by Gina Linko
When Pa Charlie told me that I got to name him, I nearly burst with pride. Tempest hadn’t seemed too bothered—though, truthfully, I kind of wanted her to be.
I tried to think of the best, catchiest name around. Antique Jones.
Sometimes we have to live with our mistakes.
“Antique,” I said, clicking my tongue and brushing my hand against the slats of his stall.
His ears pricked up and he raised his head from his feed bucket. His nostrils flared a few times, and then he turned his head so his left eye met mine. He sashayed toward me, pressing his face against the bars, and I stroked his velvety nose. I could feel exactly how much he had missed me.
“Well, there ya go,” Tempest said, giving him a friendly pat too. I had kind of forgotten she was there.
“How you doing, Antique?” I asked, and he whinnied in recognition. I palmed him a peppermint from my pocket, and he took off, prancing around his stall like it was Christmas morning.
I let myself in with him, grabbing one of the brushes hanging just outside the stall. “You been missing me?” I asked him, as I worked the brush slowly through his mane. Antique bobbed his head in a fashion that I took to mean yes.
“Well, I have plans for us, Antique. We’ll take a ride down to the shore, once we go south. We’re gonna have ourselves a summer.” I marveled at the different shades of black in Antique’s coat: shiny coal-black, dark and dusty near-gray, the smooth silver-color of his eyes. He was every bit as beautiful as I’d remembered.
I was deep into telling Antique about my school year when I heard a sound behind me. “Tempest?” I called, but she didn’t answer, and I didn’t know if she had left while I was talking with Antique, or if she was playing a prank on me.
“Boo!”
To his credit, Antique barely flinched. I, however, fell back on my butt, square into Antique’s hay, letting out a howl. This tall, skinny stranger had scared me but good. I was just about to lay into whoever this was when I got a good look at the smile taunting me, and I stopped, flummoxed.
This stinkweed of a man looked like Digger Swanson. He had that same messy, just-this-side-of-blond hair, that off-center dimple in his chin. That goofy grin, the gap between his teeth wide enough to fit a popsicle stick between. I got up and brushed off my butt, squinting at him.
“Holy kudzu, Digger?” I said. “You’ve grown about three feet!”
“Yes ma’am, eating my vegetables. And good to see you too, Tally Jo.” He punched me lightly on the shoulder. I rubbed at the spot, glaring at him. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t like that he had caught me off guard, that he looked different, that he had gone and grown partially up without me around to ignore it. I didn’t like the notion that I had something or someone to catch up to.
“Have you seen Tempest?” I asked.
“Yeah, she’s out eating all the junk Molly-Mae cooked up for y’all.”
I turned to finish brushing Antique, irked.
“Saw your daddy over by the rides,” I said to Digger.
“Yep, Fat Sam’ll be here forever. So will I.”
“Humph.”
“What’s got your knickers twisted, Tally? Thought you’d be happy to get back.”
“I am happy,” I told him. “You don’t need to be sneaking up on a girl, is all.”
“Whatever you say.” Digger put his hands up in surrender. Then he said, slowly, “You know, my mother’s not here though. They got a divorce this past winter.”
“I heard,” I said.
“My mom’s already got herself a new boyfriend. But, you never know, my parents might get back together. Stranger things have happened.”
“True.” I wasn’t sure what else I should say.
“You and Tempest want to sneak out tonight and go fishing in Cranberry Lake?”
“Nah,” I told him. “Our mama and daddy are staying tonight, but they’re leaving in the morning. We better hang around.”
“Oh.” Digger kicked at the dirt floor. “Maybe in a couple days then, when we’re in St. Simons. We can fish the Intracoastal. Or go to one of the black-sand beaches.”
I felt lighter then, and I gave Digger a good, proper smile. “I love St. Simons Island.”
“We’ll have to go out to the beach. Maybe we’ll find another stingray washed up.”
“Maybe you’ll pee your pants again,” I told him, smiling. He laughed, a deep, one-note guffaw. There was that same Digger magic in it, from every other summer of my life. And just like that, I forgot about how he looked all different.
“Maybe you’ll finally admit you threw that water balloon.”
“Never.” I wrapped my arms around Antique’s neck, and I laughed good and hard, happy to be back.
And we were just Digger and Tally again.
5
Pa Charlie did something he never does: he postponed the teardown and moving of the carnival so that we all could have the night with Mama and Daddy before they left.
As the Peachtree Carnival family sat around the campfire, surrounded by the half dozen rusted-out, paint-peeling trailers that housed the lot of us every summer, I felt warm and cozy. I nestled into my lawn chair next to Digger’s, one of Pa Charlie’s old quilts tucked around my shoulders. Granny Greenly had sewn it many years ago, before she passed. A blue-and-green geometric print, it was the perfect size to cuddle under, just the right weight and thickness for a cool Georgia summer evening.
My belly was full of elephant ears and hot dogs, and my eyelids grew heavy as I watched the folks around me drinking their root beer floats, trading stories and jokes. Pa’s big belly jiggled when he laughed, and Tempest scooted her chair closer to him when he lit his pipe. I knew why; I liked the smell of it too, even if it did irritate my asthma.
“Do the girls know the big news?” Pa Charlie asked, talking around the pipe in his mouth.
“No, they don’t,” Mama answered with a tight smile.
Pa Charlie chuckled and announced, “Well, the glorious news is that Grania is joining the carnival this summer.”
I sat up straight, and I saw shock register on Tempest’s face too. “Tally, did you know?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t.” But I heard Mama talking about something, earlier. Something strange. I shot Mama a look.
She was smiling. She was, but it wasn’t an authentic Mama smile. It had a Sad Mama quality to it, like she was trying too hard.
And something suddenly occurred to me. Tempest and I knew of Aunt Grania, of course. She wasn’t a secret, exactly. More like a legend, or a mythical creature, someone who only seemed real by way of her spotty phone calls and the unannounced packages that showed up at random times, holding nesting dolls from Russia, jade chess pieces from Shanghai, or whatever else. The fact we’d never met her … well, it had never demanded a lot of attention, so we didn’t give it much.
But I knew Mama and Aunt Grania were mirror twins, just like Tempest and me. Had they been close at one time?
Never my choice.
Isn’t that what I’d heard Mama say to Daddy? Did it have something to do with Aunt Grania?
“When is she coming?” Tempest asked. “And why this summer?”
“We don’t know for sure. Grania’s never absolute about these things. She’ll probably just show up,” Pa said.
Fat Sam said to Mama, “I still remember your old act with your sister. It was really something.”
“What act?” Tempest asked.
Mama answered, “Nothing, really. Just a hobby. Grania and I used to cut out these garlands and hand them out to kids. It was just—”
“So, are you going to stay to see her?” I interrupted.
Mama’s smile faltered. “I don’t think so, Tally.”
“Why in the world not? Don’t you want to be here when we finally get to meet your own twin?”
I watched as Mama took a deep breath, closing her eyes against something. And then when she opened them, her Sad Mama look took over completely. “It’s a complicat
ed situation, Tally Jo.” Daddy grabbed Mama’s hand.
“Why can’t you just explain it?” Tempest asked. She blinked once, twice, three slow times.
“When you’re older.”
“Why are you acting so mysterious?” I asked Mama, and Daddy gave a hard shake of his head.
Nobody answered me.
Pa Charlie got up to feed another log to the fire, the rest of us sitting thick in an awkward silence. I thought about Mama saying Tempest and I were growing up. Is this what getting older was gonna be like? Ignoring the tough questions? Never having to explain a lickety-split thing?
Pa Charlie reclaimed his seat and said, “Play us a tune,” to Fat Sam. In a matter of moments, Fat Sam had his banjo out and Molly-Mae was singing along with him, her voice teetering and tottering over the notes of a familiar country song.
Digger leaned over toward me, his voice low. “You never met your aunt?”
“No.”
“How come?”
I shrugged. “My grandparents got divorced when Mama and Aunt Grania were in high school—Aunt Grania went and lived with Pa Charlie, and Mama stayed with my Granny Greenly. After high school, our mama went to New York on an art scholarship. Aunt Grania travels a lot—she writes for magazines.” Digger gave me a look. “So we’ve never met her, not in person.”
“Sounds kinda weird.”
I shrugged.
“You don’t think it’s weird that they split up?” Digger asked.
“My grandparents? No. Lots of people get divorced.”
“No, I mean your aunt and your mom. They’re twins, like you and Tempest, right? And they split up, and never see each other?”
I nodded and shrugged again. Yes, I did think it was weird … now. Why I’d never thought about it until this night was a good question.
Suddenly, I was too tired to worry about any of it. I nestled deep down in my lawn chair and curled into Pa’s old quilt.
I watched the fire as it burned and crackled, smoked and surged. Arnie had his harmonica out and he played along with Fat Sam’s banjo. The latest tune was slow and tender, plucking at my heart, making me look at that lonely place inside me.
I was hit deep in my ribs then with an image from last summer: Tempest and I sitting close, sharing one lawn chair. She had her head thrown back in laughter as I relayed my latest prank on Digger.
Fat Sam’s banjo was lulling me into a melancholy mood, the slow melody sharpening my sadness to a point. I watched Tempest across the fire pit. She and Molly-Mae were talking. Tempest blinked too slowly, a time or two. She pressed the back of her knuckles to her lips—another tell. What had her worried?
But my eyelids were growing heavy in the mesmerizing crackle and spark of the campfire, so I let them close.
“Psst.” Mama pulled gently on my ponytail. “Daddy and I are taking off, Tally Jo. Just wanted to say goodbye.”
I stood up from my lawn chair, pulling the quilt over my shoulders, and exchanged hugs with my parents. Mama and Daddy were leaving us here by ourselves—leaving us without telling us exactly why. It was strange, in that queasy-feeling way that reminded me that things weren’t done changing yet. And if this past year with Tempest was any indication, change wasn’t exactly fabulous.
I realized in that moment that I might get lonely here at the carnival, without Mama and Daddy. I would be with my sister, sure, but I might still be lonely. What a terrible, awful thought.
“You be good, Tally,” Daddy said.
“I will,” I said, rubbing at my eyes. The fire had died down to a few glowing embers. Only a handful of people still sat around the circle: Pa Charlie and Hames, deep in discussion, and Molly-Mae singing in her trilling bird voice along to Fat Sam’s still-strumming banjo.
“Watch out for your sister,” Daddy said.
“I always do.”
Mama pursed her lips. “Remember your manners around here. Listen to your pa. And call me if you … you know, if you need anything. If you aren’t feeling right or if anything comes up.”
Mama’s eyes skittered away from mine, making me feel something was askew. “What do you mean?”
“Just if your asthma acts up or anything,” Daddy answered, too fast.
“Now, where’d your sister go off to?” Mama asked. I shrugged but Mama and Daddy were meandering over toward the rest of the camp to say their goodbyes.
Digger appeared at my shoulder. “Come with me,” he said, all quiet, looking around like he was trying to get away with something. “Just act like we’re going to the animal tent.” He yanked on my hand and pulled me in that direction. I dropped my quilt into my chair and took off after Digger.
Once we were out of sight, he veered off and led me across a rugged field of elephant grass behind the midway. I nearly tripped and killed myself over some kind of old motor that had been left out there to rust, but I kept trudging after Digger, trying to puzzle out how somebody’s bones and skin could stretch out and accommodate all that new height in such a short amount of time.
“Hold up, Digger!” I yelled at him.
“Come on, Tally.”
He rounded a big dirt hill littered with cinder blocks and construction dregs. “Look at what I got here,” he crooned then, pulling a plastic grocery bag of junk out from the front pocket of his hoodie.
“What is it?”
Digger waggled his eyebrows at me.
“Holy roses,” I said as he opened the bag and showed me a whole mess of fireworks. “How’d you get these past Pa Charlie? He hates firecrackers.”
“I got my ways.” He shoved the bag back into his hoodie pocket. “Come on. Let’s get farther away. We’ll shoot some off.”
“Yeah.” I followed through the field, across a muddy little creek, the crickets chirping loudly, the wind telling me the story of the coming summer as it danced across my chilled cheeks. The crescent moon perched in the sky, illuminating the night just enough, giving a little hopeful edge to the darkness.
Digger finally stopped near a stand of old oaks, kudzu and Spanish moss hanging between them like ancient hammocks. “This’ll do,” he said, all matter-of-factly.
I chuckled and snatched the matches from his hands. “Me first. Give me one of the big ones.”
He handed me a cherry bomb, and I struck the match, relishing the quick sulfur scent. I lit the fuse, and I chucked the firework out into the open. It exploded, the bang loud and satisfying. He quickly moved across the field and began to level a launching pad in the dirt for some of the brocades—the kind that shoot up and burst open in a big circular pow of color. Tempest liked to call them chrysanthemums.
I placed one of these into the dirt Digger had loosened up. He lit the wick and then we ran back to the stand of trees to watch the firework explode. This one lit up in the sky, round and bright, a green and yellow canopy of candle flames, rendering Digger and me speechless. The colors were so … alive. I hurried to set up another in the dirt, while Digger tossed another cherry bomb behind me. I flinched when it blew, even though I knew it was coming.
“You getting soft, Tally Jo?” he called.
“Not on your life, Digger.”
“Here,” he said, crouching down next to me. “Let’s do a bunch of ’em.” So we lined up five of the brocades in a row and lit the fuses quickly, one after another. Then we hightailed it.
The light show was really something. Purples and reds, blues and whites, and a couple of umbrella-shaped oranges and yellows. The sparks erupted in the sky, dazzling. They dangled there for a moment before tapering off into nothingness.
I found myself wishing Tempest was with us. She would love this, I thought.
Or would she? She would’ve last summer. But now, she spent more and more time on her own, with her box of bolts and her trips to the junkyard for parts.
I shook the thought away, the smile fading from my face, and I knew Digger’s eyes were on me.
“You’re different,” he said. He lit a bottle rocket and tossed it away from u
s.
“No I’m not,” I said, scowling. “You’re different.”
“I guess I am,” he said, and I could hear something in his voice, something new. I didn’t like it. “Playing on the eighth-grade baseball team next fall,” he boasted. “My curveball is the best in three counties.” He sort of stuck his chest out when he said this.
“You’re still a pain in the butt to me.”
And with that, he laughed, his car-engine laugh, and he sounded like my Digger again.
That’s when Tempest appeared out of nowhere, scaring me half to death. “Why’d you leave me behind?” she said, folding her arms over her chest.
I shrugged.
“We didn’t know where you were,” Digger said.
“Fat Sam let me look through his old bicycle parts.”
“Find anything good?” I asked. I was trying to be interested in Tempest’s quest for gadgets galore.
Tempest nodded. “A vintage speedometer. Some cogs and ball bearings.” She shrugged and started to root around in the bag of fireworks. Digger took off across the field to set up a line of bottle rockets.
“Here, let me light that for you,” I said, striking a match for Tempest, who had chosen a big chrysanthemum.
But when I got close to her, there it was. That strange something again, just like that day in the science lab.
But stronger. It exploded between us, pushed me back from her in a jolt of energy, a hissing whoosh of air. I nearly fell back on my behind. I scuttled backward three steps, four, and the force still brushed my hair back. The match went out, and I stopped dead still.
“What in the world is this?” I asked. “You got some invention brushing me back, Tally? You pulling some kind of prank?”
“No …”
Digger’s bottle-rocket succession exploded and the noise jolted me.
Tempest and I stood about two feet away from each other, and I took another step closer. It wasn’t like I couldn’t do it; I could. But it was hard, like trying to propel myself through a wind tunnel. The air between Tempest and me, it was thick and fairly pulsing.
I ripped out another match and worked to strike it on the matchbook cover while Tempest eyed me all suspicious-like. I couldn’t get the darn match to strike.