Whisper to Me(59)

I looked. Paris was doing cartwheels down the middle of the pier, people scattering to either side of her, waves.

“Ha,” I said. “Yeah. When we were on the wheel … I felt it. The magic.”

“That’s what she does,” said Julie. “I mean … she has bad times too. She calls them the Black Days. When she can’t leave her room. But living with her … you almost start to believe in magic, you know?”

“I do,” I said. I remembered the crane, how it had seemed to tremble in my hand. “She said you didn’t believe in magic though.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah, she was talking about her cranes and the wish you get when you’ve made a thousand and she said that you would laugh at her.”

“Oh. Well, she’s probably right. Wishes don’t come true. Everyone knows that.”

I remembered all the times I had wished for my mom not to be dead. “Hmm,” I said. “I guess.”

“Abso-*******-lutely right,” said the voice.

“The thing about Paris … ,” said Julie. “She trusts people too much. She gets hurt. All the time.”

Had she glanced at me there? Shot me a warning?

“Uh, okay,” I said.

“Sorry,” said Julie, with a cough. “I just …”

She trailed off.

I thought:



— Riding the Ferris wheel when you’re afraid of heights.

— That strange smile when she said that Paris was “always like this.”

— That weird line about wishes not coming true.



“You love her,” I said, without thinking.

Julie nodded. “She’s my best friend.”

“No. I mean, you love her. I just figured it out.”

Side note: I said this proudly. Like, I was proud that I had guessed. Can you imagine? The arrogance? The stupidity?

Julie turned to look at me. She was walking quicker now; we were passing the Walk the Plank game. “What?”

“It’s cool. I’m not judging …”

Julie narrowed her eyes.

“And I mean … ,” I said, less confident now. “I’m not … You don’t have to worry about me, with Paris. I’m not … I mean …”

Julie laughed, a hollow laugh. “I’m not worried about you,” she said. “Not in that way anyway. You’re pretty obviously straight. As is Paris, incidentally.”

“Then what—”

“You heard her,” said Julie. “She’d hug the whole town if she could. Fold it in her arms. The thing about Paris: she loves everyone. She even loves her dad. And she hates her dad.”

“Right … ,” I said.

“She loves everyone. So, like I said, she gets hurt.”

“By?”

“By people leaving. Coming into her life, and then going.”

“And you think I’m going to do that?” I said.

Julie sighed. “I don’t think anything. You brought this up.”

Oh. That was right. I did.

“Sorry,” I said. “I speak before I think. But anyway, I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to just come into her life and then leave.”

“Good,” said Julie. “Paris … she sometimes makes bad choices, you know?”

“Like what?”

She looked at me, puzzled—that duh face that we all used to do as kids. “You know. What she does?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“It’s like the stupidest thing ever,” said Julie. “And all because she doesn’t want her dad’s money. I told her she could get a job in a bar, but that’s not Paris—not enough money, not quick enough, not exciting enough. I don’t mind the cam stuff but the parties … she has no idea who’s going to be there. What’s she going to do if a bunch of frat guys decide they want more than she’s offering?”

I hadn’t really thought about it till now—had just thought it seemed edgy and dangerous and exciting and cool, which gave me a flush of shame at Julie using basically those words, in a sarcastic way. Now I actually imagined it: going into a room with strange men, taking their money. Doing … stuff. “It sounds pretty dangerous,” I said.

“It’s very dangerous.”

“So why don’t you tell her how worried you are?” It had crossed my mind to bring it up myself, but I didn’t know Paris that well, and I didn’t want to upset her.

“I do, constantly,” said Julie. “It doesn’t make any difference. Now I just try to minimize the risk.”

Silence.

“Anyway,” said Julie, faux-bright. “Where are we going?”

“Pirate Golf,” I said. “We’re meeting some boys.”

“Oh good,” said Julie, with an ironic wink. “Boys.”





To get to Pirate Golf, we had to leave the pier we were on and go around to Pier One.

Which meant passing the restaurant.

Paris bought a beer and sucked on it like a thirsty builder as we walked the boardwalk. It takes—what, five minutes?—to walk from one pier to the other.