Flor and Miranda Steal the Show Page 7

  Randy stepped out from behind me and waved.

  “She’s new to the carnival,” I said. “But she hasn’t been on any of the rides yet. This will be her first.”

  Deb touched the edge of her visor and bowed her head. “I’m honored.”

  “We don’t have any tickets, though. Will you let us on?”

  Someone behind us huffed impatiently.

  Deb clicked down twice on the little counter she carried to keep track of how many spaces were left on the ride. “Get in there,” she whispered. “You two have fun, all right?”

  Four metal steps led up to the Gravitron’s entrance. They rattled under our feet as we climbed aboard. Inside, red and white lights flashed in time with the thump, thump, thump that pulsed through crackly speakers.

  Randy tried to tell me something, but I couldn’t hear.

  “Huh?”

  She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “There aren’t any seats!”

  “No seats,” I agreed.

  On the Gravitron, everyone stood in a circle and leaned back on black vinyl cushions. At the center of the circle was a control station where the ride operator sat. It was Marcus this time—it was almost always Marcus. He was the only one who could stand being inside the Gravitron for hours at a time. He wore headphones over his ears to muffle the music, and sunglasses to block the blue and green lights that whizzed above his head like a siren.

  Sometimes, on setup nights, when the work was done and there weren’t any guests yet, Marcus would bring out his guitar and sing campfire songs for all of us. He was teaching Mikey and me to play a little, even. When he saw me, he pushed his sunglasses up over his forehead and pointed at two spots next to each other.

  We hurried toward them, then leaned back and waited.

  “Aren’t there any seat belts?”

  “No seat belts either.”

  “So we just stand here? And it spins?”

  “Pretty much.”

  She pressed her lips together. I couldn’t tell if she was nervous or disappointed.

  I’d avoided the Gravitron for months after we first joined the carnival. All that screaming coming from inside made me wonder why anyone would get on to begin with. I made excuses whenever Mikey came around to see if I wanted to get on. I said my papá needed me to rake out the pen, or that one of the animals had gotten sick. But then, the minute she was finally tall enough, Maria tried the Gravitron and said it was the best ride at the whole carnival. Maria was three years younger. If she wasn’t afraid, I had to give it a try at least.

  “Actually, I think you’ll like it,” I told Randy. Suddenly, I wanted her to like it the same way I had once wanted the kids from school to like our ranch. If they liked the ranch, then they might like me too. They might stop thinking it was weird the way I talked about animals all the time. They might want to come over even when it wasn’t for a field trip. Except they never did.

  My stomach, which had been woozy after all the fair food we ate, was now bubbly with nervous excitement. That was what it must feel like to have a new friend over to your house for the first time, I thought. To throw open the door to your bedroom and show off all your best things. To hope she thought it was all exactly as great as you did.

  When all the spaces on the Gravitron were filled, Marcus got out of the operator’s booth to pull the doors shut. Randy flinched when the latch clanged.

  I used to hate that part too, when everything was about to begin and you couldn’t do anything but wait for it.

  Back behind the control panel, Marcus read the safety instructions. No somersaults, no backflips, no headstands, no spins. He sounded bored. He probably read those instructions more than a hundred times a day, and almost no one paid attention when he did.

  “Please remain standing,” he droned.

  “Permanecen de pie,” Randy said in that strange way she was always repeating things in Spanish. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Remain standing.”

  The lights went out. Everyone screamed.

  “Enjoy your ride.” Marcus flicked his sunglasses back over his eyes and gave me a thumbs-up. Then he flicked on a black light that made the middle of my Rancho Maldonado shirt glow purplish white.

  “What’s going on?” Randy’s teeth were glowing too. The music blared. Every beat shot up through my toes and straight to my temples.

  It was too late for me to answer. We were already spinning. A red-and-yellow starburst flashed on the ceiling. The lights whirling around Marcus’s booth morphed into a blue-green blur.

  The faster we spun, the louder we screamed. Our seat backs crept upward, but we didn’t fall, we floated. The man next to me ignored the safety instructions and balanced on his head.

  Randy’s eyes were still shut, so I shook her arm. She couldn’t miss this.

  “Look!”

  She was suspended at least a foot off the floor. That was the way the Gravitron worked. It spun around so fast, it pinned you to the wall, and for a while at least, you really could defy gravity.

  Randy started screaming too. But it wasn’t a scared scream. It was a laughing scream, a giddy scream, a Gravitron scream.

  Once in a while, if we weren’t in a hurry to get back on the road, Mr. Barsetti let us keep a ride or two open after a carnival had closed. Not very often—“soaring cost of electricity, you know”—but sometimes. And on those nights, Mikey and I always used to beg for one of the rides to be the Gravitron. When it was full of guests like this, we had to obey all the rules.

  When it was just us carnival kids, though, no one cared if we climbed all the way up to the ceiling or walked sideways across the walls.

  Next time, we would have to bring Randy with us. Maybe after the carnival closed that night.

  Then I remembered: Whatever happened that night, we probably wouldn’t come back to ride the Gravitron together. Miranda and I were not really friends. I didn’t want her around. The longer she stayed, the more I had to worry.

  The Gravitron began to slow. “Please return to a standing position,” Marcus warned. “Your ride is coming to an end.”

  Everyone booed. The pressure against my shoulders eased. I slid back to the ground, a little at a time. As soon as the Gravitron bumped to a stop, the regular white lights turned back on. The music was softer now, but I could still feel it pulsing in my ears. Randy took off her hat and fanned herself with it.

  “That. Was. Amazing,” she said.

  “I’m glad you liked it.” And even though it was hard to admit, I really was.

  Marcus was at the door, taking people under the elbow and helping them down, just in case they were too dizzy to get out safely on their own.

  When it was our turn to go, he winked at me. Instead of guiding us off the ride, he steered us back around the circle. “One more time?” he said as the music thumped on.

  I started to shake my head. But Randy jumped up from behind me. “Yes!”

  Miranda

  (4:15 P.M.)

  My legs wobbled like strawberry jelly, and my jaw ached from screaming, and I could’ve stayed on the Gravitron for another ten turns.

  The operator would’ve let us stay on, at least for a third ride. I could tell by the way he held his arm out like a challenge as we followed the other riders toward the exit. Flor must not have seen him, though. She pushed me right out the door.

  For a little while, when the ride was spinning the fastest, it almost felt like being onstage, the music thumping, all of us floating, my voice getting all jumbled up with everyone else’s. Junior and Ronnie would have loved it. Well, Ronnie would have pretended like she didn’t. She would’ve complained about her hair getting tangled, or people stepping on her toes or something. But she would’ve loved it. She would have lined up to ride again. Dad would’ve never gotten on in the first place, but more than anyone, I wished he had been there. Maybe he would have seen that sometimes the best thing you can do is lean back and let go.

  “Amazing,” I said again and again as we step
ped, blinking, back into the bright afternoon. My voice sounded far away. Hollow, and a little scratchy. I hoped it was just my ears readjusting to the quiet.

  “Hey, does my voice sound weird to you?”

  “Weird how?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I stretched open my jaw. I cleared my throat. “Like… hoarse?” I was going to have to be more careful if I wanted to have any voice left that evening.

  “You’re not losing your voice, are you? Was it from the screaming, do you think?” Flor looked over my shoulder, back at the Gravitron, as we walked away from it. “Maybe we should get on again, I mean if you liked it so much.”

  “Probably shouldn’t.” The words sounded sandpapery rough at their edges.

  “Well, then what do you want to get on next?” she asked. “Bumper cars? Log Jammer? You don’t mind getting a little bit wet, do you?”

  I didn’t mind at all. My head was baking under my ball cap, and any makeup still left on my face after I’d washed earlier had definitely melted down my cheeks by then. A spray of cold water would have been perfect. Perfecto. I looked up where Flor was pointing and watched a log-shaped boat tilt over the edge of a steep chute of fast-running water and drop.

  Everyone inside screamed—it sounded like birds twittering from where we stood—as water splashed over the log.

  Still. Discipline, I heard Dad say. Sacrifice. I shook my head. No more screaming. My voice needed rest. “Does anyone sell hot tea around here?” I looked around for a booth that wasn’t candy-colored.

  Flor wrinkled her nose. “There’s always a big pot of coffee in the cafeteria tent. It’s hot, but it smells like a burned-out campfire, and Mamá always says it’s as thick as mud. Later on, when the sun goes down, some of the food stands will start selling hot chocolate. But no hot tea. Not in the middle of summer.”

  “Didn’t think so.” She was still thinking, though, like it really bothered her that there was something the carnival didn’t have.

  “Iced tea, though, I know where you can get iced tea. Any flavor you want. They sell mango iced tea at the Barbecue Pit, or passion fruit over at Paradise Grill. If you want plain iced tea, we can get that pretty much anywhere.” She looked like she was about to take off again to prove it to me, so I stepped in front of her.

  “No, that’s all right,” I whispered. I touched my throat. “Maybe… maybe I should just go back to my motor home. But can we stop at your petting zoo on the way? I want to say good night to Chivo.”

  Flor looked away, but I couldn’t tell what at. Her bangs had fallen in her face again. She bit her lip.

  “No, you don’t want to go yet,” she said finally, swiping the hair out of her eyes. “It’s too early. If you want to see some more animals, I know where we can find more animals. Lots more. Goats too. Let’s go.” She was off, leading us away from the crowded midway and toward a rectangular building near the back of the fairgrounds, right behind the side stage. The black letters painted over the entrance said EXHIBITION HALL. Flor paused, one hand on the door, and waited for me to catch up.

  “We can cut through here.” An air-conditioned blast blew into our faces as she pulled it open. The exhibition hall was just as packed as the midway, only inside, voices rose up and echoed against the walls so all I could hear was a low, mumbling hum. Every now and then, a snippet of conversation, like a favorite lyric, cut through the noise.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever come across a dahlia with such a large bloom before, have you? It’s the size of a pie plate!”

  “Did you get to taste the strawberry-rhubarb jam? Exquisite.”

  “You know what I could go for right about now? Nachos.”

  Be sure you go to Carolina’s Cantina, I wanted to tell them. Ask for the bucket. But I couldn’t tell who had said it. The way sounds bounced against the walls in the hall, whoever it was could have been standing right next to me, or they could have been on the opposite side of the building.

  We walked by a collection of quilts draped over wooden racks. One, with a red prize ribbon pinned to the corner, showed a sun setting behind craggy mountains. It looked like a painting, only it was made of fabric scraps: purples and blues and oranges and grays. On another quilt, pink-and-yellow pinwheels tumbled across a pale green background.

  I ran my fingers across shelves stacked with cans of peaches, cherries, and plums. Grape jelly, strawberry jam, orange marmalade, lemon relish. I imagined one of Junior’s cans of Spaghetti-Os up there and smiled. And then I realized they were all probably wondering where I was and when I’d be back.

  We made our way to the far end of the building, where judges were sampling bites from five different apple pies. We didn’t stay to see who won.

  Instead, Flor led us through another set of doors, back outside, and onto ground that was damp and squishy. The air smelled green and… mucky.

  I pinched my nose. “What is that?”

  “Livestock,” Flor said. She inhaled deeply. “But first, let’s see the poultry.”

  Hens were clucking. I read the labels attached to their metal cages. An Orpington shook out her gold-brown feathers before settling down with a quiet cackle. Dominiques—those were black and white—scratched at the sawdust that lined the bottom of their cages.

  A boy dressed all in white, except for the green scarf around his neck, lifted a rooster with silky black tail feathers out of its cage. He popped open a bottle of baby oil and rubbed a little of it on the rooster’s comb and feet.

  I yanked on one of Flor’s sleeves. “What is he doing?”

  “He’s probably getting ready for showtime.”

  “Showtime? It’s an act? All these people—they aren’t with us, are they? With the carnival?” I knew I hadn’t been paying close attention to what happened off the side stage, but I didn’t think I could have somehow missed a traveling barnyard.

  Flor opened her mouth a little, like she wasn’t sure I was serious. Then she laughed.

  “Hey, don’t laugh!—I’ve never been here, remember?”

  She stopped. “Sorry. No, it’s not an act. It’s sort of like… a contest. All these kids are from here, from Dinuba. They raise their animals and they bring them to the fair to compete for prizes. The oil helps make the rooster’s comb all shiny. Judges look for little details like that.”

  Farther down, on the other side of the aisle, a girl in the same white uniform cleaned her bird with what looked like a diaper wipe. Still another girl crouched with a turkey held tight against her leg. I jumped back. Until then, the closest I had ever been to a turkey was at Thanksgiving dinner. This one was bigger and a lot more…alive.

  “Don’t worry,” Flor said. “She trained it. That’s part of the competition.”

  The girl spread out the turkey’s wing, flicked away some wood shavings that clung to its feathers, and tucked the wing back in. The turkey held its head high. It gobbled like it was proud of itself. “Buena suerte,” I whispered. “Good luck.”

  Past the chickens and turkeys were larger pens with goats and lambs. Kids reached underneath them with clippers to trim their hair. They swabbed the insides of their ears with damp washcloths. There were parents around, but they weren’t working. Some were reading, or knitting, and some napped on camp chairs.

  Inside one of the pens was a lamb with a baby-blue blanket spread over his back, and white gym socks on his feet.

  “Look at you,” I said, crouching in front of him. “Look at your little socks.” I reached out to scratch his nose, but Flor put her hand in front of mine to stop me.

  “I was just going to say hello.”

  “But look: Someone must have just finished giving this lamb a bath. They probably wouldn’t want anyone to mess with him. That’s why he has the socks on—so he doesn’t get all dirty again before the show.”

  “You sure know a lot about this stuff.”

  Flor dropped her head, and her bangs fell over her eyes. “You think that’s weird? The kids at school used to say all I ever talked about
was animals. They thought it was weird.”

  “My friends said all I ever talked about was singing. I don’t think it’s weird. I just think you know a lot, that’s all.” I stood up. “Lo siento, oveja. Sorry, sheep. Stay clean.”

  Then my ears caught a rumble of energy and excitement from somewhere close by.

  I’d know that sound anywhere.

  Applause.

  “Where’s that coming from?” I asked, turning in a circle. “Is there another stage back here? A concert? A magician?”

  “No,” Flor said. “That’s the auction.”

  Flor

  (4:30 P.M.)

  According to the rules where we were living, you had to be at least eight years old to bring an animal to compete at the county fair. It felt strange remembering a time when we were just guests at the carnival. But before we joined Barsetti & Son, Mamá and Papá and I never missed the county fair, and we always went to the livestock rings when kids were showing the animals they had raised.

  I couldn’t wait to be one of them with a crisp white shirt and a green scarf tied under my collar—even if it meant standing out there in the middle of the ring with everybody watching me. My favorites were the beef projects. The kids would lead their calves, red-and-white Herefords and black-and-white Holsteins, around the ring by halters. Even though they were sometimes taller and always heavier, the animals obeyed, mostly, when the kids nudged their feet into place with pointy-tipped show sticks. And they stood, calm and still, heads raised high, when the judges patted their muscles.

  Those kids didn’t get teased for knowing everything there was to know about their animals. They didn’t get laughed at when they could answer questions like How much does this animal eat a day? Can you show us where its dewlap is? Where does sirloin come from?

  Instead, they got prizes. It wasn’t like at school, not even close.

  This one Sunday, when we were still living at the ranch, Papá and I found an owl pellet out in the middle of the cherry orchard. To tell the truth, Papá was the one who found it. It was just a black lump, like a dirt clod, and I would have missed it if he hadn’t shown me. I brought it to school the next day and passed it around right after lunch recess.