The Accidental Siren

11.4 Carnival

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 legs 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.