By a Charm and a Curse(33)
These are the hands of a disaster.
He takes my extended hand and instead of just passing over the brush, he pulls me down to sit beside him. Curling one arm around me, his warm fingers flex over mine, helping me to hold the brush steady. “Try.”
He’s already sketched out the lettering for the sign—Happy Birthday, Whiskey—so all we have to do is fill it in with her favorite colors—two different shades of bright blue on a field of pale orange. I want to sink into his warmth, to let it melt over me. The sun cracks through the downy clouds, warming our backs. I work slowly, not trusting my own hands, but, with Ben helping, the brushstrokes become more confident, and for short stretches of time the shaking actually stops.
I almost feel normal again.
I dare a glance at Ben, admiring the way his dark-gold lashes lie against his cheek, how his glasses are slipping down the bridge of his nose and he doesn’t even notice that he’s smearing orange paint across his face as he pushes them back into place. I could watch him for ages.
“Thank you,” I say, though there’s no way I could possibly voice everything I’m thankful for if he should ask. For his patience and his thoughtfulness, for the time he’s given me and how he doesn’t seem to fear me like the other carnies. Luckily, I don’t have to say a word.
He turns toward me, so close that his breath ghosts over my cheek. “You’re welcome.”
But not everything is quiet afternoons spent painting.
Subtle changes are happening within the supposed perfect confines of the carnival. I don’t quite know what the big deal is, but based on the reactions of my new friends, it is a big deal. A stubbed toe. A ride stuck on the tracks. A slight stumble during an otherwise flawless show. I’m told that these things do not happen in the carnival. They just don’t.
But now they do.
Theories are whispered among the carnies. Most of them are bunk. But there’s one that’s growing traction. I think the Morettis are behind it, though I’ve never actually heard the accusations come out of their mouths. There are different variations, some more specific than others. But it all boils down to me.
One version of the rumor is that I’m not spending enough time in the box, though I put in a good four to five hours a night in there. Another version going around is that I do put my time in, but I don’t care enough, and the charm can tell. Sidney tells me to ignore it, that our fellow carnies are suspicious by nature. It’s hard to ignore the angry looks thrown my way by people who are not as subtle as they seem to think they are. Yet none of them approach me or try to tell me how to do my job to my face. Apparently having a mouth that can condemn someone with a kiss comes with benefits.
Tonight is our second to last night outside Austin, in a small town called Round Rock. It seems as though we’ve seen all four seasons in our one week here, but Gin was quick to inform me that this is Texas, and I should never by surprised by what Texas weather does. Tonight a cold breeze sends brittle oak leaves and pine needles skittering down the alleys. As the last patrons are chased out of our gates, Ben waits for me while I close up the box. My pockets jangle with clinking coins. I’ve had a good night, but I’m still the Girl in the Box, so it’s not truly a good night.
“Ready?” Benjamin asks. He smiles when I turn to face him, a quick secret thing that he folds back in on itself before it truly blooms. For a brief second, I don’t feel the cold.
The beads on my dress catch the carnival lights in a hundred different ways as I shift my weight. “Is this a good idea?”
He runs a hand smudged with paint through his hair. “Well, considering the last time, the worst that might happen is we’d start calling you Grenadine instead of Emmaline.”
Most of the acts are winding down, but a few patrons still linger in the aisles, playing one last game or getting a bag of treats to take home. Ben and I pick our way through the carnival, grabbing things as we go, per Gin’s instruction. I nab some balloons that weren’t sold earlier in the day. There’s a small plate of fudge samples one of the vendors gives Ben when he tells her our plans for the evening. The whole time, I feel a nagging itch between my shoulder blades, as though we're being watched. But no matter how I twist and turn, regardless of if I’m sneaky or sly, I never see anything to suggest someone is paying the two of us particular attention.
Can’t shake that itch, though.
When we get back to my wagon, Gin is waiting for us, sitting on the steps. She hasn’t changed out of her performance costume either, so she seems brighter and sparklier than in real life. Ben should seem as dull as a newsprint photo compared to her, in his worn flannel shirt and paint-speckled jeans. Except he’s not. His eyes light up behind his old man glasses when he talks, and there’s a dimple that flashes every now and then. He seems too big to be in my small wagon, but there he is anyway. The sight makes me happier than it should, and I busy myself by cutting crepe paper into crooked streamers.
Ben anchors the balloons into a corner and then helps Gin string the fringe I just made back and forth under the ceiling. Finally, the Happy Birthday, Whiskey banner is strung up at the far end of the wagon. In my new tiny home, already stuffed to brimming with just three people in it, I feel calm, and almost warm. The only way I could feel cozier is if my family were here with us.
Marcel barely makes it inside before the birthday girl, and Gin pulls him over to her side of the wagon quickly, tucking herself beneath his arm. Whiskey careens up the steps of the wagon and throws her arms wide, already expecting our chorus of “Surprise!” Duncan, who was in charge of bringing her over, must have spilled the secret, but she’s loud and happy, and her cheeks are flushed pink. The wagon is full to bursting with people. Pia arrives late, and she and Duncan wind up sipping drinks and chatting on the steps as there just isn’t enough room for everyone.