Dreamland (Riley Bloom #3)(29)
Though it wasn’t long before I realized that Satchel had no one else to go with.
Satchel had no friends.
His life consisted only of his parents, schoolwork, and the family’s thrice weekly visits to church. And if he was good—very, very good—then maybe they’d allow him to go to a child-friendly movie—an outing that he treasured above everything else. Those moments in a darkened theater, watching a story come to life on a screen, were the only small pleasures he was allowed. Which is more than he could say for his parents, whose lives seemed to hold no pleasure at all.
His mother spent long hours at the ironing board, starching the collars and sleeves of the stiff, white shirts Satchel wore to school and his father wore to work. Satchel’s father rose early each day, showered, dressed, and had a quick bite to eat before heading to work. And while Satchel wasn’t exactly sure what he did, he knew it had something to do with numbers.
“Numbers are safe—numbers are low risk,” his father always said. “If you know how to work ’em, then they always add up in the end.”
The carnival was only in town for a week, and all of the kids at school had been talking about it—though of course no one actually mentioned it to him, Satchel had merely overheard them.
He was too weird—too creepy—and he came from a really weird, creepy family—or at least those were the most quoted excuses kids used to avoid him.
But from the moment Satchel glimpsed the tip of the Ferris wheel on a rare trip into town, he wanted nothing more than to see it up close—wanted to see if it was anything like the one in the movie he once saw.
Knowing he wasn’t allowed to go on his own (he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere on his own except school, church, and the occasional movie, and even then, only during the day—anywhere else was deemed far too dangerous for a boy of thirteen), he’d made a deal with his parents. Promising that if they would just accompany him—then he would agree to not go on any rides, not eat anything made of sugar, and not waste any of his father’s hard-earned pennies on games his father claimed were probably rigged anyway.
A promise he had every intention of keeping until he saw her.
Mary Angel O’Conner.
The girl who sat a few rows before him in school—the girl with the glorious mane of long red hair that spilled over the back of her chair like a trail of smoldering embers. Those silken strands gleaming in the slant of noonday sun that crept through the window—appearing so glossy, so inviting, Satchel imagined it would feel like warmed silk in his hand.
Unlike all the other kids, Mary Angel had, on more than one occasion, said a kind word to him. They were moments he’d never forget. Moments he replayed in his head again and again, like a favorite movie.
And there she was, surrounded by a large group of friends, though one glance at Satchel made it clear he saw only her.
I shot a nervous look first at his mom, then at his dad. Hoping they hadn’t noticed what had claimed their son’s attention, knowing they’d view it as a threat, try to make him fear it. I was already feeling really, really sorry for him.
But they didn’t see, they were too busy discussing all the dangers around them, completely unaware of the spark of an idea that just flared in Satchel’s mind—one that would’ve resulted in a hasty stroll toward the exit if they’d had even the slightest inkling of it.
I have to get away from my parents, he thought. I have to do whatever it takes to rid myself of them. I have to get far, far away—if only for a few seconds.
He yanked at the cuffs on his shirt, then patted his hair with his hand, two of his usual nervous tells. Deception did not come easily to him.
Carefully steering his parents in another direction, one that was opposite Mary Angel and her friends, he looked first to his mom, and then to his dad, as he said, “I think I just saw someone from school. May I go say hello, please?”
I stood off to the side, polishing off the last sticky strands of cotton candy, while his parents exchanged a worried look. His mother verging on no, the most overused word in her vocabulary, some might argue the only word. You could see it engraved on her face, the lines permanently stamped in the place where a smile could’ve, should’ve been.
While his father peered closely at Satchel and said, “Who? Who is this person you know from school?”
Knowing the truth would only land him in trouble at best, and back home at worst, he gulped, crossed his fingers behind his back in an attempt to lessen the sting of the lie, and said, “It’s just … it’s just one of the teachers. I want to ask her a quick question about Monday’s assignment, that’s all.” I veered closer as his parents consulted, listened as they discussed the possible merits along with the very real dangers of allowing him to drift off on his own. And just as his mother was about to say no once again, his father overruled her when he nodded and said, “We’ll wait here. Right here. We expect your return in three minutes.” Consulting his pocket watch to mark the time. “If you’re not back by then, we are coming to get you.” If it’d been me, I would’ve run like the wind to get the heck out of there, afraid of wasting a single second of such a ridiculously short time frame. But Satchel and I are nothing alike. Which means he didn’t run. Didn’t even consider it. Running could lead to falling, and falling was bad—a fact that was repeated to him ever since he’d taken his very first step.