Doll Hearts

by Colleen Clayton

  “Do we need to pay him?” I ask, worrying about how much dough I’m going to need to part with. I’ll need to bust into my carefully managed roll of fives and tens, to save the embarrassment of counting out dirty ground coins.

  “Nope. Perk of rooming with the bartender,” he says.

  “Cool,” I say and then follow him to wherever we’re headed next.

  “I thought we could eat in the glass blowing theater,” he says, looking over at me. “They’re between shows. It’s outdoors but covered and shady. Quiet. Or there’s the break trailer behind Thunder Canyon if you want air-conditioning.”

  “Glass blowing theater,” I say, because if zone six is anything like zone one, people are coming in and out of the trailer every few minutes. I want to be alone with Brandon and I’m pretty sure he feels the same way.

  We cut through the glassware shop that connects to the theater. While I welcome another blast of frozen air, the store skeeves me out only slightly less than the Peanuts shop over on my end. Wall-to-wall baubles, figurines, ornaments, and dust-catchers. Classier stuff, though. Vases and sculptures. Polite little a-frame reminder signs are strategically placed on the shelves. Hand-blown by Local Artisan; Fragile—Handle With Care; Please Watch Your Children. My chest tightens looking at all of it and I can’t get through the store fast enough.

  The back of the store opens up to the outdoor glass-blowing theater. Wooden benches are positioned on risers to form a horseshoe that looks down onto the glass blowing furnace where the artisans do their thing. When the demonstrations are over, guests are encouraged to go back into the store and buy things. Like people are supposed to walk around all day riding roller coasters with this breakable stuff? Worst idea ever. There are a few types who would buy into this ridiculousness, I suppose. Non-riders, meaning scaredy-cats that have been dumped off in zone six by their more daring family and friends; elderly season-ticket holders from the adjacent RV park; and then the odd dingbat who can’t think two steps ahead of her credit card. My mother would fit in nicely in Frontiertown as she covers two out of the three. She would love zone six altogether. Pointless consumerism disguised as nostalgia.

  We sit down on one of the benches to eat. As soon as the chicken hits my mouth, my stomach perks up and remembers it was hungry. It’s been grazing on Brandon Wright adrenaline for the last half hour. I have to force myself to eat like a human being and not a glucose-starved monster.

  “How’s your summer going so far?” he says, swallowing a bite of his burger, “How’s Middle Bass and The Step Melody?”

  He remembers the things we talked about.

  “Good,” I say, fibbing a little, because I don’t want to launch into my problems. We only have a short while to visit. I don’t want to spend that short while whining. I want to spend it enjoying this amazing sandwich and staring at Brandon Wright’s amazing face. “This job keeps me busy. No time to indulge in homesickness, so that’s good.”

  “You get homesick?”

  “Sometimes,” I say, shrugging it off.

  “Man, not me. I don’t ever want to go back to Lakewood,” he says, taking a drink of his water. “I mean, I will. To make sure my dad hasn’t gone off the deep end or whatever, but to live? No way. That’s why I picked UT. Close enough to check in but far enough away that I can’t get dragged into my dad’s daily bullshit anymore. I do miss my bed though. These dorm beds, they’re cots, basically. How about you? What are you homesick for?”

  “My mom,” I say and then stutter and replace it with, “I mean my room. Like you. My bed. My house, I mean. My friends.”

  It’s true. I miss it all. I can’t help it. Even though my bed and room are located inside the eye of a pigsty garbage tornado, and even though my mom is a freaking fruitloop, I miss them. I miss the pigsty tornado and Queen of the Fruitloops. I miss Lakewood. My friends, too. All of it, I miss it.

  “Your mom’s better than The Step Melody I take it?” he says.

  My heart starts racing a bit because I don’t like where this conversation is headed. He’s expecting to hear how great my mom is, a list of her outstanding motherly qualities.

  “I think homesick is the wrong word,” I say. “It’s more like I’m anxious about being away. She’s kind of a hermit, my mom, so I worry about her. And then staying at my dad’s, at Dana’s, it’s not bad, it’s fine, but I feel…displaced. Like I’m neither here nor there all the time. Like there is no place and nothing that is just mine. Like I’m a visitor wherever I go.”

  Also all true.

  “Anxious and displaced,” he says. “Yes, better words. And I get it. This whole summer dormitory crap? Not for me.”

  “You’re not having fun? The dorms seem like they’re fun.”

  “The first couple weeks were great. But now it’s like I’m stuck in the shitty spring break that never ends.”

  “Maybe you’re in the early stages of CPZ syndrome.”

  He laughs, obviously familiar with the term.

  “Oh, I’m definitely a Cedar Point zombie,” he says. “I just hope that I’m cured by the end of summer and that the disease doesn’t mutate into UTZ Syndrome.”

  U…T…

  “University of Toledo Zombie Syndrome,” he says. “I have to start dorm life all over again in the fall, only with a new cast of idiots that I have yet to meet.”

  I laugh and take a sip of my water, eat more of my sandwich.

  “You have a long commute, I bet. With the ferry and all?” he says, changing the subject.

  “I carpool with this girl, Dana. She lives about ten minutes away, right by the ferry landing. She works in human resources.”

  “Is she the girl at the front desk with the short black hair?” he says.

  “Yeah. I stay with her sometimes if I miss the boat.”

  He really perks up at this bit of information.

  “So then you can go out at after work? When you stay at her place?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say, nodding.

  “Maybe we can go for a ride on the bike, then.”

  “Sure,” I say and shift in my seat to take a head-clearing breath. His buzzed-off hair is so tantalizing up close; I want to reach out and start rubbing his head like a genie’s lamp.

  He tells me about some drives that he’s taken to a nearby lighthouse and some farm roads farther inland. Before long, people start filtering in for the next glass blowing demonstration. We finish up our food and head back through the glassware shop and out into Frontiertown square.

  “The braid,” he says, as we walk. He lifts his chin in quick acknowledgment. “I’ve never seen your hair like that. It’s cute.”

  “Cute?” I say, picking up my braid and looking at the ridiculous mandatory yellow bow tied off at the end. I let the braid flop limply down my right shoulder and then roll my eyes.

  “What?” he says, his brow wrinkling.

  “Cute’s the worst,” I say.

  “What’s wrong with cute?” he says, laughing.

  “Puppies are cute. Babies are cute. Cute is not what you tell a girl.”

  “Wow, you’re really killing me, Jules,” he says, shaking his head. “Okay, let me rephrase. That braid…your hair…is freaking gorgeous.”

  “Okay, now you’ve swung too far the other way,” I say, grinning.

  “Oh, no…I’m just getting started,” he says, “Your hair is the stuff of fairytales. It’s—,”

  “Stop. Enough,” I say, giving him a shove.

  “—if you were blonde I’d call you Rapunzel, I’d camp out underneath your window and yell Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your golden—,”

  And it’s right then that someone calls out Branduuun!

  We look toward his kiosk up ahead. Adriana is standing in front of it, hands on her hips, in her full Snow White attire. Her skating dress is cream-colored and sparkly and in lieu of skates, she’s wearing white strappy sandals. And holy crap she’s wearing an alarming amount of makeup; smiling like her life depends on it. Brandon clears his
throat as we walk up to her and the back-and-forth energy we were enjoying splits off to accommodate Adriana. A triangulated particle stream of prickliness starts flowing between us like a laser.

  “Heyyy,” Adriana says to Brandon, looking over at me for a second. “I’m between shows and I’ve been calling you for an hour. Where have you been hiding out?”

  “We were at lunch,” he says, glancing nervously between us, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  “High school friends catching up, that’s nice,” she says, then turns to me, the smile still chiseled across her face, “Julianne, right?”

  I nod and smile back. Her makeup is so thick that it’s starting to liquefy in the heat. A cosmetic mudslide is imminent, but still, she looks beautiful, like Kim Kardashian on prom night in the middle of the day.

  “So, did you guys go to The Red Garter Saloon? Was Hugo working?” she says. “That’s always fun. That show is a hoot. Python Girl, those silly outfits.”

  My stomach flips and not in that good “CBA” way. It flips in that hurtful disappointed way because, apparently, Ade the Blade has been given The Red Garter Saloon treatment, too. Apparently, The Red Garter Saloon is where Brandon Wright takes the ladies.

  “So, are we still on for that IMAX party on the 4th?” she says to him, reaching out and touching his shoulder.

  Then she turns to me with a knowing look, “There’s another employee party at the IMAX Theater on July 4th. I guess the show is like you’re on a spaceship headed to the outer limits or whatever. American Boy here really wants to see it.”

  Brandon looks at me with mortified surprise. His lips part slightly, like he’s searching for something to say but nothing coherent is coming to mind.

  “Yeah, I saw the flyers in the cafeteria,” I say, nodding, “Sounds intense.”

  And I’m straining so hard to appear relaxed that I think my left eyeball is twitching. I turn to Brandon directly, force another awkward smile, and give him a friendly jab on the arm.

  “Well, zone one is calling,” I say, “Thanks for the sandwich.”

  I walk away from his kiosk, but then, because the Cedar Point vortex will not allow me an iota of dignity, I get twenty feet and have to turn back to retrieve my broom and dustpan. I grab my stuff and smile at them again, walk past them again, and Adriana grins at me like she’s just won a gold medal in the Brandon Wright Olympics.

  “Julianne, wait,” Brandon says, reaching out to touch my arm as I pass.

  “You know, I really am running late,” I say, laughing a little, playing it cool, “I’ll see you around. Bye!”

  And then I take off into a crowd of passing Mennonite tourists, allowing myself to be swallowed up into their sea of long, pastel dresses and bonnets. I make my way toward the railroad crossing, past the Wildcat midway with its zooming mouse-like cars, past Married Chocolate Banana Man, past the gift shop full of scary Peanuts dolls and deep into my zone where I belong.

  I don’t get five minutes into my sweeping when he texts me.

  So, we’re on for that bike ride, then?

  I stick my phone back into my pocket and go back to my sweeping. About an hour later, he texts again.

  Are you free tomorrow?

  And I sweep, sweep, sweep.

  Then my cell actually rings. He calls me for real. I don’t answer because why should I even care right? I mean, I’ve spent years orbiting Brandon Wright’s sphere so why the sudden irresistible pull?

  It was the sketch that did it. The one he drew of me when I was in kindergarten? Oh, that was like a magic love spell that sketch. Sketchus. Magnus. Swoonus. Yes, Brandon Wright will go on to snag many, many girls that way.

  But not this one.

  No way.

  I sweep and dump, sweep and dump, while compiling a mental checklist of why I should not be attracted to Brandon Wright. Artist equals self-absorbed; motorcycle equals reckless; Adriana equals player. And even if he wasn’t a self-absorbed, reckless player—which signs point to the fact that he total is—I’m not sure I’m his type. I mean, he said I’m cute and all, but Adriana, she’s like, whoaaa, hot with a capital H, and in a whole different league than me. He perks up when she’s around, there’s no doubt about that.

  He probably just wants to be friends with me.

  Whatever. I have more pressing matters to attend to this summer. Like saving the pigsty garbage tornado and fixing my broken shell of a mother. I can’t be wasting all of this mental energy on a romance that exists solely in my own head, one that has exactly no chance of turning into something serious. And even if we did hook up for a summer fling, come September, Brandon Wright will be off to college, and Julianne Bell, in her ridiculous yellow bibbies, will be nothing more than a faded memory. By day, Brandon Wright will be beating girls off with a stick, by night, he’ll be bedding them with the swish of his paintbrush.

  So, I need to stop caring about him right now.

  As of right now, I officially don’t care about Brandon Wright.

  14.

  My shift is done. I’ve decided to overlook Hutch embarrassing me on his stupid train today because he and Dana are going to the grocery store together after they drop me off at the ferry and I don’t want to cause an argument between them. Plus, to complain about it would imply that I care about the dumb lunch date with Brandon Wright, which, as previously stated, I do not. It was silly of me to think that there was anything between Brandon and me except friendship.

  We drive in silence. Dana doesn’t even put on music because she’s waiting for me to start the conversation and hand over the spicy details of my day.

  I refuse.

  The quietness in the car becomes thick like butter. I wait them out for three whole minutes but then ultimately, because I’m a total weakling, cave to the pressure.

  “I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again,” I say.

  “Oh, no, was he gross?” Dana says, gripping the steering wheel and turning to me with her big blue eyes. “Did he eat with his mouth open?”

  “No, not that,” I say.

  “Too pushy, I bet,” Hutch says, leaning up from the back seat and nodding. “You can’t throw all your moves down at once. It turns girls off. A guy’s gotta know when to pull back and set still. Let the butterfly come to youuu.” He unfurls his hand with a flourish.

  “No, Hutch, god,” I say, “There were no moves. It’s just that he’s…unavailable.”

  “Gay,” Dana says, “I wouldn’t have guessed that. I’m usually pretty good at gauging that. But he is an artist, sooo…,”

  “No, he’s not gay. He’s hooking up with that skater girl from Toronto. Adriana.”

  “What? No!” Dana says, swerving and barely missing a mailbox. “He’s not seeing Ade the Blade, no way. I mean, is he? You think?”

  “Oh, I definitely think.”

  And then it’s like a gossip spigot has opened in my mouth. Everything I think about Adriana comes pouring out before I can stop it.

  “Every time I’m around him, Adriana finds a way to buzz right in. She’s like a biting fly, that girl. Our lunch ended in a catastrophe of Adriana-ness. But he’s obviously into her; they’re going to that IMAX party together on The Fourth. Whatever, I’m over it.”

  “Good for you,” Hutch says, patting my shoulder.

  “If he’s into a diva like her, then you’re wayyy too good for him,” Dana says. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll go through the employee files tomorrow. We’ll find you a suitable match. What do you like? Frenchmen? Spaniards? Norweigans? Just about every country on the planet is represented.”

  “I think I’m going to take a page from your handbook and skip it,” I say, “Summer flings are a bad idea.”

  “Don’t let her jade you,” Hutch says, piping up again from the back. “Summer flings are the best. When people ask me, Hutch why do you go all the way to Ohio for the summer? invariably, the answer is summer flings.”

  “You would think that, Hutch,” Dana says. “I’m sure yo
ur summer fling rotation is—,” then she stops talking; her gaze focuses in on something ahead.

  “Ohhh, fa shizzz…,” she says.

  I look to where she’s staring and my heart stops beating for moment because Brandon is standing front and center by the ferry landing entrance, his motorcycle parked alongside.

  Dana rolls to a stop and puts the car in park.

  “You need me to get out, Jules? Take care of this?” Hutch says, sizing up Brandon from the backseat. “I’ll clean his clock. I got about fifty pounds of southern bad ass on that boy.”

  My stopped heart picks up again and starts hammering away at the thought of a fight.

  “You mean you got fifty pounds of southern fried chicken and waffles on him?” Dana says, looking back at Hutch like he’s insane, “Easy, Big Easy. You’re not cleaning anyone’s clock.”

  Then she looks at me with a nod and lowers her voice, “Unless you want him to. I’ve seen Hutch in a bar fight. He could totally clean his clock.”

  I look at Brandon, who clearly sees me sitting in Dana’s car at this point. He’s still wearing his Cedar Point polo and khakis. He didn’t even stop at the laundry service or at his dorm to change. He throws up a nod, takes off his hipster-cop sunglasses and starts to walk toward the car.

  “It’s fine. He’s fine,” I say. “Plus, the ferry will be docking in a few minutes. It’s right there.” I point out at the bay at the ferry rolling in. “Whatever he has to say, it can’t take long.”

  I grab my bag and get out. Hutch gets out as well and I grow nervous for a second that he’s going to say something to Brandon or run over and start pounding on him but he just gives Brandon a hard look like I’m watching you, buddy and then gets in the front seat next to Dana who slowly pulls away. They drive to the end of the lot but right before they pull onto the road, Dana swings the car into an empty spot. She won’t leave until I get on the ferry.

  I walk up and stand in front of Brandon.