you’re talking about. He’s new this year. Not bad if you’re into the Hitler Youth look.”

  “What? He does not look like a Hitler Youth!” I say, laughing.

  “Okay, yeah, that was mean,” she says, cracking up, pressing buttons to reload her on-screen weaponry. “It’s the accent. Big guy with a German accent? My brain heads straight for Nazi, every time. Okay, who else?”

  “Well, I kind of already know this one kid from high school. I didn’t see him today though. He draws portraits and caricatures? His name is Brandon.”

  She pauses her game and whips around in her beanbag chair.

  “I watched him do an art demo for Alberta a month back when we were hiring the artists and musicians,” she says, her blue eyes widening, “I think even Alberta, in all her Gestapoid asexualness got turned on. He works over in Frontiertown. I’ll check into it, stalk his schedule for you.”

  I laugh and then move on with the conversation. Somehow discussing Brandon Wright makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want to start getting myself too worked up over him. He’s probably forgotten all about me at this point. Plus, I don’t want this job—which is supposed to be a means to an end, a way to save my home—to start tipping over into something else in my brain, become about chasing down Brandon Wright.

  Still, part of me is dying to see him.

  I need to text him. Next week, I’m definitely going to text him.

  “The rest of the people I met were girls,” I say. “A British girl running the ring toss and two French girls who are sweeps, too. And then a couple of ice-skaters.”

  I roll my eyes. “Adriahhhna and Rigmorahhh.”

  “Ha!” Dana laughs, starting up the game again and shooting more zombies, “Ade the Blade and Rigor Mortis, yep. I know them, too. Everybody knows them. They make a point to be known. They’re under the delusion that they’re park royalty. Soooo extra. Ade the Blade had the gall to ask for her own dressing room last year. Also, her boobs are totally fake. First summer she was average, the next summer kapow! And then poor Rigor Mortis. Not sure what her deal is, she doesn’t say much, just stands next to Ade the Blade, glowering. Language barrier, maybe? Undercover bodyguard? Whatever it is, it’s creepy as fuck.”

  This makes me laugh which makes my sunburned face sting. Ow, ow…agh.

  “So, do you have enough insulin?” Dana says, which takes me by surprise.

  I pause, and then nod.

  “Sorry. I saw the packaging to you
r insulin pen in the trash,” she says.

  I turn my attention to the TV and pretend like it’s no big deal, making a mental note to wrap all of my insulin packaging in toilet paper from now on. I’m not ashamed or anything, it’s just that, in my experience, when people find out you have diabetes they get all weirded-out and concerned about you. Like, Lindsey. I know she’s just being a good friend when she gets in my grill about my glucose, and I’m grateful in one sense, but still, the way she tries to mother me pisses me up the wall. Dana is a new friend, a very cool friend, and I don’t want that same caretaker vibe developing between us. I’m already off to a rocky start with missing the ferry and my sunburn.

  “Hey, I have a question,” I say, switching us to a different topic. “How do I go about getting more hours at the park, extra shifts?”

  “There’s an online bulletin on the employee portal,” she says. “Get-to-the-point-dot-com. A sign-up chart with the extra shifts. Good luck, though. Its first come-first served. You have to be quick to the trigger. Some of those foreign exchange students are some broke-ass peeps. They send most of their pay back to their families and stalk that bulletin like lions at a waterhole.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  I settle into my covers and pull out my phone. Still no messages from my mom. Dana, switches the game off, turns it back to the cable setting and hands me the remote.

  “Alarm is set for seven-thirty,” she says, standing up and yawning.

  “Okay, goodnight.” I say.

  “‘night.” She walks to her room and shuts the door.

  I fluff my pillow, flip to my side, and then turn the volume down low. I’m not familiar with the cable channels so I surf and roll through the menu. My stomach seizes up when I pass a block of home shopping channels. Wonder Gadgets is on HSN—one of my mom’s late night faves. Upon seeing those two words, I’m filled with a tremendous yearning and I can’t stop myself from going back and indulging in it. It’s not that I want to watch the show or buy the products but more because I know that right now, at this moment, this is what my mom’s doing. She’s watching Wonder Gadgets and debating whether to buy an electric vegetable scraper.