Whisper to Me

by Nick Lake

  Then we were across the boardwalk, and in the amusement park.

  We went to a booth and bought evening tickets—they gave us blue wristbands with the moon printed on them. Already the sun was low in the sky over the town, painting the rooftops orange. We were just paying the teller—a young girl working for the summer, I guessed—when a guy at the back of the booth came over and looked at me through the glass.

  “Cassandra?” he said.

  I nodded.

  He came out a door in the side of the booth. Russian Pete, I think he was called? Short, always wore a bow tie, had eyes that puffed out, fishlike. He did a kind of measuring motion with his hands. “Jeez, you got big.” He called over his shoulder. “Hey, Finn.”

  There was a guy in a dolphin suit just behind the booth—the Piers mascot. He ambled over and stood in front of Russian Pete. Then he took off his head. “’S’up, Pete?”

  “See that?” said Pete. “That’s Mike’s girl.”

  “Cassandra?”

  “Yep.”

  The mascot named Finn took another couple of steps forward. He leaned down. It was weird being leaned down to by a guy in a dolphin costume. His hair was all mussed from the big foam head, and there was sweat on his forehead. I recognized him—he had been a regular at the restaurant. Finny McCool, the guys called him. I had no idea why.

  “You got big,” he said slowly. He had a big, round face. Finny was kind of a simple guy.

  “She sure did, didn’t she?” Pete turned to me. “His name’s Finn, and he wears the dolphin costume. Finn. Kills me every time.”

  “Huh?” said Finn.

  “Never mind,” said Pete. “Go thrill the kids with your impression of a sea mammal.”

  “Huh?”

  “Go be a dolphin.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He turned around, putting his head back on. I could see the sweat beading at his neck. I felt sorry for him. Even though it was evening it must have been seventy degrees, easy, and that dolphin costume had to be seriously hot. Dad always said it was the worst job on the pier.

  Paris was watching all this like she’d been dropped into another reality. “How’ve you been?” said Pete to me. “I haven’t seen you since … ah …” He swallowed. I saw the panic enter his eyes, saw him add it up. “Since …”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Pete, sadly. I always liked Pete. He told stupid jokes and he did lame tricks, but he was sweet, you know? Then he brightened. “You paid!” he said. “Only out-of-towners pay.”

  I shrugged.

  Pete sighed. “Let’s see what we can do about that.” He reached behind my ear, and I thought he was going to pull out the twenty bucks we had paid, but he didn’t. He frowned. “Hmm. Not there. Check your pocket.”

  I reached into my jeans. There was a shape in there like a cigar—two ten-dollar bills rolled up. “Hey,” I said, genuinely impressed. “Your tricks got better.”

  “You’re older now,” said Pete. “Got to up my game.”

  “Seriously, though, we can pay,” I said.

  Pete looked at us both. “You girls like popcorn, right? Dippin’ Dots?”

  “Yeah,” said Paris, smiling.

  “See,” said Pete to me. “Your girl is with me on this. Take the twenty, use it on the concessions. The rides are free. I absolutely insist. If you say no you will be insulting not only me but also the entire Piers staff, present, past, and future.”

  “Okay,” I said, putting my hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Thanks, Pete.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Then he raised a hand, like, hang on. He went into the little booth and came back out with two lanyards with VIP cards on them. “Wear these,” he said. “Skip the lines—the guys will let you on the rides first.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Go.”

  “Thank you, Pete,” said Paris.

  “Thank you,” said Pete. “It’s good to see our girl with a friend.”

  Jesus, Pete, I thought. Way to make me sound like a loser.

  But Paris smiled. “She’s special, this one,” she said.

  “She sure is,” said Pete. He waved us toward the park. “Go, have fun.”

  And we did.

  We went to the Accelerator first. It’s the oldest and biggest wooden roller coaster in the United States. Did you know that? It doesn’t loop the loop or go upside down or any of that stuff. But it’s still a rush. You get on it and the chain pulls your car up

  up

  up

  up

  into the twilit sky. You see the ocean, all the way to the horizon, stretching out, shining in the red light of dusk. The city on the other side, a million points of light. You hear laughter and shouting, carrying over the clear evening air. Then there’s a moment where you’re teetering, in equilibrium, and then you tip, and you rush down … so fast that it feels like you’re merging with the wind.

  And then whoosh, up again, and down, and up, and all the time screaming.

  “That was wild,” said Paris, after.

  “Yeah. It’s good for an old ride.”

  “No, I mean that guy. Pete? Giving us these.” She held up her VIP pass on the gold lanyard.

  “Cool, isn’t it?” We had breezed past the line for the Accelerator, as people looked at us enviously. It felt like being famous. The park was pretty full—some parents and kids, the older ones, because it was already dark. Young guys in baseball caps; girls in short skirts and short shorts. A bunch of bros from a frat somewhere, leaning on one another and whooping. There was a smell of popcorn and beer and sweat, all mingled together, and beneath it, an under note from a perfume bottle, the ever-present scent of the sea.

  “I wish I had it,” said Paris.

  “Wish you had what?”

  Paris swept a hand over the park. “It’s like … a whole family. As well as your dad.”

  I thought about that. “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Seriously? That Pete guy? And Finn? Those guys love you; you can see it.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And what was that woman’s name? The one who let us on the Accelerator?”

  “Sweet Sarah?”

  “You’re kidding me? That’s her name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She hugged you. She was smiling like she just won the lottery, just because you turned up at the ride.”

  I shrugged. “They’re just people who know my dad. Who eat at the restaurant.”

  “The restaurant?”

  Oh.

  “Yeah … ,” I said. “My dad has an Italian place. On the boardwalk—up by Pier Two.”

  “Donato’s?”

  “You know it?”

  “Oh, come on. It’s like the best pizza in the state. Your dad owns it?”

  “Donato was my grandfather.”

  “Holy ****,” said Paris. “You’re, like, New Jersey mob. I mean, you’re like a Soprano.”

  “It’s just a restaurant. It’s not a gang.”

  “Yeah, right. I figure there are fridges in back full of coke and heroin in big white bricks. Does your dad keep a gun under the counter? I bet he keeps a gun under the counter.”

  “No,” I said, my voice flat; hard. I must have flinched, bodily.

  “Whatever, moody,” said Paris. “So your dad isn’t some kind of mob boss. But, still, must have been cool growing up with your own pizza restaurant.”

  I shrugged. I wanted this conversation to be over. “It was okay.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “It was fine,” I said, frustrated and not totally sure why I was so frustrated. “I used to hang out there after school. Do my assignments at one of the small tables, you know? All the waiters knew me of course, and they’d help me out sometimes. Frank was good at math. I had my own pizza on the menu—it was, like, a ham and mushroom with artichoke and egg.” As I spoke, I realized how much I missed the place, how much a small part of me missed it anyway. “It was … it was an extension
of home, I guess. I’d walk in there and I was like a mascot. It was great.”

  Paris looked at me. “I think that’s the longest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  “Hmm.”

  “That’s more like you, yep.” Then she touched her stomach. “I’m hungry. Let’s go get pizza at your dad’s place.”

  “No,” I said, too quickly.

  “Why not?”

  “I … It was great when I was a kid. Now it’s not.”

  “Ri-i-i-ght,” said Paris, in that there’s a story here and I want to know what it is but I’m not going to pry for now tone.

  “It’s my family restaurant, you know?” I said, trying to cover myself. “Boring.”

  “Okay. I get that. Well, I see a hot dog stand. You can eat those, right? I mean, with your peanut thing?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Processed meat. Kind of an issue.”

  “Just the bun, then.”

  “Have to be careful with bread too.”

  “You’re that allergic?”

  “I’m oh, she’s not breathing allergic. I’m the funeral is on Saturday, no flowers allergic.” I held up my ugly purse with the insulating sides.

  “Fries then?”

  “The oil is often unrefined peanut oil.”

  “Jesus. The world is full of peril for you, huh?”

  She didn’t know how right she was.

  We rode the Spin-Dry.

  We rode the Barrel Roll.

  We rode the Spraymaker, our little boat crashing into the water at the bottom, soaking us from head to waist, the drops shimmering in the neon lights of the fair on our Danny Dolphin ponchos.

  The Elevator, the Ferris wheel, we left for last. It was on Pier Two so we had to cut back to the boardwalk and keep walking. We passed the stalls lined up on the ocean side of the boardwalk—the Pro Basketball Challenge, the T-Rex Ring Toss. Now, when I saw these places, I noticed the stacks of plush toys on the back walls. The prizes—all delivered by you. The thought of you gave me a strange feeling inside, something unfolding in my stomach, some delicate carapace turning to wings.

  He might be close by, I thought. Driving his truck. His arm resting on the door …

  “Control yourself, slut,” said the voice. “You’re like a ***** in heat.”

  “After six,” I said automatically.

  “It is,” said the voice.

  Dammit.

  Paris and I kept going toward the wheel. As we walked, we could hear the patter of the kid running the basketball game.

  “Come on by,

  Give it a try,

  We’ve got prizes money can’t buy …”

  Paris was looking around like someone transported from the seventeenth century.

  “This is amazing,” she said.

  “You haven’t been before?”

  “No.”

  “Never? But you live, like, one block away.”

  “I know.”

  “Your parents never took you? In the summer or—”

  She held my eyes for a moment. “No.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Of course. So why didn’t you go on your own? Or with Julie?”

  “I don’t know. I think I was waiting for you to come along.”

  Silence. I didn’t know what to say to that.

  Then she grabbed my arm. “Anyway, it’s awesome. The guys doing little poems, to draw in players, you know? It’s like … Like something out of a story. But it’s real. You know?”

  “It’s just patter,” I said.

  “Pat—”

  “Patter. Everyone has a different one. I—”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  We’d stopped now. There were people separating and streaming around us, like those illustrations of air going around a plane’s wing.

  “You were going to say you could do it, weren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “You were.” Her eyes were flashing in the electric light of the stores and stands. We were right in the middle of the pier; it was like being inside a pinball machine. People and music and games all around. “You totally worked one of these things, didn’t you?”

  My shoulders slumped. “Basketball hoops. Two summers.”

  “Oh, Cass. You’re doing it. Your patter. You’re doing it for me right now.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Paris, there are people.”

  “Pretend they’re not there. I do it all the time, with clients. It’s easy.”

  An uncomfortable moment.

  “Yeah, okay, TMI,” said Paris. “But you’re still doing it.”

  “No way.”

  “Please. I’ll be your friend.”

  “You’re already my friend.”

  “Curse your fiendish intelligence. I’ll buy you a pony.”

  “I don’t want a pony.”

  “I’ll buy you—”

  “Oh, okay,” I said. “If it’ll shut you up.”

  Paris clapped her hands. She pulled me over to the side of the pier, by one of the circular stands that are dotted all over—some of them with games, shooting galleries, some of them selling ice cream and hot dogs and whatever. “Go,” she said.

  “I’m rusty,” I said. “Wait.”

  I took a breath.

  “Hey,” I said, “don’t walk on by,

  Come on in and give it a try,

  It’s a simple game

  If you’ve got aim,

  Split a buck

  To double your luck,

  A quarter won’t break you

  But it might just make you.”

  I gave a little bow.

  “Wow,” said Paris. “My little carny.”

  “They’re not called—”

  “I know. I’m ****** with you. That was amazing. Thank you.”

  “Uh, yeah. Okay.”

  “Gracious as an Austen heroine.”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  “As Elizabeth Bennet herself declared.”

  “Paris. Let’s ride the Elevator now.”

  “Oh, yes. Let’s.”

  We skirted around the stand—it was a rings-on-the-jars game—and worked our way to the end of the pier. Then we passed Hook-the-Duck in its circular island. The water was bright green under neon lights; the sky above almost entirely black now. Katy Perry was blasting from the speakers hung above. Also hanging were all the toys you could win—the plush and the cheap stereos and stuff. Every color in the spectrum, just pulsing at you, and the music too.

  “—this,” said Paris, and I realized I’d missed the start of whatever she had said.

  “What?”

  “I want to play.”

  “You want to hook a duck?” I was kind of shouting over the music.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just feel like hooking a duck.”

  I did a not-real sigh and handed her one of the ten-spots. I don’t know why I just wrote “ten-spots.” That’s not how I speak. I think it’s writing about Paris. I mean, she was just so cool, you know? And she didn’t even mean to be. She was just a hundred-watt bulb in a world of forty-watt bulbs. She shone. When she walked by, you saw people following her with their eyes, like it would hurt them to look away.

  Anyway.

  She got a fishing rod and she was terrible. Pretty soon I was laughing as she knocked the ducks together, sent them spinning, flipped their backs under the water. Eventually she hooked one sad little blue duck and yelled with triumph and the girl on the stand said, bored,

  “You can have anything from the outer ring.”

  Paris looked up. “I’ll take that red monkey thing.”

  “That’s Elmo.”

  “Yeah, him.”

  The girl pulled down the little Elmo stuffed toy and handed it to Paris. Paris clutched it to her chest. “It’s mi-i-i-ine,” she said dramatically. “It’s finally mi-i-i-ine.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “Come on.”


  She pretended to be a chastised kid, kind of moping along behind me, pulling a moue of exaggerated sadness, lips pushed out.

  “Stop that.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  Then I saw something from the corner of my eye. We were near the side of the pier. It was a white F-150 truck, driving across the sand of the beach, toward us. I could see a stack of clear plastic bags in back, full of toys. You? It had to be you. “Follow me,” I said, and I started walking, keeping an eye on the truck to see where it was headed.

  “Where are we going?” asked Paris.

  I didn’t answer. I swerved past a group of women on a bachelorette thing, pink furry mouse ears on their heads, angel wings fluttering out behind them. Between two of the round stalls, along the side of the Sidewinder. Beyond its steel struts and riveted crosspieces, there was a little gate, waist high. A wood-sided office was next to it. A sign said STAFF ONLY AFTER THIS POINT. It wasn’t locked—I pushed it open and walked through, and then there was the side of the pier—a sheer drop to the beach below.

  “Cass, what the—”

  I held up a hand to cut her off. I walked right up to the edge and looked down.

  “Jump,” said the voice. It was only the fourth time I had heard it that day, I realized. The schedule thing was really working.

  “Jump,” it repeated. “Break your legs.”

  “Shush,” I said.

  “You little *****. Don’t you d—”

  “Not now,” I said.

  “Uh, Cass?” asked Paris from behind me. “Cass, are you all right? What are you doing?”

  “Wait,” I said. I looked down.

  “Wait for what?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Is this, like, some kind of bravery thing? Like Chicken? How close will you go? Okay, I’ll play.”

  “What?” I said, turning to her. But she was already coming up beside me, shuffling her feet till her toes were over the edge of the wooden planks. Then she leaned forward, right over the edge, almost ready to topple.

  I looked down. The hard gray sand was easily fifteen feet below us.

  “Jesus,” I said. “Don’t do that.”

  “Just because I’m winning,” she said. She leaned right out now, ten degrees or something. I don’t know degrees. I don’t even know why I’m making that analogy. Let’s say instead: she leaned out till she looked like the woman on the prow of an old ship, her hair stirring in the breeze.