The Accidental Siren

by Jake Vander Ark

  I found Mara’s hand beneath the table and took it. The skin was cold. The nails–usually trimmed to the perfect length–were jagged and torn.

  I remembered my dad’s advise. I leaned in. My breath stiffened the invisible fur that lined her nape. Then I whispered in her ear–just above that calling card I punctured in her flesh the night before–“I love you.”

  * * *

  The commotion was electric in Grand Harbor. We heard the carnival before we saw it; so many people–so many voices–that the human component became an ocean of white noise for the diving and soaring machines, rattling wheels, whooshing cages, and game booths singing their automatic tunes. Children screamed. Somewhere in the middle, a balloon popped.

  The Lakeshore Celebration was the place to be on the last Friday in August. Any middle-schooler worth his reputation couldn’t walk ten steps without a high-five or a nod from a friend. The carnival was a cultural event, a social necessity, and the most fun a group of twelve-year-olds could have in West Michigan.

  It would serve as the perfect finale to a truly demented summer.

  The parking lots were hopeless; metal and concrete grids of cars, trailers and motorcycles like a game of Tetris ready to bust. The back roads were one-way streets winding through neighborhoods lined with a frustrating train of parked cars.

  Dad dropped us off at the rear of the Community Center and gave Mom a stack of twenties for our wristbands. “Can you handle five kids?” he asked.

  Mom put her fists on her love handles and cocked her head.

  Dad backpedaled. “I know it’s your job to watch kids...”

  “You better believe it.”

  “Just be extra careful tonight. No rides until I park the car.”

  The kids fell out the sliding door in a heap, except Whit who waited patiently in the back seat as Mom assembled his chair. As Dad drove away, our heads turned to the sky. The building before us blocked our view of the rides, but the carnival illuminated the night with a blinking haze.

  Outside, the Community Center looked like an abandoned warehouse. Inside, the corridors were alive with the hustle and bustle of creativity, passion, spirited conversation, and tons of art.

  “Cool,” Kimmy said, breezing through the back doors to a floor-to-ceiling abstract painting.

  “Looks like tie-dye,” Haley said, holding out her shirt for comparison.

  Tables ran the length of the hallway with paintings on miniature easels and sculptures scattered throughout. Each item had a placard beside it with the title, the name of the artist, a brief description of the piece, and a number for judging purposes.

  I caught up to Mara and grabbed her wrist. “Hey there. Come with me?”

  Mara’s arm was limp. Her mind was elsewhere. “I can’t,” she said and stood on tip-toes to survey the crowd. “Do you know what time it is?”

  I checked my watch. “Only seven-thirty.”

  “I need to talk to Livy.”

  “She’s still kinda touchy,” I said. “I wouldn’t–”

  “I need to make it better,” she insisted, then broke from my grip and vanished into the mob.

  Before I could chase after Mara, Kimmy pounced. “James,” she said, “we need to talk.” Haley materialized at her side. Together, they backed me against an empty bulletin board.

  Tight, orange springs danced behind Kimmy’s ears as she prattled. “Haley heard from Jessica who heard from Jon that Ryan is going to apologize to Mara at the carnival tonight.”

  I shook my head. “Why are you telling me?”

  Haley twisted her finger through the hem of her tie-dyed tee. “You’re sorta the guy who fixes things.”

  Kimmy continued. “We didn’t want to tell Mara in case you thought she shouldn’t know.”

  “And we couldn’t tell Livy...”

  “We definitely couldn’t tell Livy.”

  I considered my options, then made a decision. “Forget about it,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I’m done with the drama. Ryan hurt my girlfriend and crushed my sister. Everybody hates him for that. His parents know what he did. My parents know what he did. He’s not allowed to set foot in my house ever again, and in less than a week, he’ll be going to a different school. So if that penis-tickler wants to tell Mara that he’s sorry, I’ll let him do his thing. But I’m not worried about losing my girlfriend to a pretty-boy racist.”

  The girls looked at each other and shrugged. Kimmy muttered something about “done with the drama” and meandered back to Whit and my mom. Haley stayed beside me. Her eyes twinkled in the overhead halogen, a tender, hazel fixation that another boy (who never knew Mara) might have found alluring. “You’re a good person, James,” she said.

  “There it is!” I brushed past Haley and crossed the corridor to a pair of oak doors. A plastic sign read, “Community Theater, Entrance A.” Below it, a placard with my name, date, and “FAIRYTALE” in all capitals.

  Haley skipped to my side and read the description aloud. “Fairytale is an ambitious film about a young girl who goes on a search for her missing father.”

  As I listened to the epic scope of my failed endeavor, I spotted Mara and Livy through the criss-cross rumpus of artists and judges. Whatever Mara was saying, it made Livy smile. And when her monologue was over, they hugged.

  I ripped off my placard before Haley could finish, then motioned to Whit and Mom to hurry up.

  We regrouped at the opposite end of the art show. Livy’s usual pep had been rejuvenated and she twirled in kinetic anticipation.

  “We’ll find the ticket booths first,” Mom said. “We’ll buy your wristbands, then wait for your father by the spider-looking ride.”

  We groaned. “But Mommm...”

  “There will no whining from the peanut gallery!”

  I sighed. It was a fight I couldn’t win. Despite the camaraderie at my side, there was no way Mom was going to–

  “Bethany?” Mara took a single stride toward my mother.

  Mom turned and touched Mara’s arm. “What is it, sweetie?”

  “We would like to have the night to ourselves. Do you think there’s any way–”

  “Excuse me, young lady...” Mom blinked, blinked again, then crinkled her thick forehead. “...but we will be your chaperones for the rest of the evening. No ifs, ands or buts!”

  “Of course,” Mara said. “James was just telling me that he came without his parents last year and everything was fine.”

  “That may be, but–”

  “It’s not a big deal, Beth. I just thought we were on the same page.”

  Mom shook her head, then looked again at Mara. Without another moment of hesitation, she opened her purse and fished for her wallet. “You know what? David has always been a little paranoid. Why don’t you kids run off for a bit, and we’ll meet up later. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds like a plan!” Mara said.

  Mom doled out twenties to each kid, explaining that fifteen went to the wristband and the other five could be spent on snacks. She kissed every one of us on the forehead as we exchanged looks of bewilderment. “I’ll wait for your father by the kiddie rides,” she said. “Love you kids, and be careful!” Then she disappeared through the glass doors and into the street.

  We clapped Mara on the back.

  “I’d be dead if I called Mom by her first name!” I said.

  She shrugged and grinned. “It’s gonna be a good night.”

  The five of us turned to face the glass membrane that separated us from the carnival. (If only I could return to 1994 knowing what I know now... If only I could warn my younger self about the clockwork chaos awaiting him on the opposite side of that wall... If only I could chase him down, rattle his shoulders, scream in his face, “DON’T GO THROUGH THOSE FUCKING DOORS!”)

  Mara took my hand.

  “Your fingers...” I said. “They’re freezing.”

  She twisted her toes and her violet dress sashayed seductively around her knees. �
��Then warm them up, silly boy.”

  She scrunched her face. I grinned. And together, we pushed open the glass doors, inhaled the smell of kettle corn and roasted almonds, and stepped hand-in-hand into our technicolor nightmare.

  11. CARNIVAL

  Something was different this year. The people and machines and food were all the same, but now those elements converged into an exoskeleton of genuine amusement. The carnival was alive this year. The midway was a torso. Clusters of rides extended like arms from its core. The kiddie attractions were squished together at one end beside the Community Center while the fun rides twirled like fingers in the distance. The visitors were the carnival’s cells, zipping through vein-like streets from one ride to the next, giving purpose to the bright, undulating machines.

  I knew the carnival wasn’t anymore alive this year than it was last year, it only seemed alive because Mara was at my side.

  The six of us proudly boasted our wristbands as we took to the streets. The bright-blue bracelets were sticky along the edges where the ticket lady misaligned the top flap with the bottom. Kimmy told us they were the exact same bands that nightclubs make you wear if you don’t look twenty-one. Haley and Livy didn’t believe her.

  Whit’s wheelchair doubled as a plow. With me as his navigator, we lead the charge through the horde of kids and parents and carnies in red and white stripes.

  “What’s that?” Mara asked, her face aglow with amber light, then teal light, then green.

  “That’s the Scrambler,” I said. “It’s cool, but it doesn’t go upside down.”

  She raised her finger above the horizon. “What about that one?”

  “That’s the Salt and Pepper Shaker.”

  “It goes upside down?”

  “Yep.”

  “Let’s ride that one first!”

  Kimmy interrupted before I could agree. “Holy Hannah, is that Chrissy and Nick?”

  Haley bobbed her head to peek through the mass. “Where? I don’t see ‘em.”

  “Over there! Behind the elephant ears!”

  “Oh my gosh.” She stuck out her tongue. “It totally is.”

  “Hey James,” Kimmy called. “Haley wants an elephant ear!”

  “I do not!” she said and smacked Kimmy’s chest.

  “Crap, crap, crap,” Livy said, falling in line with her friends. “How’s my hair?” She rooted her purse, forgetting that Mom had confiscated her mirror.

  Kimmy grabbed her arm, “You’re gorgeous, darling,” then waved to Mara. “Wanna meet Chrissy and Nick?”

  “Nope!” Mara pointed to the Salt and Pepper Shaker. “I’m goin’ on that!”

  The girls turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Whit said. “We’re not supposed to split up!”

  Kimmy scrambled his hair and cooed in a baby voice, “Such a goody-goody, Whitney.” They turned again, burrowed an opening in the crowd, and vanished.

  “Meet us at the milk bottle game!” Whit shouted. “It’s in the midway!”

  Kimmy’s hand appeared above the mass and waved her acknowledgment.

  “You’re a dweeb,” I said, then took the handles and pushed us through the bustling street.

  “Will there be clowns here?” Mara asked.

  “That’s a circus.”

  “Oh. Duh.”

  A balloon popped to our left and she jumped. “What was that?”

  “It’s just the dart game,” I said (but enjoyed her renewed grip on my hand.)

  She marveled at a row of giant, stuffed panda bears. “Look at the prizes!”

  “It’s rigged,” Whit said from his chair. “The carnies use deflated balloons and dull darts. Almost impossible to win.”

  “Where do you come up with this stuff?” I asked.

  “I saw an exposé on Sixty Minutes.”

  “I’ll say it again: you’re a dweeb.”

  The carnival continued to accept us into its colorful core. A row of mirrors contorted our bodies as we passed. The first added fifty pounds to Mara, making her look like a midget from The Wizard of Oz. She stopped at the second mirror. It made her tall with toothpick limbs and an alien head. She released my hand, stuck her pinkies in her mouth, and pulled back her cheeks. Whit didn’t look taller, but his head stretched the size of a surfboard with eyes like frisbees. He laughed like a maniac and his reflection morphed and jiggled with every heave.

  “Oh shit!” he said and covered his face. “Go go go!”

  I ducked. “What? Where?”

  “Turn left. Now!”

  We veered left toward the dime game, jumped the curb, and huddled beneath the awning of The Grand Harbor Bread Co.

  “What was it?” Mara asked.

  “Nothin’,” Whit said. “Just some old friends.”

  “Well aren’t you Mr. Social.”

  Whit braced his hands on his armrests and lifted himself to scan the crowd.

  “Well?” I asked.

  Hey surveyed the surroundings one more time, then said, “The coast is clear.”

  “What a psycho.”

  The Salt and Pepper Shaker stood at the tip of the shortest extremity. For fifteen minutes we waited in a line that smelled like beer and arm pit, squashed between a man in a sleeveless tee that read “Green Day” and a group of teenyboppers who never stopped staring at the open back of Mara’s dress.

  In the stopped position, the Salt and Pepper Shaker looked like a pair of upside-down mallets with a pivot in the center of the handles. At the beginning of each cycle, four riders were buckled and locked in each cage; two facing forward, two facing back. When the carnie hit the go button, the pods launched in opposite directions and hurled the riders twenty feet in the air before sending them back toward the ground. Every time the ride completed a full rotation, it emitted a plinking, descending tune like the “game over” sound on a video game.

  The operator turned a key on his control station and the ride lost momentum. When it stopped, he unlocked the pods and sent the dizzy passengers staggering toward the exit. Whit got stuck in the backwards compartment beside the fat guy in the Green Day shirt. I buckled Mara’s belt, then mine. The carnie slammed our cage and double-checked the lock.

  “Excited?” I asked.

  The words barely escaped my lips before Mara unbuckled her restraint and attacked me. Hands crumpled the collar of my shirt and plunged me against the padded seat. Before I could warn her–before I could utter a sound–her lips touched mine for the very first time and she tasted just like candy necklace. Soft like down, warm like the perfect bath; I was gorged by her nubile lips, the oldest part of her body because the rest was only twelve. The air began to churn in our tiny rocket and my heart rose into my stomach, but Mara didn’t stop.

  A rush of blood. She didn’t speak, didn’t explain. Only kissed. Explored. And teased me as the world made cartwheels around our heads. Another surge of blood and I grappled her waist to tame its violent grind. The sweet, organic flavor of girl lips and tongue; the taste of peaches, red gummy bears, and dandelion wine.

  Open mouths. A thousand hands. To Mara, it was a desperate kiss, a “save me” kiss, a “hold me close and never let go” kiss.

  Around and around and faster and faster, she held my neck for dear life until the sick announced itself in my stomach, but I didn’t care. Her hands led mine to the strap of her amethyst dress (that dreamy summer dress). She molded my fingers around the fabric and together we pulled it down. I embraced the skin of her bare shoulder. (The shoulder was enough.)

  Upside down, blind now to the orientation of the real world, inertia tugged my gag reflex and I wanted to vomit my burger. Mara was planting something inside me; something that would take root in my bowels and twist thorns in my heart. She was completing my transformation. She was making me–six years too soon–an adult. And when the ride slowed and the gravity returned and my cock was a blister and the feverish sensations subsided, Mara released me. She was panting. Gaze detached, lips agape, and cheeks flushed, she replaced her viol
et strap, unclenched her thighs, dismounted... and casually straightened her windswept hair.

  * * *

  Whit found himself cradled in the carnie’s arms as the man transferred him back to his chair.

  “I’m too old for these sissy rides,” he said, craning his head to Mara. “How was your first carnival experience, beautiful?”

  She flashed a dimpled grin. “Killer,” she said. “Totally killer.”

  Whit navigated our path back to the midway meeting point, but the girls weren’t there.

  Mara plopped down on a picnic table and crossed her feet on the bench. She asked for the time and scanned the sea of heads.

  Whit rolled himself to the milk bottle game. The boy behind the counter wore the same red and white stripes as the rest of the carnies, spitting into a microphone and rattling off words like a paint-huffing auctioneer. “Three balls, three bucks, three tries! Step right up, ladies and gentlemen. Step riiight up!” He looked at Whit. “Legs don’t work? Then roll right up! Three chances to put your aim to the test! Three chances to impress your girlfriend! Three chances to prove to your friends that you’re a major league pitcher! Three balls, three bucks, three tries!” The boy covered the mic and leaned toward Whit, “I bet you wished you had three balls, kid. Am I right?”

  “Watch it, bum.” Whit pulled out his wallet and gave him three dollars. “Hey Jamsie-boy,” he said. “Let’s see how you throw.”

  I looked to Mara for approval. She was beaming.

  “Think I can do it?” I asked.

  “Cutie, I know you can do it!”

  “What prize do you want if I win?”

  She scanned her options. “I want the ginormous mallard duck.”

  I looked at the hanging bird, then sauntered backwards to the counter and said, “One ginormous duck, coming up.”

  “Three balls,” said the boy in the red and white stripes. “Three tries to knock ‘em down!”

  I sized up the pyramid of ten milk bottles, aimed, and threw the first ball as hard as possible.

  “Miss!” said the boy in the red and white stripes.

  I grunted. Whit laughed.

  “Come on, James!” Mara said and clapped.

  I threw the second ball with better precision but less force... and pelted the bottom right jug and toppling three more.