“Hang on, Trista! We’ve got this!” I yelled, jogging to keep up with the black seaweed-covered wheels of the float thundering down the route. I hoped she could hear me even if I couldn’t see her.
“Next we have the Sheep Family Thrills float?” Ms. Hoffman’s hesitant soprano piped up. “Look at the fun those sheep are having on that Ferris wheel! Made of polyurethane foam and covered with onion seed, those cuties took twenty volunteers a solid week to decorate. . . . Er, is someone going to stop those girls?”
My plan was a long shot. I’d have to time my move just right. It was the best hope we had, though. I tightened my grip on the bandleader’s baton, made a wish on Grandpa Young’s dog tags, then sank low into Needle at Sea Bottom, thrusting the baton into the front right wheel’s spokes as smoothly as if it were a tai chi practice staff. A painful jolt ran down my funny bone as the baton twisted. Metal scraped and sparks flew—but the float squealed to a halt. Trista cheered just as Grace joined me, panting, her hair a wind-whipped mess.
The marching band behind us had melted into blue-and-white chaos. A wail of sirens kicked up, followed by the far-off roar of motorcycles. The float’s electric engine still whirred, begging to push forward. One slip of the baton and we would. I scanned the route ahead. The lead car and first float had already hung the left onto Vista del Mar, the Palominos clip-clopping after them. Rod and his crew strutted cluelessly onward in their white jumpsuits.
Trista’s wide eyes peered out at us through the fluffy carpet of white flowers that camouflaged the driver compartment just above the front wheel. “She bolted me in!” she shouted. “The door’s completely jammed.”
“We’re coming!” Grace hollered back, then turned to me. “You first,” she said, boosting me up over the wheel hub and onto the float. She hauled herself up after me, sending clumps of carnations flying. As Trista’s eyes bulged even wider, we both madly tore away the flowers hiding her compartment until we’d exposed the metal-grate door underneath. A wrench had been wedged—possibly even hammered—tightly through the steel loop of the door latch.
Grace and I looked at each other. If Lauren Sparrow was unhinged enough to lock Trista inside a parade float, who knew what else she’d be willing to do.
“Don’t worry. We’ve got this,” I called to Trista, hoping she didn’t hear the doubt lurking in my voice. Grace clutched the end of the wrench with both hands and tugged, the cords of her neck straining. It didn’t budge.
I should’ve known it wouldn’t be easy. If Trista couldn’t get herself out, we didn’t have much hope. I wrapped my hands over Grace’s, braced my foot against the float, and on the count of three, we both heaved as hard as we could. There was a bone-jarring screech of metal on metal, but the wrench only gave way a tiny bit.
“You need more leverage!” Trista called out.
We reached out to try again when suddenly something clanged and squealed beneath us. Grace toppled into me with a shriek as the float gave a single horrible lurch forward. We grasped at the metal grill of the compartment door as the float jolted again. Apparently, a baton was no match for a gajillion pounds of flowers, plastic, and chicken wire determined to barrel ahead.
Trista was breathing as heavily as we were.
“You got your inhaler, right?” I called in.
“It’s in my cargo jacket,” she answered calmly. “But as long as I don’t panic, I’m fine,” she added in a singsong, as if she’d been repeating the words to herself nonstop for the past half-hour. She probably had. “As long as I don’t think of these flowers, I’m”—she closed her eyes—“fine,” she finished.
I remembered her telling herself to take her allergy meds that morning, and I prayed she had. An image of her panicking in the refrigerated flower shed flashed before me. We had to get her out. Fast.
Grace and I eyed each other, then both hurried to yank the wrench again. Nothing. The float shuddered under us. Grace’s eyes went wide. It wasn’t until I heard the crowd gasp behind us that I realized that she wasn’t worried about the float rolling ahead. She was staring at something behind my right shoulder. I spun around to look.
I froze. The fire-twirling clown tottered on his stilts alongside the Root Beer float by the rear wheel. High above the road, concentrating on his spinning wheels of flame, he hadn’t noticed that Pookums Pritchard had just darted directly into his path.
Kendra ran close behind. In the meantime her up-do had fully unraveled. Her hair streamed behind her and her dress was torn. “Watch out!” she shrieked to the stilt walker, arms waving.
Startled, the man looked down to find Pookums running crazed circles in front of him, yipping up at his spinning fire sticks. He staggered to avoid the dog, flinging out one arm to regain his balance. Everything would have been fine, were it not for one small detail. His hand had grazed the side of the Root Beer float.
And in that hand was a flaming ring of fire.
There was a whoosh and crackle as flames leaped up from the cottony white foam of Willard Ridley’s root beer mug. My legs went numb.
Trista cocked her head at us. “Something wrong?” she asked.
In a minute she’d smell the smoke herself. In a minute it might be too late, anyway.
“Not yet,” I said, tugging at the wrench again. Grace looked back at the fire then back to me in panic. The flames had already raced up Willard Ridley’s arm and caught his grass beard. Black smoke spiraled up from his head, clouding the blue sky.
Another grating screech of metal split the air. Grace and I shrieked as this time the float rolled forward and kept rolling, careening around like a bad shopping cart as it slowly gained speed down the hill.
Trista locked eyes with us as we clung to the door. “I should have never fixed the pulse duration,” she said quietly. I had no idea what she meant until I remembered with horror why she’d worked on the Root Beer float that morning in the first place: it hadn’t been reaching its full speed. Who knew how fast it could go now.
The sirens wailed louder, closer. They had to reach us soon. Time had slowed down so much it felt like they never would. The rest of the parade dimmed around me, though I knew Brown Suiters had to be rushing toward us to help. The voices of Mr. Diaz and Ms. Hoffman in my ear had fallen silent.
I looked ahead. The last of the “Celebration”-blaring marching band was marching onto Vista del Mar. Nothing was in front of us. Just the road, the bluffs, and the wide, wide blue of the ocean waiting to swallow us.
“The police are coming any second, Trista!” Grace shouted, her voice hoarse. “Everything’ll be fine!”
Trista turned to us, her panicked eyes tearing up. She smelled the smoke. She had to have by now.
“Jump!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “You’ve got to jump off!”
My throat felt like it was closing. I knew she was right, but I tightened my fingers around the metal grate and leaned closer. Grace clutched my arm.
Trista frowned, trying to look stern despite tears running down her cheeks. “Keep your heads! Leave me! Now!”
Grace let out a sob. She looked toward the fast approaching bluffs and back to the fire. The sirens’ wails were finally closer. I prayed there was still some chance they could save her. Maybe a fire truck would zip right in front at the last second, blocking the way. Maybe the Brown Suiters could jam the wheels like I had. I could hear shouts and footsteps thundering toward us. People were trying to help. Maybe they really could.
I fumbled for the dog tags around my neck. I wanted Trista to have them. I needed Trista to have them. I reached them out. “Semper fidelis, friend,” I said, choking on the words. But just as I was about to shove them through the slats of the door, an idea came to me as bright and clear as the glint of the sun that caught in them.
“Help me, Grace!” I shouted as I looped the dog-tag chain around the wrench. Trista was right: we needed more leverage. Grandpa’s dog tags might be able to give it to us—and if Trista said they were indestructible, they were. I grasped the
chain and leaned back with all of my weight. Grace wrapped her arms around my middle and leaned with me. The chain vibrated as it went taut. We rejoiced as the wrench slid back another good inch. Meanwhile, the float rocked as it bounced from the pavement onto the dusty lookout point.
“You don’t have time!” Trista shouted. Tears stained her cheeks as she pleaded with us to jump off.
“One more try,” Grace cried out as if she hadn’t heard Trista. We were so close—but the bluffs were too. We leaned back again, grunting as the chain cut into our fingers. A clang echoed out and I spilled backward into Grace. I looked down. The wrench was swinging from the end of the dog-tag chain I still clutched in my hands. We’d done it. We’d really done it.
The door crashed open and Trista burst out.
“What the heck are you waiting for?” she shouted, sweeping over us in a giant satiny-blue wave. She grabbed our hands and sprang from the float, tugging us overboard with her. I tumbled hard to the dirt and rolled. Clouds of dust billowed as the wheels of the float thundered by, fire streaming from its back end like flames from one of AmStar’s test rockets.
A second later it sailed over the jagged red bluff. We watched, breathless, as it seemed to hover in the air a moment—a flaming dragon against the bright-blue sky—before plummeting out of sight. A sickening crush of metal and rocks echoed up from below.
We stared at each other, dazed. Trista started to cry for real. Grace shakily rose to her feet and helped us up. Sobbing, Trista wrapped us in a hug so tight I wasn’t sure we’d ever come out of it again. I wasn’t sure I wanted to. My tears came then, too, fast and hot. Trista finally pulled back.
“You know, you’re still rocking that dress,” Grace said, smiling through her own tears.
“Thanks,” Trista said, sniffling. She wiped her cheeks. “Should’ve worn it with the jacket, though.”
I couldn’t tell if we laughed or sobbed then. The strange sound that came out of us was a cross of both. Seconds later, we heard the shouts of police and their boots crunching in the dust. Hordes of faces gathered around us. Red lights spun.
I don’t really know what happened next. All I remember is seeing Rod standing next to me like an angel in a white jumpsuit, carrying a kids’ skateboard that he must’ve used to race back to us. His face was creased with worry as he gazed at me. I can’t even imagine what I looked like, covered in dirt, dress hiked up, my hair a wild mess. I didn’t even care.
A police officer started toward him to clear him away, but Rod grabbed both my hands. “Are you all right, Sophie?” he said, his voice cracking.
I squeezed his hands and nodded back. I wished I could just stay there for a minute, staring into his eyes. “Listen,” I rasped, craning my neck to look back at the stands. Crowds had poured into the streets. “Barb Lund didn’t kill Steptoe.” My words poured out in a rush. “Sparrow did. And she locked Trista in that float.”
Rod’s eyes bulged. “I just saw her!” he cried out excitedly. He wheeled around and pointed up the hill past the throngs of people. “She was by those bleachers.”
Just then Officer Grady pushed his way through the crowd of midnight blue uniforms and over to us.
“You have to find Ms. Sparrow!” Grace shouted at him.
Officer Grady’s brow wrinkled in confusion. He patted Grace on the shoulder. “Listen now,” he said, gently. “You’ve had a shock. Ms. Sparrow is going to be just fine. You are going to be just fine.” He eyed our cuts and bruises then turned to call over some of the paramedics who’d already swarmed around Trista.
I looked at Grace. We didn’t have time to help Grady understand. “Quick,” I cried, grabbing Rod’s arm as I started up the hill. “Let’s go!”
We tore toward the bleachers, ducking through the surprised crowd. Scuffles and shouts rang out behind us as the police and paramedics chased after. My head throbbed as my feet pounded on the pavement. If we could just stay ahead of the police long enough to find Sparrow, we could lead them right to her.
I saw a flash of red in the stands and called out to Grace and Rod, only to realize it was a little boy clutching a stuffed animal. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Mr. Katz, his brown blazer tossed over one shoulder and his sleeves rolled up as he jogged toward us. I ran faster.
“There! On the sidewalk!” Rod hollered, pointing to a figure pushing upstream in the rubbernecking crowd, her coppery hair shining in the sun. It was Lauren Sparrow. It had to be.
She wasn’t gliding with pride. Not even close. Her body jerked and her hair flounced as she pushed past a dad pushing a stroller. She was headed directly for a gap between the stands.
“Split up and surround her!” Grace shouted, waving me to the left. I obeyed, dodging an elderly man with a cane and a middle-aged woman wearing a purple visor.
Lauren Sparrow must have heard Grace. She whirled around, her green eyes bulging as they met ours. Heavy boots pounded and radios blared behind us as we closed in. Sparrow darted panicked glances left and right, then tried to duck past several families clustered on the sidewalk. A kid waving a balloon animal stepped into her path, then a salesman pushed an ice cream cart past, unknowingly blocking her in. She stopped short and slumped in surrender.
She turned to us. Her hair fell over her face as she heaved a sob. The crowd backed away, bewildered as police officers skidded to a stop around us. They followed our eyes to Ms. Sparrow, then shot each other strange looks.
“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on here?” Officer Grady panted, hands on his hips.
“It’s all my fault. All of it,” Ms. Sparrow cried out suddenly, trembling. “I never meant to hurt anyone, ever. You have to believe me!” She held up her hands and stepped forward. Tears streamed down her swollen face and smeared her make-up. I hardly recognized the woman in front of me. She looked as if the winter sun were melting her down like a candle. Rod reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly.
The police officers turned questioningly to Grady, who seemed as baffled as they did. He looked at us, then back to the officers. “Take her in,” he said with a nod.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Just Right
“Nobody goes anywhere until I say they do,” Officer Grady barked as his radio blared static. “Including you.” He pointed at a puzzled Mr. Katz, who’d finally caught up to us, red-faced and panting. “Find the AmStar engineer who was in the booth,” he muttered to Officer Carter, the lanky rookie cop we’d overheard in the float barn. “Hoffman and Diaz as well. I need statements from everyone. Royal Court included. Bring ’em all to the mansion, stat.”
Minutes later Grace and I had been hustled into a squad car headed there too. Mr. Zimball had taken Rod ahead of us. I pressed my face against the window and stared out at the ruined parade route. Members of the marching bands had grabbed their instruments and found their families in the crowd. Floats that hadn’t even rolled past the first set of bleachers waited at the top of the hill, their flowers ruffling in the breeze. As I looked back at Grace, her hair plastered to her head with sweat, a dark smudge across her forehead, it hit me how lucky we were to still be alive.
She looped her arm through mine. “Nothing feels that important anymore, does it?”
“Some things do.” I squeezed her arm. “I’m really sorry about telling everyone that dumb story, Grace. I don’t even know what I was thinking. It’s not even that funny.”
“It’s okay, Soph. I’ll get over it. And at least it was inspiring?” Grace smiled as her eyes fell to my dress, which I’d finally tugged back down.
Relief flooded me as the squad car rolled through the tall mansion gates and I spotted our parents waiting for us on the terrace steps. As soon as the officer opened the car door, they rushed forward and almost suffocated us in hugs. The Yangs looked like they’d never let Grace leave their sides again. I buried my face in my dad’s shirt as he ruffled my hair, not even caring that I probably looked like I was six. My mom rummaged in her purse for Band-Aids for my sk
inned knees. If someone had told me a whole year had passed since I’d said good-bye to them on those same steps, I would have believed it. Three days had never felt longer.
The police ushered us into the packed Ridley Mansion living room. Maybe it was the stiff way everyone sat on the antique furniture, but I felt as though I was walking into a living version of a museum oil painting. The velvet drapes had been pulled back, but the room was dark and stuffy. Everyone was there. The Royal Court, their parents, Rod and both of his parents, Mr. Katz and his wife, Harrison Lee—and a bunch of Brown Suiters and other people from the crowd who I didn’t even recognize. Mr. Diaz and Ms. Hoffman sat in armchairs opposite each other, still in their thick make-up for the news cameras. Up close, they both looked orange.
The Royal Court and the twins huddled around us worriedly. They’d changed into their sweats and orientation T-shirts, and it felt good to see them looking real again. Jardine wrapped me in a tight hug that caught me off guard. “We were so scared for you. So, so scared,” she whispered in my ear.
Trista came in with her mom, who looked rattled. “They say I’m fine,” Trista reported with a shrug as she joined our huddle. “My blood pressure’s just a little elevated.”
“No kidding.” Grace giggled. I was pretty sure that my own blood pressure wouldn’t be back to normal until New Year’s Day.
It spiked even higher when I caught sight of Lauren Sparrow sitting hunched in an armchair by the front window. Two police officers, Officer Carter and a woman I didn’t recognize, stood guard on either side of her, their expressions as solemn as the Ridley ancestors’ in the portraits glaring down from the wall.
The Tiara on the Terrace Page 23