Doll Hearts

by Colleen Clayton

  My anger-flame glows a bit brighter. She’s telling me it won’t work and that’s not what I want or need to hear right now. I need an enthusiastic cheerleader not a dirt-kicking pessimist. I need someone to be in my corner and believe I can do it. It’s hard being the only one who believes in something.

  I change the subject to the good parts about what my mom said. About how she’s cleaning up the place and getting a lot accomplished. Lindsey doesn’t respond though, all I get is dead air, to the point that I think we’ve been disconnected.

  “Linz? You there?”

  “Oh, um, yeah!” she says. “I just, eh…”

  “You sound weird. What’s wrong? Did I say something?”

  “No!” she says. “It’s not that. It’s just…um…,”

  “What?”

  She sighs. “Well, I drove by your house the other day.”

  My stomach tightens, my throat is like sand.

  “Okay…,” I say.

  “It was trash night,” she says. “Everyone on the street had their trash out and I noticed your mom didn’t. I mean, if she’s cleaning the place out, you would think there would be some bags on the curb, right?”

  I don’t know what to say. She has a point. Even with the Dumpster out back, there should be something on the curb; the sort of garbage and food that you throw away daily? I feel the need to defend my mom though, to come up with some kind of explanation to appease Lindsey and to keep the little bits of hope I have from shriveling up. Even if it’s just a little bit, and I’m the only one doing it, I need to believe in the possibility of things getting better.

  I swallow hard, my mouth is so dry.

  “She rented one of those Dumpsters, it’s in the back. She’s probably just throwing it all in there.”

  “Oh,” Lindsey says quickly, “Yeah, that makes sense. Totally.”

  She’s trying to sound positive but I know her voice, the way she talks. She’s faking it. There’s an awkward pause and my mind starts wandering a bit, getting paranoid.

  “Linz?” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “You haven’t told Celinda or Natalee or anyone else about things, right?”

  Saying it out loud makes my cheeks flush. Even if it’s kind of a vague question, it makes me feel like I’m betraying my mom, calling her a bad name or something. But it’s the truth. I’m ashamed of her. I’d die if people at school knew what was happening.

  “What? No! I would never!” she says.

  “I like Celinda but she has a really big mouth sometimes,” I say. “She’d tell the whole school.”

  “Jules, listen to me,” she insists. “Nobody knows. I would never gossip about you—aw crap, they’re starting things up again. I gotta bolt, Jules—but seriously, don’t worry because nobody knows. So, I’ll see you next week, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I turn away from the crowds of passing people to wipe at my eyes with my knuckle.

  So much for never crying at work.

  12.

  By the time ten o’clock rolls around and the ride night festivities begin, my head is throbbing and I’m exhausted. Between a sweltering day in zone one, the overeating at dinner, and then that frustrating bullshit conversation with my mom, my glucose is on a rocket ship to the moon. I sit alone in the break trailer waiting for a second dose of insulin to kick in.

  I can’t stop thinking about how my mom didn’t put any trash on the curb. Clearly, the mortgage and finances haven’t been troubling her but that’s almost understandable if you think about it. Finances are something you can shove into the back of your mind if you try hard enough. In fact, it’s easy for someone like my mom to ignore finances. When you’ve spent your entire adult life cultivating the keenest sense of denial and avoidance in the history of denial and avoidance, it’s not a problem at all to ignore bills and foreclosure notices.

  But what about the mess? The physical state of her immediate surroundings and how it has caused my absence? How can she sit in that shit-hole and not be gobsmacked by how it’s ruining our lives? She’s always had me there, despite everything, she’s always had me in her physical sphere. Even though her parental involvement has been patchy over the past few years, I feel like she should be missing me really hard right about now. She’s got no one else. What the hell has she been doing for the last couple weeks to get me back into her sphere?

  Actually, I know what she’s probably been doing—staying busy accomplishing nothing. I picture her just moving junk from place to place in the house; stacking and restacking; putting things here and taking things there. I picture her spending hours shuffling and rotating the nightmare in hopes that it will mutate into an acceptable living situation that doesn’t involve actually getting rid of anything.

  My head pulses and my body is telling me to curl up on this table and take a long nap. I’m about to do it when someone comes stumbling into the trailer. Two people, actually. Lovebirds looking for a bit of privacy.

  “Oh, are you in here?” the girl says, when she sees me. Her man stands behind her, positively itching to rip her clothes off.

  Am I in here? Well…you can see me, right?

  I don’t say that, I grab my backpack and tell them I was just leaving.

  I decide that this would be a good time to reach out to Brandon. I’m homesick and I want to be around someone I know. I want to visit my old sphere for a little bit and see a friendly face, even if it’s just someone who has kind of floated around the periphery of my sphere.

  Plus, he’s really cute and funny. Good lord is he cute and funny. I can’t for the life of me figure out how he’s gotten by me for so long. Have I been blind, deaf, and brain-dead for the past twelve years?

  I don’t have the energy to work up a full-blown, in-person Well, fancy seeing you here! scenario so I just text him. Guess who works at Cedar Point now? I say and then add a smiley face. In point-one second, I get a message from him.

  What?! Are you at ride night? Please tell me you’re at ride night!

  My mood takes a miraculous swing upward. I start moving my ass towards the music blaring up ahead. I move my ass toward Brandon Wright’s sphere.

  At the pavilions, I make my way through the crowd and clusters of partying, happy employees, passing a make-shift dance floor and DJ table. Adriana and Rigmora are really working their way through some vintage Britney Spears, dancing to “Baby, One More Time,” doing all of the choreographed moves from the video and everything. People spread out, and form an adoring circle around them.

  I see Hutch by the drink table, talking to one of the Frenchie-French girls from my training group. Then I hear my name yelled and look around.

  That’s when I see him.

  After over a week of working here, through a throng of people, I finally see Brandon Wright. He’s sitting on a stool at the back end of the pavilion with an easel in front of him. There’s a guy sitting across from him having his portrait drawn. Brandon is smiling and waving me over. I can’t get into his sphere fast enough. I want to step on people’s necks to get there faster. I force myself to be cool about it though, to not run. Nobody likes a panting, eager lapdog.

  As I walk up to him, he stands and opens his arms like he wants a hug. I lean in to oblige but it’s awkward because he’s a lot taller than me and can’t use his hands because they’re full of chalk dust.

  “What’s up, Julianne!” he says, smiling down at me. “When did you start working here?”

  “I just started. It’s my second week,” I say, pushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. My cheeks heat up and I pray to god I’m not visibly blushing.

  He points to the spare stool. “Pull up a seat. Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

  I hop onto the stool, resting both feet on the support bar because I’m too short to touch the ground.

  “I looked for you a couple of times,” I say, shrugging. “You never work when I work, I guess.”

  He goes back to finishing up the guy’s drawing, putting
some final touches on the background. It’s really good. Not a caricature but a realistic drawing.

  “I’ve been in the private pavilions doing corporate parties,” he says. “I’ll be back in the main park starting next week. I work over in Frontiertown. ”

  I nod like I don’t already know this bit of information.

  Frontiertown is where everything is Old West-themed. Log cabins filled with “shoppes.” Ye old leather goods shoppe, ye old candle shoppe, ye old candy shoppe. Country music plays around the clock on overhead speakers and there’s even a couple of “saloons” where you can get beer and mixed drinks.

  “That’s zone six, right?” I say, “I work here in zone one.”

  “Well, when I’m done being pissed at you for not calling me, I’ll make the long trek over to come visit you,” he says, then smiles and winks his wink.

  My stomach does a giant Raptor-sized CBA Flip. Nothing like a cute boy to make your problems disappear! Even if just for a short while. Seriously, though, this day has gone from good to horrible, back to good, then back to bad, then has looped around to good again. My head is killing me but I don’t care. I’m not letting an untimely glucose spike ruin this moment.

  “Okay, then. You’re all done,” Brandon says, standing up, and handing the guy his drawing. “How’s it look?”

  The guy stands, holds it up and studies it.

  “It’s awesome, dude,” he says. “You’re really good. My mom will love it.”

  “Yes, a gift for mom, I get that a lot.” Brandon says, sitting back down, wiping his hands on a cloth.

  “Sorry, but I can’t put this on a wall at my own place,” the guy says, laughing. “No offense to your artistry and all, but I’d never get laid.”

  “You make a good point,” Brandon says, returning the laugh.

  The guy walks away and there’s no one waiting in line to get a portrait so Brandon turns to me. He catches me swallowing back a yawn.

  “Did you work all day?” he asks.

  “Yeah, been here since opening.”

  “You must be tired. Did you get a plate? There’s food up there. Sausages, pulled pork, potato salad. Did you eat?”

  “I ate a huge dinner. I’m good,” I say, nodding, clearing my throat and trying not to sound defensive. I know what he’s getting at.

  “So, you like being a sweep?” he asks, looking down at my uniform.

  Ugh, why didn’t I bring a change of clothes? I could kick myself for not having planned this out better. Everyone here is wearing regular clothes except me.

  “It has its perks,” I say. “I get to walk around a lot and I’m flush with spare change. It’s like a treasure hunt out there.”

  I jingle my pockets that are full of coins.

  It’s true. One of the hidden perks of Sweepdom is that you’re always looking down so you get to snap up all the dropped money. I’m averaging about three bucks a day in dirty ground money. I keep it in a mason jar in my room with Professor Owl sitting on top. Every night, I drop my coins in and imagine him saying: Every little bit counts! Better than nothing, right?

  Also, I find all kinds of lost things. Today alone, I’ve found a baby bottle, three pairs of sunglasses, two wallets, and a cell phone. I give the cheaper things to the nearest vendor in case the owners come looking for them but take the cell phones and wallets to the lost and found.

  “You’re tanner than when I saw you last,” Brandon says, organizing his chalks on his tray, “It looks nice.”

  “Thanks,” I say and try to sound confident, like I hear this sort of thing all the time, but I end up chewing my lip, rolling my eyes a little, and making this weird laugh noise. I try not to go all gooey inside but it’s hard because I’m in my sweaty uniform and Brandon Wright still thinks I look nice.

  “So, I’m done here in about fifteen minutes,” he says, “I’m going to ride Steel Vengeance with a few people. You want to come?”

  My heart stops a second and before I can say Yes, I would love to ride Steel Vengeance with you, Brandon Wright, someone squeals “Portrait pleasssse!” and then flops onto the stool across from us.

  It’s Adriana; she’s a little out of breath from her big dance number. Her conjoined Russian twin isn’t with her though. Rigmora is still bumping and grinding over by the DJ, really getting down while a guy mauls her from behind. At least it’s a good song this time. “Love Roller Coaster.” People are losing their freaking minds to it, bouncing up and down, and singing along.

  “Hey, Adriana,” Brandon says. “You remember my friend, Julianne, right? She dropped me off last week?”

  “Yes,” she says, smiling at me, “You had that prickly mouse that likes to pee on people. And then we talked the other day when you were sneaking a break over at Raptor queue.”

  Um, first off, Lolo has never peed on anyone ever. And regarding the break? I wasn’t sneaking. Okay, maybe I was sneaking a little, but why does she have to say it like that?

  “Yeah, you’re the lead skater in the Grimm’s Fairytale revue,” I say.

  I try to keep things pleasant and use my happy eyes because there’s no way I’m going to get snotty with this girl or let her rile me. It will only make me appear snotty and riled.

  “Yes, I play Snow White,” she says, then leans in a bit to make sure I’m paying attention, “It’s different than the Disney version.”

  “So, what will it be?” Brandon asks, scooting closer to his easel, prepping his chalks, “Realistic or caricature?”

  “Realistic,” she says, getting comfortable on her stool, “Black and white. But I want a body, too. With my skates and Snow White dress.”

  I look at what she’s wearing. Short-shorts and a skimpy tank top. Fake or not, her boobs are amazing.

  “Brandon’s seen me in my Snow White dress a lot,” she explains to me. “He’s roommates with Rigmora’s boyfriend Hugo who’s from Australia.” She gestures toward the DJ area where Rigmora and Hugo are using dancing as an excuse to rub their hands all over each other in public.

  “The four of us are always together,” she says, giving her hair a little swing, throwing her shoulders back a bit more, “You can do it from memory, right, Brandon?”

  “Yep,” he says, nodding and starting to scratch away on the paper with his charcoal. Within a few seconds I can see where he’s going with it, the picture just starts happening, like he’s an artistic wizard and his fingers are made of magic.

  “You should have yours done next,” Adriana says, smiling at me from the corner of her eye. She’s perked up stiff in her seat with her nose in the air like she’s the Mona Lisa or something. “One of you in your yellow bibbies holding your broom. That way you’ll always have a memory of your days as a sweep.”

  Brandon stops drawing and glances up at her for a second. She irons the creases out of her tone and adds, “I mean, that bright yellow would really pop against a black border, don’t you think?”

  He nods, keeps drawing.

  When this gig is over, I think. I am never wearing bright yellow again.

  “Actually,” I say, relaxing my jaw and smiling, “He drew my portrait a couple weeks back while we were sitting in class. A picture from our elementary yearbook.”

  I look around like I couldn’t care less but then steal a quick glance at her. I think I see irritation flicker across her face for a second.

  Zinnng.

  “Oh, wow. You do sketches of old photos, too?” she says, reaching over to slap Brandon’s knee. “You’re so talented, Brandon.”

  “Thanks,” he says, continuing to draw.

  He’s concentrating, smudging the drawing a bit with his fingertips to lend Adriana that dark, smoky-eyed look that she pulls off so well.

  “So, you want to come ride with us, Jules?” he says, still not looking up, “You can meet my roommate.”

  “Yes!” Adriana chimes in, “Come ride with the four of us, it’ll be a blast.”

  My heart drops. Oh.

  I picture the happy coup
les paired off in their seats and then me riding solo behind them. Julianne Bell, fifth wheel. So much for CBA flips and forgetting my troubles for a while. My day just looped back around to shit.

  “Sorry, I can’t tonight,” I say, pretending to be disappointed that I can’t ride with them.

  Brandon stops drawing and looks up.

  “I’m supposed to meet my friend,” I say, shrugging, “She’s running Gemini right now but gets off at midnight. I promised to ride with her and a couple of other people, so…,”

  I pull my cell out and pretend to care about the time.

  “Actually, if I’m going to get over there, I should start walking now. But, hey, thanks for the invite. Next time for sure.”

  I hop off my stool, stand up straight, and smile.

  “Oh, okay,” Brandon says, starting to stand too, still holding his charcoal. Adriana stays parked right where she is. She smooths her hair a bit, looks around and sighs with contentment.

  “Oh, don’t get up. Finish your drawing,” I say, laughing a little, waving him off, like it’s no big deal if we don’t have a proper goodbye, “We’ll catch up, later.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he says, sitting. “I have your number. You still have mine, right?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say. “Okay, I have to run. See ya.”

  I do an awkward, little hand-wave and in that moment, I swear to god, Adriana looks right at me and smirks. Her raised single eyebrow says: That’s right, pip-squeak. Move it along. He’s got your number and so do I.

  As I turn to go, I think I see disappointment in Brandon’s face but I assure myself that I’m delusional. Whatever. Enough. It’s nap time. I’m throwing the break trailer lovebirds out on their asses. Trailer’s mine, now. Get out.

  Working my way through the crowd, I swipe a bottled water from the drink table. Hutch has moved on from the Frenchie-French girl and is now in the buffet line, making a very leggy girl howl with laughter. My head starts pounding to the beat of Pitbull’s “International Love” and I can’t get out of here fast enough. I don’t think my head ever really stopped pounding, I was just able to distract myself from it by staring at Brandon Wright’s face. But the distraction is over and the headache comes roaring back like an earthquake rattling my skull. On my way through the bustling, dancing crowd, I bump into Dieter from the Peanuts shop.