All the Pretty Things

by Emily Arsenault

  I wondered why of all the rides in the park, these two were the ones that got eliminated when the four new kiddie rides took precedent. I wondered if Jason was part of the selection process. I didn’t really want to talk to him again this morning, though. After the news about Reggie, I felt kind of small, and our discussion about this ride seemed insignificant.

  Everything seemed insignificant, really. Was I supposed to go back to spinning cotton candy when I’d just maybe driven someone to try to kill himself? And why in the world had I brought up the notion of Ethan jumping to Reggie? Had I put an idea in his head that he’d carried through with when he was drunk enough later in the evening?

  I stared up at both rides for a little while, trying to solve my brother’s riddle, then remembering Morgan and me riding the Yo-Yo and wondering if I should bother texting her again. I decided not to. I wished I was someone else. And I wished I could go home and burn all my floral summer dresses, for what that was worth. I was starting to picture it—me lighting a match, the flames rising from my newest baby-blue dress with the white eyelet trim—when my phone jumped with a text from my dad.

  Good morning! I want to talk to you—got a different job for you today.

  It was always something with Dad. The demands never stopped. But I would welcome almost any distraction from Reggie at this point. I slipped the phone into my pocket and hurried into the park.

  A couple of minutes later, I found my dad on the lawn behind the east side pavilion. He was standing behind a large blow-up kiddie pool that had a big sheet draped over it propped up with a bunch of unlit tiki torches.

  “Ivy!” he yelled when he saw me coming. “Take a look.”

  He was holding a large coffee in one hand and used the other to lift the sheet and reveal a giant mass of creamy-white dough almost as tall as me.

  “It rose so well. Look at that thing.”

  I did. We both did. When I turned to him, he was still staring. The right side of his hair had collapsed over his face, oily and uncharacteristically limp.

  “Have you been here all night, Dad?”

  I wondered if he’d even heard about Reggie yet. But I didn’t want to ruin his bright and ambitious mood.

  “Yep. Oh, Ivy. Isn’t this a thing of beauty?”

  “Well…it’s big,” I said slowly.

  “Yeah. Kinda looks like a big tit, actually. But not in a bad way.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I said.

  I took a long, slow breath. I taught myself to do this years ago. Let the comment pass, and don’t feed it with a scowl, a protest, or even an eye roll. I had bigger things to worry about right now anyway.

  “Can’t wait to see it golden brown,” Dad said. “All slathered with frosting.”

  “Do we have enough sprinkles?” I murmured.

  “Don’t you worry about that, honey. Shipment’s coming today. Twenty pounds of sprinkles.”

  I made a note to myself to make a social media post about the arrival of so many sprinkles.

  “Did you do this all yourself? Mix up the dough and shape the ball?” I asked.

  “Chris helped at the start. But he’s got something he needs to deal with. He left in the wee hours and might not be back until after the doughnut event.”

  “What?” I said in disbelief.

  Dad was still gazing at the giant ball of dough. “Yep. Chris was a trouper all night with this thing, but he’s got some personal issues, so I’m cutting him loose for a few days. He humored me last night, though, since the vats came in. We were here all night, mixing the dough, giving it time to rise. I did take a nap on the couch in my office for a while, so don’t worry about me. I’m all ready for another fabulous day at Fabuland. Although I probably stink. Do I stink, Ivy?”

  He paused for a second to take a sip of coffee but didn’t wait for an answer.

  “So I was thinking about who I trust to take over the publicity for this event since Chris won’t be available. And I’m thinking the only person who will do a good enough job for me is you.”

  “Oh. Okay. You mean the print media too? Newspapers and stuff? Not just Facebook and Instagram?”

  Dad pushed the floppy side of his hair back behind his ear. “You got it, hon. All of it. It’ll be good for college applications. You can say you were a publicity and marketing intern.”

  He waved at the giant ball of dough and continued.

  “You can start in my office. Chris has a spreadsheet of his media contacts and the dates each of us has contacted them—to his knowledge, anyway. Sometimes I make spontaneous calls he doesn’t know about, when inspiration hits. He’s got most of the numbers and email addresses you’ll need. Janelle at the Herald and Daniel at the Gazette are top of the list. I’ve got the number of the features desk chair at Channel Twelve News on speed dial in the contacts in my phone, if we decide to go that route.”

  “But…where do you want me to start?”

  “Just look at the spreadsheet. Chris will have noted who he reached out to when and what kind of response he got. Use your judgment about which are the live ones, which ones you want to follow up on right now.”

  “Okay…but how should I explain myself? My job at the park? Aren’t most of these people used to talking to a business contact who’s…uh…an adult?”

  Dad lifted the sheet again and touched the dough ball gently with his fingertips. “You’re adult enough, Ivy. I trust you.”

  “But…”

  He pulled the sheet back down with such force that it fell off the tiki torch on one side.

  “Shit,” he muttered, then turned to me. “No one’s going to ask you how old you are. You carry yourself like a woman. You have for years.”

  I was silent. Dad took a gulp of coffee, then fiddled with the sheet, trying to throw the loose end back onto the tiki torch.

  “Why don’t you go to my office now and start your work? Julia Shaw is selling bagged cotton candy at the ice cream kiosk, and we’ll put you back on the machine in the afternoon.”

  “It shouldn’t take me long to update the media stuff.” I hesitated, reluctant to go up to his office and spend the morning alone. “You need any help here?”

  “No. John Wisniski is helping, and Carl Norton. And Winnie.”

  Winnie. No last name required. For some reason that irritated me. Why did Winnie get to do the fun stuff, while I was stuck in his office, calling media contacts who were probably tired of overenthusiastic Fabuland personnel calling about a giant pastry?

  “Who’s on carousel?” I asked.

  “I’ve got it all covered, honey. We’re going to try out the big frying vat right back here. Tim’s going to cordon off this section so nobody can wander back here and hurt themselves, but people will be able to see the big dough ball being fried from a distance.”

  “Does everyone have safety gear? Isn’t hot oil going to go splashing everywhere when you guys try to lower this thing into a giant vat of oil?”

  “I’ve already thought of all that, okay? Of course we’re not going to just toss it in there. What do you take me for?” Dad grinned. “We’ve got a whole plan, with the cherry picker and a net and a pulley and beekeeper suits.”

  I stood there for a moment, trying to determine if he was joking about the beekeeper suits. Or all of it.

  “I’m going to snap a picture of your preparations,” I said, pulling my phone out. “To post on social today.”

  “Great idea, Ivy.”

  Dad pulled the sheet off the tiki torch again and posed with a warm grin, his arms folded, one foot up on a small cooler that was sitting in the grass. The exuberance in his expression made me feel guilty that I couldn’t muster anything close.

  “Good one,” I said, replacing my phone in my pocket.

  “Go on ahead to the office now.” Dad grabbed me by the elbow and pointed me in the directio
n of the administration building. “My laptop’s open on my desk with Chris’s spreadsheet.”

  * * *

  • • •

  First I took care of the social posts of Dad by his dough ball. I swiveled around in his office chair for a while, trying to decide on the perfect caption to convey my father’s voice and enthusiasm.

  Practice doughnut!! Can’t wait to share the real thing with you all on Saturday, July 21!

  I gazed at the words for a moment, deleted them, and then typed, Kinda looks like a big tit, actually. But not in a bad way.

  I stared at those words the same way one stares over the side of a bridge or the railing of a long stairwell—with this weird, counterintuitive feeling that if you look too long, you might just get a rogue impulse to jump. I hit the Delete button quickly, before my index finger could get a chance at a similar impulse with the Return key.

  We were up all night testing the perfect dough recipe, and it’s coming out fabulous. Join us on Saturday, July 21, for our Super Doughnut unveiling!

  I hit Return this time.

  Then I checked Chris’s spreadsheet. Based on his notes, it looked like he’d planned to follow up with Janelle at the Herald.

  A secretary answered the number I called, saying, “East County Herald, how can I direct your call?”

  “Is Janelle Schneider available, please?”

  “What is this regarding?”

  “An event at Fabuland,” I said.

  “And who shall I say is speaking?”

  “My name is Ivy Cork.” I swallowed self-consciously. “I’m filling in for our manager, who’s been in contact with Janelle recently.”

  “I see. One moment, please.”

  While I waited, I studied the contact list a bit farther down. Chris had Channel 12 News listed near the bottom, with an email address but no notes.

  “Ma’am? Janelle is actually on the phone right now. She’ll call you back. She knows the day and time of the special event, if that’s what this call is about. And she will be sending someone. Were there additional details you wished to discuss?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll chat with her about those particulars when I get her return call. I’ll give you my number. Our manager is unavailable right now, so I’ll be the contact for the event.”

  After I’d given the secretary my number and thanked her, I got up from the desk.

  I found it emotionally taxing, pretending I cared this deeply about a doughnut, willfully ignoring the obvious fact that these people were only humoring me. I needed a couple of minutes to breathe and replenish my intestinal fortitude before making another call.

  I wandered over to the file cabinets and opened the one labeled Rides. I found a sea of colored plastic folders with alphabetized tabs: All-Star. Boing-Boing. Cazam! It didn’t take me long to find Yo-Yo in the back.

  The top piece of paper in the file had New Hampshire Department of Safety across the top. Below that it said Tramway and Amusement Ride Division.

  The document was from the summer before last. So the ride had last been inspected under Mr. Moyer’s ownership. Dad had taken the Yo-Yo out of the park sometime around the end of last summer, when he’d first started expanding the little kids’ section.

  I brought the Yo-Yo file to my dad’s desk and looked at the minimal paperwork, which included a manufacturer description of the ride.

  Manufacturer: Zumpro

  Weight: 48 tons

  Power: 125A 400V

  Capacity: 24 riders

  Mount Type: Portable or park

  “The Yo-Yo” is built on a single trailer. A rotating hub with four gondolas that swing to a maximum height of 70 feet. It features over-the-shoulder safety restraints.

  There wasn’t really much information—it was a simple brochure, more of an advertisement than a technical document. It had a couple of color photos. A typed paper behind it showed that Mr. Moyer had purchased the ride four years before he’d sold Fabuland to Dad.

  In the brochure photographs, the ride had neon yellow beams and red and yellow seats. I did a double take. This morning, I’d noticed that the ride was purple. Did the Yo-Yo come in different color options? I examined the brochure and didn’t see anything about color choices.

  I tried to remember what color it had been the one time I’d ridden it with Morgan and a few other friends. Of course, the memory was simply of terror—Morgan’s good-natured screaming, my praying for an end from behind closed lids. It was a memory generally devoid of color and other visual details.

  I picked up my phone.

  Did the Yo-Yo used to be a different color? I typed, and sent the message to Jason.

  As I returned the file to the cabinet, I heard the vroom sound of a text message coming in. It wasn’t my phone, which was set to vibrate, but my dad’s, which was just sitting on his desk. Of course he’d wanted to be unavailable while tending to his dough balls.

  I glanced at the message that had come in.

  Let me know if you need another set of those big tongs, someone had written.

  Below that was another, earlier message that had come in the night before at 11:24. I knew I shouldn’t be looking at my dad’s texts, but two words in particular—the first words of that text—caught my eye. Your daughter.

  I pressed the home screen again so it lit up for longer, then leaned closer to the phone and read the whole message.

  Your daughter came to my place tonight and was asking me questions. I didn’t know what to say. Did you know she was coming?

  Your daughter. Me. I didn’t recognize the number. I’d talked to three people last night—my mom, Jason, and Reggie. It wasn’t my mom’s number, and it was unlikely she’d write him a message referring to me as “your daughter.” And of course it wasn’t from Jason.

  I picked up the phone and looked at the number, comparing it to the number for Reggie that Jason had given me. It was a match.

  I could hear my heart in my ears now. I took a breath.

  A text buzzed on my phone.

  Yup, Jason had written.

  I paced the floor of the office. I sat down on the couch for a second, then stood up again. As I did so, I caught a glimpse of myself in the shortening fun-house mirror. There I was, all squished and squat.

  I always knew you wanted to stay small.

  I stared at my shortened self and considered those words. I wasn’t sure my father had ever said them. I just thought them when I looked in this mirror.

  Wearing plain summer clothes now, I looked not only shorter but also younger. Or…actually…older. I wasn’t sure. I was confused. My heart was beating too hard for me to decide.

  And in any case, I had some questions for my father, and I intended to ask them. I pocketed my phone and ran down the office stairs.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Someone had delivered three beekeeper suits. Dad was trying on yellow beekeeper gloves. Almost everyone else on the lawn behind the pavilion was smiling and laughing. Except Winnie, who was connecting all the cables running from the pavilion to the vat on the lawn. She looked bored.

  “Dad, I need to talk to you,” I said in a low voice. I knew it was going to be difficult to pull him away from this miniature circus of his own making.

  “Can’t now, sweetheart.” Dad was looking at his gloved hands. “We’re just about to heat up the oil.”

  Winnie put one hand on her hip, watching me from several yards away. Her posture accentuated the ample curve of her chest—which somehow scared me more than her determined stare.

  “It’s pretty serious,” I said quietly.

  Dad looked up. “Something with one of the media contacts?”

  “Umm, no. Can you just…come to the office for a sec?”

  “Let’s talk in the pavilion and we’ll see if I need to come to the office.”
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  I nodded, and once we were under the shade of the pavilion, I showed Dad his phone.

  “What’s this about?” I asked.

  Dad glanced at the phone, then tried to grab it from me with his gloved hands. He missed several times, then yanked the gloves off. “What were you doing reading my text messages?”

  “Dad—that’s not really the point. Why would Reggie have written you last night?”

  He stuck the gloves under his arm and snatched his phone away. “I don’t know. Beats me. I haven’t been on my phone all night.”

  “Why would he tell you I came to see him? Do you know what happened last night? Why would—”

  “Ivy, the bottom line is that you shouldn’t have been snooping.”

  That didn’t seem like the bottom line to me at all. It didn’t seem like my dad knew what had happened to Reggie, but I didn’t want to talk about it within earshot of Winnie and the others.

  “I wasn’t,” I said. “You’re the one who made me your press secretary. The phone made a noise and I looked at it. And you yourself said your Channel 12 News contact was in there.”

  “You were snooping.” Dad’s face was red. “And I trust you not to do things like that. You’re one of the few people I trust that way. I hope you’re not about to make me regret it.”

  “I need you to tell me what this is about,” I insisted, ignoring the smarter voice in my head saying, Shut up, Ivy. Shut up right now.

  “I’m not having this conversation. If you can’t figure out how to respect my privacy, then we’re going to have a problem. And I don’t need any more problems right now. Can’t you see that I have a lot going on?”

  I opened my mouth. I had words, but none of them came out. Instead, I sucked in a breath and held it.

  “We’ll talk later,” Dad said through his teeth. “Not in front of these folks. Go back to the office.”

  I folded my arms. I gazed beyond him. I saw Winnie was staring at us, openmouthed. I wondered if she’d heard about Reggie and the girl in the weird flowered dress. Neither of the two other guys was watching us, at least. One was wearing a full beekeeper suit and talking in a loud alien voice while the other laughed.