The Accidental Siren

by Jake Vander Ark

  The carnival cheered.

  I released Whit’s chair. I wanted to grab Mara’s wrist, tear the flowers from her arms, and get the hell out of the fair (the street, the city, the world)! Instead, I ran three steps into another pair of greasy jocks in jerseys. I looked up at their pimpled faces and twisted grins. They didn’t speak, only sneered, but the message was clear: “Stay.”

  Ryan appeared on a wooden porch above a novelty t-shirt shop. Either he was friends with the owners or he paid them off, either way, his entrance was grand. He wore a ruffled tunic with bulging, pleated pants and a feathered cap. A work light was clamped to the railing beside him and created a harsh but attention-nabbing spotlight; an idea he stole from my movie.

  “But soft!” he began. “What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Mara Lynn is the sun!” (Somehow, the carnival beast calmed its clinking and shrieking to give Ryan Brosh his moment.) “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon who is already sick and pale with grief that thou her maid art far more fair than she!”

  The multitude was growing around Romeo’s balcony, buzzing with the novelty of a spontaneous public performance.

  Whit bobbed his head to see between the legs of the pimpled jocks. I stood on tiptoes to see over their fortress of chests. I saw Mara, tiara still adorning her head, facing away; facing the balcony and Ryan’s desperate play.

  He thrust his arms toward my girl and continued his monologue. “Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return!” He kicked a latch and a metal ladder dropped to the ground with a series of clanks and a final whack on the concrete below. He relished his words as he descended the rungs. “What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright, that birds would sing and think it were not night!” Ryan’s feet hit the sidewalk and he turned to face Mara. The audience parted between them, creating an open runway for his gallant approach.

  He sauntered as he spoke, and as he spoke, he unbuttoned his faux-velvet tunic to reveal a number-seventeen jersey and a trim pair of biceps. “See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove upon that hand...” He stopped and raised his hand to Mara’s face. “...that I might touch that cheek.”

  The pimpled boys raised their shoulders to block my view. I discovered later that they were unpopular seniors, coaxed by Ryan Brosh to participate in his disgusting scheme.

  The crowd cheered again, now a thick wall of bodies foaming to see the high-school sweethearts.

  “Mara,” Ryan’s voice was normal, but still loud enough to overcome the sound of the distant rides. “There’s something I’d like to say to you, but words alone cannot express how I feel.”

  “You’re gonna love this,” grunted one of the pimpled towers. He nodded to the ride behind me.

  As I turned, the world turned with me. The carousel. A thousand jocks held formation–some on foot, some on horses–around the entire merry-go-round like the closing shot from The Birds. I recognized several boys from my sleepover.

  With perfect timing, the carousel operator hit a big green button and the ride lurched forward.

  The frontmost jock raised a square piece of poster board above his head revealing the word “MARA” scrawled in giant yellow letters. The ride continued its meandering rotation as the jocks raised their assigned cards to complete the spinning message: “MARA LYNN, WORDS CANNOT EXPRESS HOW SORRY I AM. PLEASE FORGIVE ME. PLEASE LET ME BACK INTO YOUR LIFE.”

  The audience erupted into delighted applause. I rammed my shoulder blade into the torsos of the pimpled henchmen while Whit punched at their knee caps. They didn’t flinch.

  On the carousel’s second rotation, the boy with the “MARA” card flipped it upside down to display a hand-drawn daisy with petals that filled the page. The next card turned to reveal the word “I.” Another daisy card, then the word, “LOVE.” Another daisy. “YOU.” Another daisy. “MARA.” Another daisy. “LYNN.”

  Another daisy.

  The ride twirled faster and faster until the words and flowers pulsated into a visual poem: “I LOVE YOU MARA LYNN, I LOVE YOU MARA LYNN, I LOVE YOU MARA LYNN.” The pupils of the jocks pulsated too; swelling and contracting like inkblots in the flickering light of the carousel’s bulbs.

  “Kiss him!” somebody shouted.

  “Kiss the poor boy!”

  Whit pulled back his fist and slammed it into the ball sack of the closest guard. As the boy keeled forward, I could see my girlfriend, still wearing that delicate crown, grinning from East to West, transplendent in her joy, and I too felt pain in my groin.

  Was her smile another charade? Or had Ryan Brosh actually impressed her with his spectacle, discovering some hidden nerve that made Mara–after weeks of dating me–reconsider our love?

  Mara cradled the roses in her right arm and formed her left into a sideways V, inviting Ryan to link his arm through hers. He did. Together, they walked side-by-side, appearing as boyfriend and girlfriend to the spectators when I was her boyfriend and he–that heartless Ryan Brosh–was a liar, racist, and whore.

  A gargled shriek swept my attention back to my sister, thrashing against the grip of her friends, ready to charge the happy couple. “I’m going to kill you Mara Lynn! I’m gonna find what makes you special and I’m gonna cut it off!”

  Without breaking her smile, Mara abandoned her friends and her stuffed duck, leading Ryan arm-in-arm toward the funhouse entrance. They bypassed the line without dispute, and the carnie in charge gladly waved them through the gate.

  Livy released a tirade of unintelligible curses. With a final heave of her limbs, she broke free of her friends, but dashed in the opposite direction, sobbing and stumbling down the sidewalk with Kimmy, Haley and a band of concerned parents trailing behind.

  The show was over. Livy’s outburst stifled the excitement and the crowd began to disperse. To my horror, Ryan and Mara had disappeared into the mouth of the carnival funhouse, and I was still held captive by the towering henchmen (though one was still massaging his crotch after Whit’s cheap blow).

  It was in this moment of panic that we heard the first howl. Behind us... a child? Then, peppered throughout the horde it came, a thunderous reply like an army of invisible apes.

  And then they attacked.

  * * *

  Forgive me, reader, if the following event seems erratic and unexpected. It took me years to sort out the intricacies of this budding war; their origins, doctrines, and conflicts are a story, perhaps, for another book. As long as your confusion parallels mine as I lived it, I’ve done my job as a writer. Besides, is there a better way to illustrate the boggling scope of Mara’s influence than with a seemingly random battle for her affection?

  “Whit!” I yelled, “What the hell is going on?”

  He shook his head and watched the mayhem unfold.

  The pimpled jocks looked at each other and shrugged. Then without warning, the left boy jerked forward and dropped hard to the pavement.

  At his feet was the culprit, a boy my age with curly black hair, glasses, and a t-shirt with horizontal yellow stripes. He deftly mounted his fallen prey while unholstering a spray bottle from his belt.

  “Get it off of me!” cried the jock, but it was too late. The boy aimed the bottle at the kid’s pimpled face and squeezed the plunger three times. Clear mist blew from the tip and the jock screamed. I watched as specks of white formed on his jersey. It was bleach.

  The new boy looked up, hissed at Whit, and scuttled away.

  The second jock looked at his friend who was blinking and writhing from the toxic spray. Together, we surveyed the surrounding madness.

  The boys, I now knew, were the ferrets from our trees; the same boys I spotted on the Ferris Wheel, then again in line for the Tilt-a-Whirl. There were two dozen at least, pounding their chests and weaseling between the l
egs of the carnival guests. Four of them rallied at the cotton candy stand and clamored for Jon’s feet. Some were moving toward the carousel, others were heading for the funhouse.

  I made my move. I jumped backward to avoid my captor’s reach, then darted left toward the funhouse.

  “James!” Whit yelled and I looked back. His right wheel was caught between a trash can and the fallen jock.

  I couldn’t help him. Mara was alone with Ryan. Without a word, I spun around and abandoned my friend in the fight.

  The carousel screeched. The operator’s hand was splayed against the red “stop” button and the jocks with the signs lunged violently in the opposite direction. One boy was about to step off when the ride slammed to a stop. His forehead bounced against a brass pole before the inertia jerked him back and threw him to the ground, cheek-first against the pavement. A ferret sprung from the center of the carousel, shot the fallen jock’s face with a squirt gun, then moved on.

  It was Mara’s kiss that carried me through the hysterical horde; her fading taste on my lips. I moved my arms through the oscillating mass as if I was swimming. The funhouse disappeared and reappeared from view as people zig-zagged between us.

  I unbuckled my belt and pulled it off, my only weapon against Ryan Brosh. I would choke the bastard. I would track him through the funhouse, loop the noose around his throat, and pull. I would feel the metal latch drop into every new notch as the belt tightened inch by inch. His eyes would turn to blood... just like Mara’s.

  The mayhem intensified around me but I reveled in the chaos. I breathed the smell of beer as it mixed with bleach from the ferret’s guns. I was spurred by the madness. I was part of the madness. My jaw locked in jealous rage as I imagined Mara’s betrayal, red and black, touching that boy, kissing that boy, doing God-knows-what to that boy. The carnival beast laughed at my determination but I ignored it and pressed on.

  Two kids tussled against a tent post. One boy growled, “The girl is ours.” I looked closer and his face brought me back to the night beneath the lamppost; the mustached boy with the tape recorder. He was here, at the fair, white tank top molded to his back, blue bandana circling his tight crewcut, slapping a pudgy-looking boy who had dropped his spray bottle to the curb.

  Why was he here?

  Did I really care?

  I reached the funhouse gate and turned to check on Whit. I located the can where he was trapped, but he was gone.

  The street had transformed into a gladiator arena. A dozen boys with blue bandanas had joined the fight, tackling and pummeling the scrawny bunch of boys from my trees. The jocks were caught in the middle with bloody noses and pulpy skin. The innocent bystanders had evacuated the scene and formed a circle around the fray. A uniformed cop pinned one of the blue-bandana boys against the carousel and screamed into his walkie-talkie as the carnival beast devoured the children, one by one.

  * * *

  I rattled the aluminum gate between me and the stubborn carnie. “My girlfriend’s in trouble!” I yelled. “You gotta let me in!”

  The man had varnished cheeks, a bald head, and thin, hand-drawn eyebrows. He ignored me as he paced the funhouse entrance, armed with a broom handle, fending off the outbreak of rabid children.

  “The line’s gone!” I said and pointed at the empty cue. “You gotta let me through!”

  “Beat it, kid,” he said, then jabbed an approaching ferret with a blue-bandana in his back pocket.

  I shook the gate harder. “You don’t understand! My girlfriend’s in there with another boy–”

  He aimed the broom handle at my head. “Charlie’s inside,” he said. “He’ll make sure...” his voice trailed off.

  “What!” I asked. “Making sure, what?”

  “Would ya look at all that...”

  I looked over my shoulder. Six uniformed security guards burst from the circle of bystanders and charged the brawling kids.

  “Here they come,” said the carnie.

  Holy crap... I thought.

  The kids were not deterred, but fought back against the guards.

  Oh shit...

  The guards pulled them apart and snapped handcuffs onto every possible wrist... but that’s wasn’t what I was watching.

  Son of a bitch... I thought. It was him! King of the bullies. The hillbilly who killed Mara’s cat. Danny Bompensaro. He stepped through the havoc as if he owned it, carrying with him a sinister presence despite his slender frame.

  “Did you do this, Danny!” I shouted, though I knew the accusation was absurd.

  He shook his head as he approached; ten steps away and my heart rattled in my chest.

  “I don’t know what this is,” he said. His voice was trembling.

  I narrowed my eyes as he came closer. His right cheekbone was black and green and mottled with purple flecks. In the center of the bruise was a gash in need of stitches, though it was dried now and at least a few days old. It wasn’t from the fight.

  He held up his hands in surrender. “I know what I did was bad, James.”

  He never called me “James.”

  “You don’t have to kill me,” he stammered. “I’m just looking for Mara.”

  “What happened to your face?”

  Danny forced an upside-down grin. “For real?” He laughed. “You really wanna know what happened to my face?”

  I stepped back, leaned against the barrier, and shrugged.

  “Your ol’ man called my uncle after I did that thing to the cat. Told Hank that he’d kill me if I ever come by your castle again.” Danny’s smile grew. As he spoke, bit of tongue slipped through the gap of a missing tooth. “Threatened us both. Said he had a gun.”

  My chest heaved and my throat opened against my will, but nothing came out.

  “Hank let me have it pretty good.”

  I shook my head. “M– My Dad–”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve been hit, James. Now where the fuck is Mara?”

  “You’re not steppin’ foot anywhere near my girlfriend. Now get the heck away from me before I call my dad!”

  Danny surveyed the brawl, unaffected by my threat. “She wants to see me.”

  “Mara hates you.”

  “She asked to see me.”

  I shook my head. “Bull.”

  “I’m sposeda meet her at nine o’clock by the Salt and Pepper Shakers.”

  My brain staggered like the rusty innards of the Tilt-a-Whirl.

  “I’ve been waitin’ there fifteen minutes, then I heard the yelling so I came this way.”

  “She–” I couldn’t say it until my mind understood it. “She–”

  “She called me up three days ago. Said we had to talk.”

  “She... invited you?”

  Danny nodded to the funhouse. “Is she in there?”

  I struggled to fill in the blanks of this new puzzle, but every solution only pointed to a horrible, irrational, unthinkable–

  The bald carnie shrieked and scrambled backward, his broom was pointing at a boy bracing himself in the funhouse entrance.

  It was Ryan. Buck naked. Pale skin. Barely standing. Alone.

  “Someone call an ambulance!” cried the carnie.

  Gasps rose from the spectators as the naked Romeo stepped forward like a beautiful zombie, then collapsed into a pile of flesh and bones.

  “Danny!” I pleaded as I hurdled the aluminum gate. “Do not look for Mara! Do you understand me? Stay here and do not look for Mara!”

  He didn’t respond. He was transfixed.

  The carnie was twenty feet from Ryan, still backing up and shouting for help.

  I ran to Ryan’s side and fell to my knees. Two minutes ago I would have killed him.

  His eyes were stuck on some invisible object over my shoulder. To the left of his adam’s apple was a mark the size of a quarter. The outside was a bruise. The middle was a hole, a bleeding gash with the skin sucked out.

  It was a hickey.

  I took his head in my hands and turned it away
until I couldn’t see the blood.

  His mouth was moving.

  I put my ear to his lips and asked, “What is it?”

  Ryan replied with one word, whispered over and over, stuttering, then unmistakably clear: “More.”

  * * *

  Charlie stumbled from the funhouse entrance, pounding a pack of Camels on the butt of his hand. A cop arrived at Ryan’s side. It was Sheriff Beeder.

  The bald carnie approached with caution. Danny paced the gate like a wild boar.

  “What happened here!” asked Beeder, sweat forming beneath his eyes from breaking up the brawl.

  Charlie fumbled with a zippo and spun in a slow, tight circle.

  His friend snatched the lighter, lit the cigarette, and put it in his lips. “Quit spinnin’ and tell us what you saw!”

  “The mirrors,” he said. “I heard a– a boy in the mirrors. Loud... he was loud but I couldn’t tell if– if– if he was laughing or... or crying for help.”

  The sheriff checked Ryan’s pulse and barked an order over his radio. He looked up to Charlie. “Did you see anything? Did you see who did this?”

  “I thought they were kissin’. Lotsa– lotsa kids kiss in the mirrors...”

  “But did you see what happened?”

  “It was on him... then it was gone... it flew between the mirrors like... like a banshie from hell.”

  Beeder inspected the hole, called again for an ambulance, then rolled Ryan’s head gently to the side. The boy’s lips were crusted and red. He was smiling.

  From the opposite side of the midway came a terrible groan like the landing of an alien craft, breaking the night in half and silencing the brawling kids. There was a moment of quiet, followed by a wave of screams and the snap of bending steel. The beast was trying to talk.

  “What in flaming tarnation was that?” asked the bald carnie, his brows caught between the folds of forehead wrinkles.

  Charlie sucked again on his cigarette. “Somethin’ broke,” he said.

  I looked to the gate. Danny was gone.

  Panic sent bursts of blood into my extremities so quickly I could feel the thump in my wrists.

  I stood up and I scanned the arena. Every head was turned toward the terrible sound, but one head moved sideways through the crowd. I saw the scar. I knew it was him. And he was searching for Mara.