The View from the Top

by Hillary Frank

  “Just rolling things over in my head.” His Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “Because . . .” Anabelle widened her eyes.

  He batted at the air. “You don’t want to know.”

  “That’s why I keep asking,” Anabelle said. “Because I don’t want to know.”

  Her dad picked up the pace on his leg swinging. “Fine, but I’ve never told anyone this,” he said sternly, his heels banging into the metal footrest. “Not even your mother.”

  “Oh. Are you sure you really want to tell me, then?” Anabelle asked. “Maybe I don’t want to know.” What could it be? Was he slipping out to have affairs in the middle of the night? Did he witness a murder? Have to kill someone out of self-defense?

  “No, it’s okay,” he said. “But you have to promise not to laugh.”

  “Mmmm ... I don’t know if I can keep a promise like that,” Anabelle said, teasingly. Not laugh? There must be something funny about it, then, she thought, slightly relieved.

  “Well, try your best. Okay?”

  “Okay. I promise to try my best.” Anabelle already felt a giggle tickling the back of her throat. He sounded like a petulant little kid.

  “All right,” he said, taking a deep breath and lowering his voice. “So I was thinking about us being up here, you know? And wondering if I have anything like your thing with heights.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And that’s it,” he said, hand extended into the sky. “The dark.”

  “The dark? What do you mean? What’s wrong with the dark? Is it the bogeyman or something? Doesn’t Mom protect you from him?” Anabelle cupped her hands over her mouth to keep from breaking her promise, then put them up against her face, blocking out the ground below.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He laughed a little. With no ape this time.

  “Not exactly the bogeyman. Just my own demons.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. Demons? She’d never heard him talk about demons. She still wasn’t sure if he was messing with her, just trying to distract her from the fact that they were stuck.

  There were two deep creases between his eyebrows. He didn’t get those when he was joking around. “When I was in the orphanage,” he said. “You know, when I was a kid?”

  “Sure.” She’d heard about the orphanage here and there, but her dad never talked about it much. All she knew was, her dad’s dad—her grandfather, though she’d never met him—had left early on, and her grandmother didn’t have enough money to take care of a kid by herself, so she’d put him in the orphanage from the time he was two until he was six, when she’d remarried.

  “Well, my mom would come visit once in a while,” her dad continued. “She’d spend the day. Or maybe not even the day. Maybe just dinner.” His legs slowed down a bit. “And then, at the end of the day, well, she’d leave. And I’d go to bed and they’d turn the lights out. And I’d cry and cry and cry. Because I wanted her back. And I knew she wasn’t coming back.” He took off his glasses and held one of the arms between his teeth while he rubbed his face. “And the darkness was just the worst. It was like there was no ceiling, no walls, no other kids. Just me and the dark.”

  “Wow.” Suddenly the sky seemed infinite. Like the rising moon was within reaching distance but the universe around it was a never-ending hole. A hole you could fall down forever and ever.

  “Wow what?”

  “You think of that every time it’s dark?”

  “Just about. It’s always in the back of my head, at least.”

  “Jeez.” Anabelle waited for her dad to burst into tears. This was exactly the kind of story that would normally set him off. But his eyes remained dry. Which for some reason made Anabelle feel as though she had to cry. A few tears snuck out of her eyes, and she wiped them away quickly with the blinder on her dad’s side, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

  He wasn’t even facing her, anyway. Just kicking his feet rhythmically and staring blankly into space. She followed his gaze to the Big Dipper. Normally, he would’ve pointed it out to her, and how it led to the North Star, “the Earth’s built-in compass,” as he liked to say. She still sometimes heard him telling her sisters about how constellations were big connect-the-dot games in the sky.

  “And She Was” had just started playing—another one of Anabelle’s favorite Talking Heads songs. She let her legs hang loosely out of the basket, into the open air. And just as the ride finally gave a big jolting creak, she started swinging her legs with the music—in time with her dad’s—and they kept it up the rest of the way around.

  The ground felt pleasantly still and solid when Anabelle stepped off the Ferris wheel.

  “How ’bout some Bop-a-Mole?” her dad said, throwing his lanky arms in the air as he headed toward the exit.

  “Yeah, sure,” Anabelle said, lagging behind him. She wished he hadn’t switched back to being his loud self so quickly.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he shouted without turning around,

  “if I win, I’ll give you the prize. You can take it with you to your dorm room. Be the envy of all your new friends!” He gave an apelike laugh, and Anabelle cringed, picturing all the brightly colored prize animals she used to keep at the foot of her bed. She didn’t think that would fly in the dorm.

  Anabelle stopped when she got to the exit. She was hoping Tobin would catch up with her. She wasn’t sure what she’d say, but she felt she couldn’t leave town without having one last conversation with him. She needed to apologize for how things had gone down that night on the trampoline, to find out what he’d even been thinking when he came on to her. Was it premeditated? Or just a spur-of-the-moment attempt? The first step would be getting him someplace where they could talk alone.

  She turned around to check if he was nearby, but he was nowhere in sight. How could he have snuck out ahead of me without my noticing? she wondered. And then she saw: he was still in his basket, talking to the ride operator. She was squinting into the flashing lightbulbs, trying to figure out what was going on, when she heard her name being called. In Tobin’s voice.

  “Yeah?” she said, inching a few steps closer.

  The ride operator looked from Anabelle to Tobin. “Let’s go, bud,” he said. “I don’t got all day. There’s a line here. You leaving, or what?”

  Tobin looked down at his hands. “Yup,” he said. “I’m leaving.” But he didn’t move.

  Anabelle’s dad called out to her. She turned and signaled for him to wait.

  “Well?” the ride operator said to Tobin. “Come on, then.”

  Tobin ran his hand through his hair, then reached into his pocket and pulled out two orange tickets. He looked at Anabelle. “Wanna go again?” he asked sheepishly.

  There was nothing she wanted more. Well, she definitely wanted to be alone in that basket with him. But she wasn’t sure if she could handle another go-round on the Ferris wheel. She looked to the top of the ride and held her breath, then had to remind herself to exhale. This was probably the only way to have a private moment with Tobin; she knew that if she tried to talk to him out on the fairgrounds, her dad would hang around with them, or at least watch from nearby. And then, later on, he’d tell her what a special moment that was between her and that Wood boy. Yuck.

  “All right, you getting in, or what?” the operator asked her.

  Tobin was fidgeting with the tickets, waiting for her answer. He watched her with expectant, rounded eyes, a few corkscrew curls draped over his forehead. Why hadn’t she ever noticed how cute he was?

  Anabelle turned around and called out to her dad, “Hey, I’ll meet you at Bop-a-Mole, okay? In a little bit!”

  “Oh,” he shouted, “okay!” At first he looked hurt, but when he saw what was going on, he smiled and winked at her. Then he gave her a thumbs-up, angling his head at Tobin. Oh man, she thought, am I gonna hear about this later. But for now, all that mattered was that she was climbing into Tobin’s basket.

  The operator buckled them in and slammed their gate shut.

  �
��So, um, hi,” Tobin said when the basket moved back a notch.

  “Hi,” Anabelle said. She was sure she was blushing.

  “That’s mine.” He pointed at the hoodie.

  “I know. You want it back?”

  “No, you can keep it.” Tobin fidgeted with the torn tickets in his hand, tearing little fringes into the edges.

  Now that Anabelle was actually alone with him, she wasn’t sure she could summon the courage to bring up the botched kiss. She’d forgotten about how Tobin never took the lead in conversations, and a conversation about their feelings for each other seemed like too big a deal for her to get it going herself. Better to start small. “When do you leave for school?” she asked.

  “Couple days. You?”

  They glided back a little, picking up more people.

  “Tomorrow.” She looked over at him, trying to figure out if he was sending her any crushy signals. He sure was acting nervous, ripping the sides of those tickets. Was that a signal?

  “You all packed?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Mostly,” she said, telling herself not to let her eyes linger too long on the blissfully kissing couple beneath them. “Still deciding about some clothes. I never realized there’s so much stuff I have that I’m just sick of.”

  “I know what you mean,” Tobin said, flicking the two tickets against each other, one in each hand. “It’s really tempting to just leave everything behind and start over with new things. Really, all I need is my cello. And some underwear. Not that I’m gonna be playing the cello in my . . .” His voice trailed off at the end there.

  Anabelle stifled a giggle and wondered if he wore boxers or briefs.

  The ride started moving again; it seemed as if all the passengers were on now. Anabelle gripped the side of the basket, bracing herself for the rise to the top. She didn’t want to have to use her blinders in front of Tobin.

  Luckily, another Talking Heads song came on—“Stay Up Late.” Anabelle hummed along.

  Tobin’s flicking started taking on a beat. He was doing it in triplets—two sets of quick ones and two sets of long ones, like in “America” from West Side Story. Was that a signal? Anabelle remembered how she and Tobin had flashed each other knowing smiles across the pit every time the conductor, Mr. Pizzarelli, had to stop rehearsal because the Players couldn’t get that rhythm.

  She was still humming along to the Talking Heads, trying to decide if she should start tapping triplets on her thighs alongwith him, when Tobin asked her who was playing on the speakers.

  “What, the Talking Heads?” she asked. She couldn’t believe he didn’t know this song. Sure, he was a classical-music junkie, but, c’mon, it was the Talking Heads.

  “Yeah.” He scratched his chin with one of the ticket stubs. “I know I’ve heard this. I just don’t really keep track of band names. But you’re so good with pop music. I knew you’d know.”

  “Yeah, I love this song,” Anabelle said, letting her legs swing. “It’s actually got a great piano part.” Her calf brushed against Tobin’s, and he quickly pulled his out of the way. Anabelle stopped moving. “Sorry,” she said, then thought, Wow, I guess the triplets thing wasn’t a signal. He didn’t even want to touch her.

  “No, it’s okay,” he said nervously, shoving the ticket stubs into his pocket. “I was actually thinking when it started, it’d be fun to watch you play it.”

  Hmm. Now that seemed like a signal.

  They’d passed the halfway mark to the top of the wheel, and Anabelle tried to pinpoint her attention on the basket above them. She sat on her hands to keep from using them to block her vision. But the way she was positioned, right up against her side of the basket, brought on the jumping feeling again. Out the corner of her eye she could see the top of a tree. She wished she felt comfortable enough with Tobin to scoot up against him. That would make her feel more secure.

  “You okay?” Tobin asked.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “It’s just, you look a little pale.”

  “The top of this ride kinda scares me or something, I guess,” she said. She kept watching the basket in front of them; she didn’t want to see the look on his face. He probably thought she was being a baby.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guessed that. With your dad up there before.”

  “Oh, God,” she said, turning to face him. “I’m so sorry about that.”

  Tobin blinked at her a couple times. “Sorry about what?” he asked.

  Anabelle had never noticed how long his eyelashes were—like Snuffleupagus’s from Sesame Street. She imagined they’d feel really soft if they brushed against her cheek. “That you had to see my dad acting all weird,” she said. “He just gets overly emotional sometimes. And with me going away and everything—” She stopped herself, trying to figure out how to put it so it wouldn’t sound like her dad was treating her like a kid. “I don’t know. I guess it’s just that I’m the first in our family to go to college or something. It’s a big deal to him. But it’s embarrassing when he shows it out in public like that.”

  “Are you kidding?” Tobin said, eyebrows looking as if they were about to leap off his face. “Did you see how my dad was acting before? I mean, did you see the whole reason I’ve been up here, avoiding him?”

  “Yeah,” Anabelle said, still sitting on her hands. Just keep looking at his face, she told herself as the basket rose. Don’t look past him. “That was pretty crazy. What was he so pissed about?” God, you know the answer, she thought. Why’d you have to ask? Do you really want to hear him say that Jonah slept with Jeanie?

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Tobin said. “Some woman thing. I don’t even want to get into it.” He scrunched his cheek, as if acknowledging that Anabelle had had a thing for Jonah.

  Anabelle waited for what she was sure was coming next—some snarky comment about Jonah being a bad seed. Something to rub it in her face that she’d chosen Jonah over him. But it never came. He just gave a what’re-you-gonna-do shrug and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I thought your dad was sweet.”

  “Annoying is more like it.”

  “No, it’s clear he really cares about you. My dad would never be that way with me. He doesn’t even get why I’m going to school. Thinks it’s a waste of time, you know? Like, why don’t I just get a job.” He turned toward her. “I have to admit, I’m kinda jealous of what you’ve got with your dad.”

  “Really?” Anabelle locked her gaze on Tobin’s eyes—which she’d always thought were brown but were actually an amazing mossy-hazel color—and realized this must’ve been what he was thinking when he was giving her dad that odd look before.

  “Yeah,” Tobin said. “It’s like I was sitting up there, watching him trying to help you, and I just kept thinking how I wished I could be a part of your family.”

  A part of my family?! Anabelle thought. She turned away, not wanting to look at him all dreamily if he thought of her as a sibling. The moon was right in front of her—a pearly lozenge among a series of connect-the-dots games.

  Wait, the moon was right in front of her? That meant they were at the top!

  Suddenly it felt as if there were no sides around the basket, as if the bottom had dropped out from beneath her. She needed her blinders, but she didn’t want to use them. She kept her hands under her legs.

  There was the pavement, right there beneath them. There was her face hitting the ground. There was her neck snapping. Her nose breaking. Her skull cracking open, her brains gushing out.

  “What’s going on?” she heard Tobin say. But he sounded so far away.

  She couldn’t stand it anymore. If she didn’t use her blinders, she was going to faint. She pulled her hands out from under her thighs and put them on either side of her face.

  And then she felt Tobin’s arm on her shoulders and his hands over hers. “Maybe I can help,” he said, tapping her fingers. “Here, put your hands down.”

  His hands were a little shaky and damp, but still, s
he felt a charge coming through her skin on every point where he was touching her. As if she were her parents’ rusty old station wagon and he was the jumper cables bringing her back to life. “Thanks,” she barely squeaked out.

  She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down, and caught a whiff of something familiar. Tobin’s shampoo. It was the same as the smell from the hood of his sweatshirt, which she’d buried her nose in some nights to help her fall asleep. The fragrance was cheap and soapy but unbelievably comforting. She was tempted to stick her nose right in his hair.

  Tobin’s hands closed like shutters over her eyes.

  At first she felt lost, not being able to see. But his hands eased against her eyelids and cheeks and his arms into her shoulders and back, and she started to relax. These are not sibling signals he’s sending me, she thought.

  Crowd noises wafted up from below. It seemed as if all conversations had blended into one down there—everyone talking about the same thing in some alien language. She had this feeling that if she and Tobin started talking, they’d be the only ones who made any sense.

  With his hands covering her eyes like this, Anabelle felt like she could say anything; being blind to his reaction was kind of freeing. As the hubbub below grew louder and time on the ride was running out, she wondered if she should just go for it: tell him she regretted not kissing him back. Or ask him how he felt about her. Or some combination of the two.

  What did she have to lose, really? This might be the last night she ever saw him. So ... why not?

  The Talking Heads song “People Like Us” came on. The upbeat melody gave her confidence.

  “You know,” she said, pushing her face up against his moist fingers, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

  “Yeah?” he said. “What is it?”

  “It’s kinda personal, and you might not want to answer,” she said. “So don’t feel like you have to or anything.”

  “Okay,” he said tentatively. “Now you’ve got me worried.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just wondering . . .” Agh! She wasn’t ready. She needed more time. But she’d already begun her question. She had to stall, find a new way of finishing her sentence.