Blindsided

A week passed quietly, and I had the luxury of acting like I was a normal college student for a brief span of time. There were no more attacks, mysterious deliveries, or asthmatic phone calls. I went to my classes every day, which remarkably seemed only to be growing more boring and unchallenging as the semester progressed and my professors lost any of their prior academic verve. I completed my homework each night, which took me an hour at most, and occasionally I pulled out my textbooks and forced myself to study until my eyes were drifting closed; memorizing the names and details of every major Supreme Court case over the last five decades is enough to put anyone to sleep. Mostly, though, I just tried to take Dr. Angelini’s advice by enjoying the blissful ease of living in the present.

In time, my bruises faded, then disappeared completely. The scrapes took longer, but each day Finn helped me apply antiseptic and change their bandages; he was also a firm believer that his kiss-it-better approach had real healing properties, and he’d insist on running his mouth over each of my injuries at least once a day.

I think it actually had more to do with him getting me naked, but I wasn’t exactly complaining.

The police had completely ruled out Gordon’s involvement in my attack, leaving me slightly unsettled and more than a little confused about the identity of my mystery attacker. I’d been so ready to believe it was him – to tie a neat little bow around the case and remove all of the unease that came with knowing the person who’d tried to rape – or maybe even kill – me that night was still walking around, a free man.

Apparently, Gordon had been occupied – quite publically – at the exact time I was battling for my life in the alleyway, with his tongue stuck down the throat of a cheerleader in full view of numerous Styx patrons. There was no way it could have been him, unless he had a super power that allowed him to be in two places at once.

Somehow, I doubted that was the case.

Since the attack, a constant air of unsettlement had lingered around me, and I was left with the distinct feeling that I wasn’t a good victim – not that there was anything good about being a victim, but rather that I wasn’t processing my trauma in the normal, healthy way. I thought a lot about what Dr. Angelini had told me, and was forced to accept the fact that I was probably walking through life more than a little numb from everything I’d experienced in my relatively short twenty – nearly twenty one – years on the planet.

Twenty-one: one of the biggest rights of passage for any young adult, especially on a college campus. Somehow, it held no appeal for me. I hadn’t actually celebrated a birthday in years and I didn’t plan to even mention this one’s arrival to Finn.

Maybe a part of that was because I’d had a fake ID since I was seventeen. Or maybe it was because I’d never enjoyed or even understood the concept of birthdays. They had always seemed rather pointless to me – just another meaningless demarcation of life’s value; society’s way of portraying our headless march toward the grave as some great gift, rather than an inevitability.

I mean, when you really think about it, aren’t birthdays just an opiate for mortality? Our way of saying, Congratulations! You’ve survived yet another year in this mess we call life. Here’s a piece of cake and a few balloons for your trouble.

I’d probably felt differently as a kid. Back when my mother was alive, birthdays had been the highlight of my year – filled with color and laughter, frosting and presents. Piñatas strung up in the backyard if the weather was nice. A slightly lopsided pink princess cake, frosted to perfection. Presents piled high on the kitchen table. My mother’s voice soaring above the rest, as the partygoers chorused in time…

Happy Birthday, Dear Brooklyn…

Those days had come to a quick end after she’d died. I couldn’t remember my seventh birthday. I knew it had been spent in the foster home, but like so many of my memories from that time, it was locked somewhere deep and unnavigable within my psyche.

Dr. Angelini told me that I couldn’t force the memories to reveal themselves, but that hadn’t stopped me from trying. When I’d close my eyes and turn my thoughts inward, I could sense the memories there – as if they were hidden in the shadows of my mind behind a thick gauzy curtain. The answers I wanted lurked just out of reach, and sometimes I even thought I’d caught a glimpse of one behind that opaque mental drape – a flash of color, a faintly reminiscent scent, a vaguely familiar face.

I wanted to reach into my head and tear down that curtain. Hell, I would’ve taken a crowbar to my memories to pry them out, if I’d thought it would do me any good. But, since that didn’t seem like a viable option, they remained frustratingly inaccessible to me.

I’d taken a biology course during my first semester of college – an odious and inescapable science breath requirement – and I remembered the days I’d spent hovering over the microscope, turning dials and adjusting light intensities as I tried to bring the microorganisms on my slides into view. The other kids in my class hadn’t batted an eye at the task, effortlessly illuminating their samples. Try as I might, though, I could never get the damn thing to focus.

Sadly, looking into the contents of my own brain was strangely reminiscent of those infuriating days in the biology lab.

Finn would have understood – if I’d told him, that is. I think he knew there was something going on with me, something more than just the attack or Gordon’s supposed innocence.

He would have been kind. Sympathetic. Helpful, even.

But how do you tell the person you love that you don’t even know your own mind? That there are parts of yourself, aspects of your soul – your innermost thoughts and memories – that you’ve blocked out or simply forgotten? That your brain doesn’t function normally – and that maybe it never will?

Things were good between us – great, actually. I was happy. Even more shockingly, I seemed to make Finn happy too. And, perhaps selfishly, I didn’t want to undermine that happiness. I didn’t want him to look at me differently, to treat me differently. So I held back.

At least, that’s the reason I gave myself to excuse my nondisclosure.

Because, just maybe, if I were really being honest, there was the inescapable fact that I myself wasn’t ready to face the dark questions that had begun to swirl through my mind – a violent maelstrom of suspicion and foreboding and inconceivable possibilities.

Sometimes the mind puts things together in an instant; a hundred pieces of the puzzle that have been lying scattered across the floor suddenly snap together like magic and the whole picture comes swiftly clear. Until that moment of clarity, though, you stare at those goddamn pieces so long they begin to blur out of focus, feeling like you must be missing those vital pieces that hold all the answers.

The truth was, on all those quiet nights of normalcy, my mind had begun to wander over all of the things that had been happening to me recently. I stared at all those pieces of the puzzle, lying on my carpet with seemingly no connectable edges or even a discernable pattern amongst them. I thought about the things I’d dismissed as nothing at the time, shrugged off as no big deal or stuffed down into the corners of my mind that I avoid looking at too closely, for fear of their contents.

But I couldn’t ignore the fact that there had been entirely too many strange incidents lately to be merely coincidental. Not anymore.

I’d sat on my rooftop looking up at the stars – late autumn constellations had always been my favorite, though I wasn’t sure why – and thought about the attack. And then, almost involuntarily, my mind shifted to examine all the anonymous phone calls I’d received.

Then, the eerie sensation I’d experienced more than a few times of being watched as I walked home or made my way across campus alone.

Then, the bizarre and still-unexplained black rose delivery – an apparent harbinger of my death.

Then, finally, things I’d never even spent a second thought on began to pop into my head, as if my brain were making quantum leaps from one seemingly random occurrence to another, too fast for me to keep up or consciously seek out the next part of the puzzle.

Snap, snap, snap, the pieces flew together, and a picture began to form…

The time I’d come home from class about a month ago to find the books on my desk slightly askew, as if someone had bumped into the furniture and accidentally knocked them out of place.

The way my appointment book, where I’d meticulously scribed all of my academic assignments, social invitations, and random thoughts, had disappeared right out of my backpack while I was in the student center killing time between classes a few weeks ago.

And, lastly, a man standing in the dark, leaning against his motorcycle and smoking a cigarette. Watching me as I sat on my rooftop in the pre-dawn hours of a chilly August night.

Could it all be connected?

Alone, none of these instances seemed like a big deal, but together? If I looked at the whole picture, if I considered them as one linked series of events, rather than single, isolated incidents…

The puzzle, though still missing some vital sections, was beginning to come together as a single, clear image: Someone was stalking me. Watching me. Trying to hurt me.

Was I crazy and overreacting? Was I paranoid?

Probably.

But once I’d opened my eyes to the possibility that this was all the work of one individual, one person who might want to hurt or scare me, I couldn’t unsee the connections my mind had forged. I couldn’t escape the ever-building, unshakeable belief that I was in danger. I could feel it in my bones, like a sixth sense or some innate defense mechanism; every atom in my body was screaming at me to run, hide, take shelter somewhere far away.

I didn’t know what – who – I was supposed to be running from, but from that moment on, I began to live my life waiting for the other shoe to drop. Finn knew; he could read me too well. We were lying in my bed one night, about a week after the attack. The sheets were a tangled mess around our bodies and he was strumming his guitar softly, humming under his breath as he played.

“You okay?” he asked when his fingers had settled into stillness.

“Fine,” I lied, staring up at the painted stars on my ceiling.

“You can tell me, you know.” He set aside his guitar, rolling over so we were lying face to face. “Anything.”

“I know,” I leaned in to kiss him softly, possessively, as was becoming my habit. I’d never had the opportunity to be soft, unhurried, with someone before; never experienced that gentle intimacy and familiarity of routine. It was so new, to kiss just for the sake of kissing; a kiss that leads nowhere, with no further intentions than to meet that person’s lips with your own, simply because you can.

“I’ll tell you soon. Promise,” I assured him. There was no use lying and pretending that everything was fine. He’d see straight through me, as he always had.

His brow furrowed and he opened his mouth, as if in preparation of saying something important. He stared at my face so intently I began to grow uneasy. After a small infinity of silence, though, his mouth snapped closed and he swallowed roughly, his eyes as distant as his thoughts.

Whatever he’d been about to tell me, he’d evidently decided to keep to himself. And as much as I would’ve liked to pry the thoughts from his lips, I knew that would be utterly hypocritical. After all, I was keeping my own secrets – who was I to force him to share his own before he was ready?

“I have a surprise for you,” he said instead, reaching over to grab an envelope from the nightstand. The playful light came back into his eyes and the tense moment passed as soon as he placed it in my hands.

Finn’s ‘surprise’ consisted of two tickets to the Charlottesville County Fair, an annual mecca of amusement rides, food stands, and carnival games that passed through the area for two weeks every November. The passes were for tomorrow – my birthday.

He’d known, without me ever mentioning a thing. I shouldn’t have even been surprised.

“Lexi?” I asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

He laughed. “Yeah, she did me the honor of informing me that my girlfriend is a bit birthday-phobic. But I already knew it was your birthday.” His voice was smug.

“How?” I asked skeptically.

He shrugged, grinning in an infuriatingly cute way. “I know everything.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, but couldn’t hold onto my mock anger when he pounced on me and began assaulting my sides with relentless tickle torture. I writhed on the bed, desperate to escape and borderline hyperventilating at his onslaught. Only when tears were leaking from the corners of my eyes and my threats had escalated beyond simple bodily harm, to promises of fatal retribution did he release me.

“I…hate….you,” I gasped for breath between each word, rolling as far away from him on the bed as I could get.

“Liar,” he laughed, rolling on top of me so I was pinned beneath him.

I glared at him, my chest still heaving as I pulled in gulps of air.

He looked down at me and kissed the tip of my nose.

“Happy Birthday, Bee,” he murmured, before his lips descended on mine and I forgot all about being mad at him.

***

“Come on,” I begged.

“No.”

“Finn!” I huffed.

“Absolutely not.”

“Pleaseeee.” I tried out my best pleading puppy-dog eyes.

“Nope.”

“But it’s my birthday.”

“You hate your birthday.”

Clearly, my attempts to appeal to his soft side weren’t working.

“I didn’t realize I was dating such a sissy,” I scoffed, changing tactics. When in doubt, threaten the manhood; they crumble every time.

“Did you just call me a sissy?” He asked, incredulous. “I thought we were celebrating your twenty-first birthday, not your fifth.”

“HA! If anyone’s a baby, it’s you. You’re the one who won’t even go on the Ferris wheel!”

“I don’t do heights.” The finality in his tone was unmistakable.

“Wow, I’m seeing a whole new side to badass Finn Chambers,” I laughed.

He glared at me, then turned to stare at the massive Ferris wheel with apprehension clear on his face. It probably wasn’t helping my case that the ride looked like it had been built about a century ago, with rust staining the metal beams, and bolts that squealed with each rotation of the wheel.

“Okay, fine,” I sighed, resigned. “I’ll go by myself. You can watch me.”

Popping up onto my tiptoes, I pressed a quick kiss to Finn’s cheek, before turning and dashing for the entry line. Handing over three tickets to the man at the entrance, I stood on the platform at the base of the wheel, waiting for my turn to be loaded into one of the passenger cars. I’ll admit, I was a little disappointed that Finn had refused to ride with me, but I wasn’t going to miss out on my favorite ride just because I had to fly solo.

I’d always loved the Ferris wheel.

Since we were about sixteen, each fall Lexi and I had made it our mission to find a local fairground where we could pet goats and llamas in the petting zoo, overload on sugary cotton candy and funnel cakes, and ride the rickety, structurally-questionable carnival rides until we were ready to throw up. I’d always loved the rush of adrenaline an amusement park ride or roller coaster brings; they were almost as thrilling as my late-night motorcycle rides.

I couldn’t remember the first time I’d ridden a Ferris wheel. I knew my love of the contraptions dated back further than my trips with Lexi to the fair, but for the life of me I couldn’t recall the exact details of that maiden voyage up into the air. I’d been young, I knew that much.

I’d always just assumed I had been with my mother.

Regardless, the prospect of getting back on one was too tempting to pass up, with or without my – sissy – boyfriend with me. And, despite my disappointment, I couldn’t possibly be upset with him after everything he’d done for me today.

I’d woken later than usual; the sun streaming through my windows was bright, indicating that it was well into midmorning. The first thing my half-asleep mind had registered were the rose petals scattered across the pillow next to my head, their drugging floral scent seeping into my consciousness and pulling me fully awake.

Pink, red, white – there’d been petals everywhere, strewn in a pathway that led across my bedspread, down onto the floor, and out through my doorway. Stumbling from my bed and rubbing the sleep from my bleary eyes, I’d followed the trail of petals out into the hallway and finally to the kitchen beyond.

The room had been utterly transformed.

Hundreds of multicolored balloons had been strung up from the ceiling and blanketed the hardwood floors. Red and white streamers had hung from one corner of the room to the other, so thick I couldn’t quite make out the skylights above my head. A huge sign was taped across the wall opposite the stove, reading ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY BROOKLYN’ in a familiar, sloping masculine hand. The kitchen island had been piled high with boxes, sloppily wrapped in striped blue paper with clumps of translucent tape sticking out in every direction – a clear sign that they’d been wrapped by a man’s unpracticed fingers.

An unstoppable, incandescent grin had spread across my face at the sight, even as tears began to prick at my eyes; it was more than anyone had ever done for my birthday.

“Happy birthday, princess.”

He’d been standing by the stove, leaning casually against the kitchen island. His smile had nearly matched my own – as if the excitement and near-childlike sense of glee emanating off me was infectious.

“You did all this?” I’d asked, walking toward him.

I knew it must have taken him several hours to put up all the decorations, plus there was the fact that he’d obviously spent time picking out presents and – attempting, at least – to wrap them.

“It’s your birthday,” he’d shrugged, as if it were no big deal; like it was some kind of given that he’d do all this, simply because one more year of my life had passed. He didn’t understand that this was in no way similar to what I’d become accustomed to in the past fourteen years. He was breaking my annual tradition of solitary, semi-drunken celebration – deviating from the norm and turning a day I normally dreaded into something magical and romantic.

He didn’t know that my father’s idea of a birthday gift was a painfully generic card, stuffed full of empty, meaningless words written by a Hallmark employee, and a hefty check. The years he’d remembered to even scribe his signature on the bottom of the card were the most memorable; usually, he had his secretaries take care of such trivial business, as he couldn’t be bothered to deal with unimportant matters like his only child’s day of birth.

When I’d moved out of the house last year to come t0 Charlottesville, I hadn’t even gotten a phone call from him – not that I’d really been expecting one. Lexi had bought me a cupcake and a bottle of tequila, then taken me out and gotten me wasted enough to forget why I hated the day so much.

So I’d guess it would be repetitive to say that my expectations, when it came to this year?

Zero, zilch, nada.

I’d figured that twenty-one wouldn’t be much different from twenty; judging by the state of my kitchen this morning, though, I’d be pretty comfortable admitting that I was wrong.

“I love you,” I’d whispered, glancing around at the room in wonderment, before arching my head back to brush a kiss across Finn’s smiling lips.

I was broken from my reverie when a passenger car finally descended and it was my turn to climb onboard the Ferris wheel. A hand appeared from my peripheral and one of the carnival workers helped up into the compartment.

“Thank you,” I said, releasing his hand and turning to face him after I’d settled onto the bench.

“I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, you know.” At the sound of his voice, my eyes flew away from the safety bar I was preparing to secure my lap to examine his face. To my surprise, Finn was standing there, looking a little green as he stared up at the ride over our heads. It had been his hand I’d grabbed for support.

“You changed your mind?” I asked, trying to subdue my sudden excitement.

“It was the puppy dog eyes,” he shrugged, climbing into the cab and settling close next to me. “They get me every time.”

I laughed as he pulled the bar tight across our laps, shaking it several times to check that it was securely latched.

“…probably spent about ten minutes total putting this deathtrap together…completely unsafe…” Finn was muttering under his breath about the ride, looking in every direction as we lifted off the ground several feet so the couple in line behind us could board their own car.

“Hmmm? Did you say something, caveman?” I asked sweetly, cupping a hand around my ear.

“Just how much I love you for convincing me to ride this thing,” he replied sarcastically.

I smacked him on the arm.

He laughed, but it was strained with tension. His white-knuckled grip on the security bar betrayed his anxiety, only tightening the further we rose into the air.

“You really didn’t have to come,” I told him, feeling rather ashamed of myself. “I’m sorry for bugging you about it.”

“Don’t be,” he said, staring out over the fairground lights below.

The park really came alive at night. It was sunset now, and most of the little kids had gone home hours ago, replaced by too many couples to count. Country music blared from the speakers of almost every game stand, screams rang out as adventure-seeking fair-goers were spun upside down by the scarier rides on the far side of the park, and food vendors called out their wares to passerby. The myriad of voices blended together into one distinct medley: the nighttime soundtrack of every autumn carnival across the country.

Noisy, bustling, bright; just breathing the air made you feel more alive.

“The view is so beautiful from up here,” I sighed.

“It really is,” he agreed. When I glanced over at him, though, it was me he was staring at, rather than the carnival spread out below us.

“Corny,” I accused, elbowing him lightly in the stomach. Secretly, I was enjoying the rush of warmth his words sent spiraling through my chest. Finn wrapped one arm around my shoulders and tugged me closer, so I was snuggled up against his side.

“You love me anyway, though,” he whispered into my ear, his mouth moving lower to press a kiss to the sensitive spot behind my lobe. I shivered at the sensation, tilting my head to give him better access. With his face buried in my neck, he didn’t notice the kids in the passenger car above us, but I did.

There were two small children around eight or nine years old – siblings most likely – in the compartment. The boy was bigger, and he was finding great delight in his sister’s fear; he heaved his body backward and forward, until the car gained momentum of its own and was rocking wildly. His sister was clearly terrified, hanging on to the security bar and pleading with him to stop. He was laughing at her.

It happened so fast.

Sometimes you see change coming. You might not want it, might not be ready to embrace the new course your life is about to set out on, but at the very least you can prepare for it. Adjust your expectations. Formulate a new plan.

Other times, change is so sudden, so unexpected, that it knocks you right on your ass and leaves you wondering how you got to this place – blindsided, with your expectations and hopes and dreams as unsalvageable as an ice cream cone dropped to the ground at the carnival, melting slowly into the dirt road.

Had I known, in that moment, that getting on that goddamn amusement ride would irrevocably change things between Finn and me, I never would’ve climbed aboard. We were young and in love; we were invincible – or so I’d thought. If I’d known it was all about to be ripped from me, maybe I’d have held him tighter, told him I loved him one last time.

I didn’t get that chance.

One minute, I was looking up at the siblings in the car above us, and the next, I was somewhere deep inside my own head. It was disorienting, how quickly the memory took hold of my senses, dragging me back exactly fourteen years in a single instant.

Our foster mother, Eva, had agreed to take us to the Fall Festival, and the eight of us kids divided into two minivans, with the oldest fighting for the front seats. There were two chaperones with our group – women I’d never met before – but they kept mostly to themselves, talking to each other rather than the kids. I think they were Eva’s friends – sometimes they hung around with her at our group home – but I wasn’t really sure.

As usual, my scrawny frame was shoved into the back row, between two of the bigger kids. I kept my eyes closed for the majority of the ride, retelling myself the legend of Andromeda over and over in my head to shut out the noise in the van and the uncomfortable, cramped backseat.

The boy sat in the row ahead of me and didn’t look back. A part of me wished he would, but I knew it was for the best – we never talked to each other in front of the other kids. As far as they knew, I was still the little mute girl who kept to herself.

The back porch at night – that was our place, the one space in the house I ever felt safe enough to be myself. Safe enough to speak. Every day I feared one of the other kids would discover us out there, and learn my secret. But for now, on my way to a carnival with the promise of sugar and fun hanging in the air all around me, I pushed my fears away and determined to have a good time. It was my birthday, after all.

I was seven. I didn’t feel any different – I didn’t look any bigger, either.

I hadn’t told anyone it was my birthday, not even the boy. My foster mother had given me a rare, unexpected hug when I’d walked into the kitchen for breakfast this morning, but other than that there had been no recognition that I was one year older.

If my mom had been here, there’d have been cake and presents and so much laughter my sides would ache for the next three days. The fact that it was my birthday and she wasn’t here made it seem more real, more final than ever before – she was gone, and she was never coming back.

Even with my eyes pressed closed, I could tell we were approaching the fairgrounds. The other kids’ voices got louder as they talked about which rides they would go on and pointed at different attractions through the windows as our car rolled slowly into line for the parking lot.

Squeezing my eyes shut even tighter, I made a birthday wish. It wasn’t done over a cake, and I hadn’t blown out any candles, but I hoped it would count anyway.

I didn’t wish for presents. I didn’t wish for my father to find me. I didn’t wish to be adopted. I didn’t even wish for my mother back.

Instead, I wished on every star in the night sky, on all those constellations the boy had taught me to find and name, that we wouldn’t be separated. That, whatever happened, we would stay together. Because the boy with the sad eyes? He’d become my brightest star; the one who led me to safety every night, when the nightmares and the grief became too much. He’d guided me from the darkness – my North Star in the never-ending shadows.

And I didn’t want to lose him, not ever.

Our foster mother parked the van and the rest of the kids immediately jumped out and sprinted for the park entrance. I trailed slowly behind, knowing I would never be able to keep up anyway. When we were handed our tickets and allowed into the park, the group splintered off in every direction.

The older girls I shared a bedroom with, Mary and Katie, took off for the food stands on the other side of the park. A pack of the older boys ran for the giant thrill rides that flipped upside down and made you throw up. The rest headed for the ring toss and dart throwing games.

I didn’t see where the boy had gone.

My foster mother and the other two chaperones were busy with Bobbie, the three-year-old toddler who’d arrived at the house two weeks ago. He was the youngest by far, and he used up almost all their attention. The rest of us had been given an allowance of twenty tickets each, and sent off to spend them however we wanted. I think Eva was just happy that she didn’t have to deal with the other seven of us for the next few hours.

I decided to stick by myself, rather than chase after a group of older kids who didn’t want me tagging along anyway. I wandered around for a few minutes, taking in the sights and smells, and eventually parted with three of my tickets in return for a lump of cotton candy so sticky I had to suck on each of my fingers for several seconds to get them clean.

When I saw the Ferris wheel – shiny red and lit up with hundreds of tiny glowing lights – it seemed magical, like something out of a storybook. It was enchanting, utterly unlike any ride I’d ever seen before, and I instantly wanted to ride it up, up, up into the sky. I knew the view of the stars from the very top would be incredible.

I got into line and tried to ignore the three boys standing several feet ahead of me. They lived in the group home, and I knew from experience that they would tease me mercilessly if they discovered me standing anywhere near them. I should have gotten out of line as soon as I saw them – I almost did – but the lure of the Ferris wheel was too strong, and I figured there was a pretty good chance they wouldn’t notice me anyway.

I was wrong.

We were nearing the front of the line when Eugene, the oldest – and meanest – of the boys turned and spotted me. About thirteen, with blond hair and a tall frame, Eugene was a bully. I’d always thought it was because he hated his dorky name so much, he felt like had to prove how tough he was every minute of the day.

“Hey, freak!” he yelled, the excitement and malice clear in his eyes.

I, as usual, didn’t respond.

“What, cat gotcha tongue, freak?” Eugene sneered.

The other boys turned to look at me as well, laughing and joking amongst themselves. I wrapped my arms tightly around my chest, trying to hold myself together as I did my best to ignore them.

Don’t let them see you cry, Brooklyn. Never let them see weakness.

The boy had told me that several weeks ago, after a particularly brutal day of teasing at the dinner table when Eugene had “accidentally” bumped into me, causing my entire plate of chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes to fall to the ground. Eva had blamed me for being clumsy and sent me to bed without supper as punishment.

A target who doesn’t fight back, who won’t even defend herself with words, is the easiest victim in the world.

“Riding alone?” Eugene asked, reaching out a hand to grab my upper arm roughly. “We can’t have that. I am your big brother after all – obviously not by blood. As if I would be related to such a loser,” he laughed hysterically.

The other boys snickered at his words.

“Come on, Brooklyn. We’ll ride together. Just like real siblings.”

This was no innocent suggestion; I could hear the threat buried within his words. The last thing I wanted in the world was to ruin the magic of the Ferris wheel by riding with Eugene, but I didn’t seem to have a choice.

What I did have was a bad, bad feeling about this.

I glowered at him and tried to tug my arm away from his grip, but he was so much bigger, stronger, tougher – you name it – than me. It wasn’t a fair fight; but then, it never was when it came to Eugene.

Before I knew it, all my remaining my tickets had been ripped from my hands and I was being herded onto a Ferris wheel car with Eugene hovering at my back. The other boys were standing behind us, waiting to board their own car and blocking the exit; any escape attempts would be stopped before I made it two feet. I tried to catch the eye of the man checking our safety bar, but he didn't look in my direction once.

And then it was too late; we were up in the air.

Eugene hooted loudly, victorious, and the boys in the car below answered with cheers of their own. I made myself small, squeezing as far away from him as possible within the tiny compartment.

When we were about halfway up, he started the rocking.

Leaning his body forward over the bar, then slamming it abruptly against the backrest, Eugene made the whole car swing back and forth dangerously fast. Within seconds I grew dizzy and began trembling in fear; a few times we tilted so sharply I was sure I'd slide right out from under the bar and fall to my death on the hard ground far below us.

I didn't scream, I didn't cry; I refused to give him that much satisfaction.

But I was scared out of my mind, wailing internally at the injustice of this. He'd taken away any and all excitement I'd had when I'd first spotted this awful ride. By the time we finally returned to the ground, I was not only ready to throw up my cotton candy, but had vowed I'd never ride a Ferris wheel again, as long as I lived.

The boys left me – ticketless, nauseous, and alone – at the base of the ride. They laughed as they sprinted off, high fiving one other and planning which rides they'd go on next. I sat in the dirt and tried very, very hard not to pity myself.

It was there that the boy found me.

“Hey, Bee,” he said, extending one hand down to help me to my feet.

“Hi,” I whispered, my voice small.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

So, he'd seen what Eugene did. I nodded.

“Don't let them get to you. Not on your birthday.”

I looked up into his face, surprised he'd even known it was my special day, and he winked at me. “Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me back toward the line for the Ferris wheel. He paused when he felt my resistance.

“I don't want to go back on there,” I insisted, tugging my hand away.

“That's exactly why you have to, Bee. Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'get back on the horse that threw you?’” he asked.

I shook my head no, looking at him questioningly.

“Well, it's the truth. Don't let an idiot like Eugene ruin Ferris wheels for you. I saw your face earlier, when you first got in line… You looked so excited. Weren’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I did really want to ride, before. But now…” I trailed off.

“It will be different, Bee. I promise. Don't you trust me?”

I thought about it for all of a second. “Of course.”

“Then let's go.”

We waited in line for a short time, and the boy shared some of his tickets with me since Eugene had taken all of mine. I was nervous when we first climbed on board, but soon enough I realized that the boy had been right – it was different this time.

The only thing the boy hadn't mentioned was that he was terrified of heights, which I figured out about twenty seconds after we left the ground. He was breathing heavier than usual, and his skin looked pale and clammy with fear.

When the wheel stopped turning, we were perched at the very top of the park and I could see the whole galaxy lit up like a million tiny frozen fireflies in the night sky. I started to point out constellations to the boy, naming them easily now, after weeks of practice, and even retelling some of their stories out loud.

I think that calmed him somewhat, because his grip on the safety bar loosened up and he turned to look over at me as we began our descent back to the ground.

“Happy Birthday, Bee,” he said, squeezing my hand with his own.

I thought again about my earlier birthday wish, and prayed even harder that it would come true.

“Thanks, Finn,” I replied, smiling back at him.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 506