By a Charm and a Curse(22)

I’m doubled over laughing, both unable to believe the balls on that girl and also completely aware that Whiskey probably has more balls than the Moretti brothers combined. I still have a few doughnuts left and am about to go chase after her, when I feel someone staring at me.

There, in the cab of Leslie’s truck, sits the new Girl in the Box. She stares at me with wide, somber eyes. She was pretty before, and while she still looks like herself, she also looks ethereal, like she’s not from this world. The paleness of her skin contrasts sharply with her dark hair, which swoops across her forehead to curl over one cheek and beneath her delicately pointed chin. Her gaze locks onto mine, dark honey-gold eyes piercing, and I realize how we must have looked to her. How exclusionary, cliquish. The urge to apologize is an ache in my chest. But before I can figure out what to say, the girl turns her head, focusing on Sidney, who sits beside her.

I’m halfway back to the Gran Torino when I see Gin leaning gracefully against the passenger door. Marcel has one hand propped up near her shoulder and seems to get closer to Gin with every word that comes out of his mouth. The message couldn’t be clearer.

Part of me is ridiculously happy—if Marcel can come to a decision one way or another about Gin, that puts us one step closer to getting away from here. Or at least, it puts me one step closer. But while I know I should let Marcel drive Gin in the car, this means I’m stuck doing the very thing I didn’t want to do earlier—riding with my mother.

But getting what I want in the long run is better than a potentially uncomfortable conversation with my mother. I mean, I’ve survived hundreds of those. How bad could one more be?

My mom’s eyebrow twitches upward when I climb into the cab of the truck, but she doesn’t say anything, not yet. The cars and trucks and vans file back onto the highway, those up front setting a slow pace so the caravan can stick together. It’s not until we’re all rumbling down the highway again that she speaks. “I don’t appreciate what happened earlier.”

I sigh. I love my mom, I really do, but it doesn’t help that she’s quite possibly one of the most combative people I’ve ever met in my entire life. Maybe it has something to do with excelling in a field typically dominated by men, always having to stand up for herself and prove that she can do anything a male carpenter can do, if not better. Or maybe she’s still protective of me, always thinking of the car accident that killed my dad and nearly took me with it. Whatever it is, I’d be really glad if she would at least tone it down with me. “Sorry,” I say, though there isn’t much by way of apology in the tone of my voice. “I just needed some space.”

She huffs out a small, sarcastic laugh. “Space” can be hard to come by in our cramped living quarters and the fact that we see the same people day in and day out. “Well, strange things are afoot. Time for us to really stick together.”

The “we need to stick together” shtick isn’t new. But her intensity is.

I dare a glance toward her, but she’s concentrating on the road as if we were driving up a curving mountain in the snow, not the flat, barren plains of Oklahoma. “I don’t really see how I’m not,” I say, bracing myself for her to go into great detail as to how I’m wrong.

Her gaze darts over to meet mine. “You know who I’m talking about.”

…

Ardmore, Oklahoma, is flat and brown and dull. At first glance, none of the buildings seem to be more than one story. The streets have fewer cars and more people walking around. The caravan stops on one of the smaller side streets. A select group of performers—Gin and Whiskey, the Moretti brothers, the fire-eaters—clamber out of trucks and vans, ready to perform as we make our molasses-slow trek through town.

Leslie once told me this was cheaper by far than an actual parade. The sight of the brothers tumbling and plumes of fire spilling from our fire-eaters’ mouths piques the interest of the passersby. Gin and Whiskey, barefoot and wearing simple dancer’s leotards and tights, balance on the naked backs of their horses as they clop alongside trailers laden with tarp-covered machinery. Even though our truck is toward the end of the procession, the effect our performers have on the townies is evident. Faces glow with wonderment, children twist around to watch even as their parents lead them away. One can’t help but smile in return.

A loud, hollow thump breaks my concentration. Antonio Moretti has leaped onto the hood of our truck, the metal groaning in protest under his weight. But he nimbly jumps from the hood to the roof of the cab to the top of the Airstream, and even though our windows are rolled up, I can hear the gasps of the townies as they follow his movements.

“Show-offs,” I mutter.

“They get butts in seats,” Mom says, grinding out the words from between her teeth as she leans forward in her seat to check the hood for lasting damage.

After our makeshift parade, we set up in a field not five miles away from city hall. Even though I’ve helped make it happen hundreds of times, I’m always amazed at the way the carnival unfolds with clockwork precision. The trucks and trailers zip to their places, always the same, no matter where we land. Machinery and rides unfurl like the petals of big mechanical flowers. What had been nothing more than a pile of pipes and carriages turns into Lars’s Ferris wheel. The massive tarp covering the haunted house ride comes down with the aid of a handful of workers and the giant spider and bat are hoisted to the roof.