“Monkey girl!” he says.
I stop to say hello for a second because I don’t want to be rude. Working in zone one, I’ll have to see Dieter quite often.
“Hey, Dieter,” I say, and force a smile.
I bop my pulsating head ever-so-slightly so as not to be the Debbie Downer statue planted in the middle of ecstatic, gyrating party-goers. But I can’t stop looking at the exit behind him.
“You look like you are on your vay out. Stay and dance vith me,” he says.
Normally, I would not pass up this opportunity. Dieter’s really cute. Plus, Brandon is just a few yards away and looking right at us. A little bump-and-grind action with Herr Dieter could really lift my bruised ego. But I cannot fathom bouncing around to the musical stylings of Pitbull; my head will detonate like a grenade.
“You know, I have to meet my friend over at Gemini,” I say to Dieter, and then immediately think Oh, god, what if he asks to come? I quickly follow it up with “We’re headed out; she’s not feeling well.”
“Oh, that is too bad,” he says, then I see his eyes go roaming somewhere over my head, already searching out my replacement.
“Next ride night, though!” I say, patting him on the arm.
I cut through the crowd, head out of the pavilions and onto the quiet midway. I make a beeline for the break trailer. If Brandon Wright wants to see me again, he knows where to find me now. Zone one. He can make the long trek over from Frontiertown if he wants to hang with Julianne Bell again.
I text Dana and tell her where to meet me after the party.
Dana: Are you okay? Why aren’t you riding?
Me: Just a little headache.
Uh-huh, right, it’s like I’m being pounded repeatedly over the head with a brick. On my way to the break trailer, I drink my entire bottle of water but it doesn’t put a dent into my thirst. Dry, dry, dry…
Walking by the main carousel, I can totally understand how a deserted amusement park translates into the perfect horror film setting. There is nothing creepier than a dark, abandoned carousel and if my head didn’t hurt so much, I might actually be scared.
But I’m not scared, I’m angry.
I’m angry at my mother for letting me down and for being a selfish crackpot doll hoarding loser. I’m angry at that horrible couple today who dumped their children off like a sack of unwanted cats. I’m angry at Adriana for being the meanest mean-girl on the planet and at Brandon Wright for liking her. And I’m angry about the fact that I’m anatomically busted.
Lamenting my diabetes is something I try not to expend energy on because there is nothing I can do to rid myself of having it. All I can do is manage things as best I can. Whining is as useless an activity as trying to sprout wings and fly. But right now, as my temples throb and my throat withers, I can’t help but indulge in some bitterness. I can’t help but feel a little resentful towards all of the Insulin Producers of The World, like my co-workers with their functioning pancreases out riding roller coasters and dancing the night away while I slog through spooky zone one with my head splitting open.
In the break trailer—which thank God is empty—I give myself another shot, use the bathroom, and then just sit with my head in my hands, breathing through the pain. The next thing I know, I’m being shaken awake by Dana and Hutch.
“Jules, you okay, sweetie?” Hutch says, which means I must look as bad as I feel.
My mouth feels like I’ve swallowed a bag of cotton balls. I get another drink from the bathroom sink, refill my water bottle, and use the restroom for the umpteenth time before we head out of the park and towards the parking lot. My cement legs drag along, past the mini-helicopters, bumper boats, and Snoopy Bounce house, trying to keep up through a darkened Kiddy Kingdom.
13.
“Food’s done, slug. Up and at ‘em,” Dana says, tapping me on the back. I sit up and yawn, throwing up a wave as I trod past her to the bathroom.
I’ve been working at the park for three weeks now and it’s the fifth time I’ve stayed on Dana’s sofa bed. I have the day off tomorrow so I have to go back to the island tonight or my dad will get pissy. I was going to go home tomorrow, to try and wrangle my mother into being financially proactive but I screwed up so, so hard. I forgot to reserve a space on the ferry for my car. It’s peak season now so if you don’t reserve a spot ahead of time, you’re basically up shit creek. The spaces are booked a good week to two weeks in advance, there’s a wait list and everything. Unless you can produce a death certificate or surgeon’s note saying you need an organ transplant immediately, you’re stranded.
When I come out to join Dana at the kitchen table, she’s sliding a frozen waffle onto my plate. As tiny as the kitchen area is, she’s done her best to make it interesting. An ace of spades rug in front of the sink, salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like dice on the table, and a picture of a pin-up girl on the wall.
“You sure it’s not a problem me staying here, right?” I say to Dana, drizzling a bit of syrup onto my plate
“No, it’s totally chill,” she says, biting into her waffle. “If you were obnoxious or got on my nerves or had fleas or something, I wouldn’t offer but I like the company. I love Auntie Gram but she goes to bed after Wheel of Fortune every single night. And it’s not like I have a boyfriend so you’re not cutting in on anything there.”
“But what if you meet someone and then I’m this third wheel lurking about?” I say, pouring myself a glass of milk.
“I’m not going to meet anyone,” she says, “There’s not a guy in sight interested in me. I go out when I’m at school in the city but, in case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t exactly blend around here.” She makes a quick sweeping motion with her hand, referring to her appearance…her hair, piercings, and tattoos.
“There are plenty of guys at the park,” I say. “My god, they’re everywhere.”
“I’ve done the summer fling a few times; it’s not my cup of tea. I get too attached. Right about the time you start giving a crap about someone, the buzzer goes off. Time’s up. Summer’s over, the park closes, and everyone goes back to their respective states or continents or wherever they came from. I prefer to just get in and get out, now. I’ll look for love during the school year.”
“Makes sense,” I say, dragging my wedge of waffle through my syrup.
We sit and eat quietly for a few moments before she says, “I cleaned out a drawer in my dresser. You can have it if you want. Put clothes in it or whatever.”
I look up from my plate. “Yeah?”
She nods and looks around awkwardly.
“Are you sure?” I say.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” she says. Then she shrugs. “Even though…well…,”
“What?” I say, getting worried.
“I’ll be honest. You weren’t my first choice in dresser-mates.”
“Oh.”
“I originally asked that middle-aged hag who runs the fried pickle cart in zone four. She already rents a drawer from Alberta the Hun, though.”
I laugh and drink my milk.
“They’d make a great couple,” I say.
On the way to work, while listening to Hutch explain the precarious ins-and-outs of the Sandusky barfly circuit which includes phrases like “Swamp Donkey” and “5-10-1 Hook Ups”—meaning she rates a five when you walk into the bar, a ten at closing time, and a one when you wake up in the morning—I get a text from Brandon. He wants to know if I’m working today and if I’ll have lunch with him. It’s not the first time he’s asked but the first time I can accept. Our lunch schedules haven’t seemed to coordinate until today. I get excited and agree to meet up with him immediately. Sure!! I write, and then instantly regret the use of not one, but two, exclamation points.
“Oh god,” I say, out loud, before I can help it.
“What?” Dana says.
“Uh, nothing,” I say, lowering my phone into my lap. “It’s just…that guy.”
“What guy?!” she says.
Hutch reaches ove
r and steals my phone, then leans back in the seat where I can’t reach him.
“Hutch!” Dana says.
“Hoo-hoo, someone named Branduuuuun…,” he says, scrolling down the screen, reading my messages, “He wants to go to lunch so he must work at the paaaarrrrk…”
“Seriously, jackhole!” Dana barks. “Give her phone back!” and she’s weaving all over the road, trying to reach back and clobber him.
He hands my phone back, grinning like a dog that just ate someone’s bacon.
“Idiot,” Dana mutters, glaring at him in the rearview mirror.
“Okay, so Brandon meaning the guy from your high school right?” she says, “The artist?”
I nod and start scratching my neck. I don’t want to talk about this in front of Hutch.
“Jackpot!” she says, banging the steering wheel with her fist. “Oh, baby! Julianne, he looks like a young Heath Ledger!”
“Yeah,” I say, “A little.”
“A little? I’ll Google a picture when we get home. Spitting. Image.”
“You mean The Joker?” Hutch says, leaning up, “The guy who played in Brokeback Mountain?”
“Yes! Hot, hot, hot!” Dana says.
“He’s alright, I guess,” Hutch says, flopping back again, “Well, was. He overdosed if I remember correctly.”
“Sadly, yes,” Dana says, shaking her head, “The greatest Hollywood loss of our generation.”
“Hardly,” Hutch mutters.
I turn the music on because I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I can’t help but be excited about seeing Brandon later, though. But I think I’m more excited about the fact that Dana just said: when we get home.
“Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash comes on so Dana cranks it up loud, rolls the windows down and picks up speed. She and Hutch start singing along and I put my arm out the window letting my palm ride the windy waves. I listen to the song and think about my empty drawer at Dana’s apartment that is waiting to be filled with my stuff. I know the drawer only amounts to a sleepover a few times a week, and that it will only last the summer and doesn’t solve anything, but still, Dana’s apartment is not Melody’s Island and not The Crazy Dollhouse. It’s somewhere magically neutral where my my mom, dad, and Melody can’t infect me with their drama and demands. The idea of having a drawer of my own there, of knowing for sure that Dana wants me around, loosens the knot inside of me a teensy-weensy bit; the knot labeled “Living Situation.” I lean my head out the window and allow myself to enjoy the moment. The wind blows my hair back, the sun warms my face and I think: Hey…I have somewhere to go.
Once the temperature hits the nineties at Cedar Point, especially if its midday and sunny, things start to slow down; people become lethargic and droopy. Every park bench, restaurant booth, and gift shop becomes filled with sluggish, weary travelers. Each added degree adds another layer of apathy until, around ninety-five, everyone is just crawling around like wingless flies searching for a patch of shade. It’s ninety-six degrees right now and the wind coming off the lake offers no relief whatsoever. All it does is blow angry, bawling toddlers sideways.
I walk down to the break trailer behind Kiddy Kingdom to sort myself out before heading across the park to meet Brandon for lunch. Just as I am about to step off the main midway and onto the “employees only” path that leads to the trailer, a kid, about eight or so, brushes against me with his dripping chocolate cone. All I can think is: Of course. Because I’m off to see Brandon Wright, so of course. The kid’s mother doesn’t even make him apologize; she just looks at me with sweaty despair and keeps moving. In the trailer, I dab at the stain with cold water which does nothing but spread it around. I run a brush through my wind-snarled hair, braid it and then splash my face with cold water before starting my arduous hike across the park.
As soon as I get to the Wildcat Midway, home to one of our older, carnival-sized roller coasters, the railroad crossing starts blinking and chiming. The barriers go down so I wait for the train and look at the Wildcat overhead. The four-person cars and silly compact hills make it look like a child’s bead maze toy.
As the little steam-engine approaches, I jump a squinch. Hutch is in the conductor’s seat, leading the charge. He sees me before I can duck into the landscaping or hide behind the gathering crowd. As he drives past, he grins and then gets on his loudspeaker. “Hey, ya’ll!” he says. “Give a wave to my friend Julianne there in the yellow sweep uniform! She’s on her way to an important meeting! Everybody say Howdy, Julianne!” And, they do. While it’s more of a collective groaning of my name than a greeting, the exhausted passengers obey their witty conductor man from New Orleans as he toots his whistle and laughs in the face of Ohio weather. When the caboose passes, Brandon is on the other side smiling at me. I cross the tracks to stand in front of him.
“I guess you’re a Cedar Point celebrity,” he says.
“Right,” I say, holding up my broom and dustpan, looking down at my stained uniform. “All glitz and glam, the life of a sweep.”
“Did you fall in the mud?” he says.
“Rogue chocolate cone with a bratty kid attached to it,” I say, which makes him laugh.
“Okay, well at least you smell good, right?” Then he gestures to my broom and dustpan, “You want to leave those in my kiosk?”
I realize that there is no reason whatsoever for me to be carrying them around. I’m on break and could have left them in the trailer. At this point, they’ve become like another set of limbs so I grabbed them out of habit. I’m going to lunch looking like a grubby janitor that’s been crossed with a bibbed overall kindergartner.
“Is there time?” I say. “I only have about thirty minutes before I have to head back.”
“Oh,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head. “Zone one. Right. Next time I’ll come to you.”
“Next time?” I say, staring at him. “How do you know there will be a next time?”
His eyes get big for a second. He doesn’t know what to say which makes me feel drunk with power.
“Kidding,” I say, cracking a smile, pushing his shoulder with the tip of my broom. “I mean, unless you do or say something really stupid in the next half hour.”
He smiles back, grabs my broom and dustpan from me, “Follow me, smart ass,” he says.
As we enter the heart of Frontiertown, the temperature drops about ten degrees instantly. Not because the weather has changed but because they have a little luxury over here called shade. A tall canopy of trees hovers over this section of the park, protecting it from the blistering sun. With the exception of one exceedingly scummy duck pond and the non-stop country music pouring out from hidden speakers, Frontiertown is Wild West paradise. The log cabin stores and buildings give it a rustic gold-mining town type of vibe. There are target shooting games, a glass blowing demonstration theater, and an area where kids can buy a bag of dirt then pan for gemstones in a fountain made out of wooden barrels and troughs. I follow Brandon over to his kiosk.
“So this is your little corner of the Cedar Point universe?” I say, stepping under the open-air awning of his station. Faces of children, couples, and families smile out at me from the display wall. My gaze lands briefly on one face in particular but I skate over it quickly, pretending not to notice. It’s the picture of Adriana from ride night.
“This is it,” he says, propping my broom and dustpan against his free-standing counter. “Eight hours a day, five days a week.”
“So, where are we eating?” I say, following him out of his kiosk and back into the heart of the bustling town square.
“Red Garter Saloon-to-go. My roommate Hugo bartends there and can get us in and out. They have burgers, chicken sandwiches, big salads…”
“Chicken sandwich sounds good,” I say, and I start worrying about how much one costs. Cedar Point food is not cheap. But, I can spare it this one time, I guess. Lunch with a cute co-worker is worth seven or eight bucks at least.
He texts Hugo our food order s
o we won’t have to wait. We walk across the square, weaving in and out of clusters of people.
Crossing the covered bridge, I can hear the music from the saloon up ahead. When we pop through the swinging doors, the air conditioning washes over us like an invisible, frozen wall of awesome. There is a stage down front with a live country western show going full blast. It’s so loud that you can barely hear yourself think. Brandon throws up a nod to Hugo behind the bar who then heads through a door to retrieve what I assume is our lunch. We can’t have a real conversation, and there’s nowhere to sit anyway, so we just stand in the jostling crowd, waiting for our sandwiches.
At one point, he abruptly reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out his phone; like it was set to vibrate and a call has come in. He looks at the screen for a second then puts it back into his pocket, smiles at me and then focuses his attention on the singers again.
The show is outrageously cheesy. The stage is outfitted with wagon wheels, pitchforks, and bales of hay. Three female performers wearing bedazzled denim vests and ruffled skirts are hamming it up to a Carrie Underwood medley while two guys in cowboy hats play the guitar and fiddle alongside them. As the song wraps up, Brandon leans down into my ear.
“Here comes the money note,” he says. “Keep your eye on the brunette in the middle. Her jaws are going to separate like a python.”
He’s right. On the last power note of Carrie Underwood’s “Cowboy Casanova” the girl’s head drops back, her eyes close and her jaws separate like she’s about to swallow a baby goat. I crack up laughing and he smiles down at me. Hugo comes out from the back, hands Brandon a bag then turns his attention to the swarm of anxious, thirsty customers. Brandon takes my hand and walks us back outside again. It’s not a hand-hold exactly, more just a way to not lose me in the crowd; he lets go as soon as we step outside again.
Doll Hearts Page 13