Worth the Fight (Chapter 1)

Chapter 1

         I heard the rusty, light blue truck pull up; the distinctive squeak of its aging breaks shoved me into action. My legs swung over the couch, my mismatched socks hit the dirty carpet as I rushed to get out of the living room before he walked in. The click of the key in the lock told me I would make it as I rounded the corner and hurried down the short hallway toward my room. I don’t know what made me pause, but that one second of hesitation was a lifetime. The strong, toxic scent of liquor wafted through the house as Brandon slammed open the door, a warning sign to me, but I stayed rooted to the spot.
         “You’re boss called,” my mom’s raspy, slurred voice growled out as he stumbled toward the kitchen with a twelve pack in his hand. Brandon grunted his acknowledgment as he shuffled to the fridge, which only pissed Mom off. I slowly peeked around the corner, watching my mom sit up aggressively on the couch, a lit cigarette in her hand. The tattered shawl around her bony shoulders slid down her back, and she shivered. “You know what he told me Brandon?” she slowly exhaled, smoke swirling out of her mouth and nose and up towards the yellowed ceiling, as she attempted to pull the shawl up over her trashy blouse. “He said he hadn’t seen you at all in the last two days. He wondered if you’d been sick and just forgot to call in,” her voice was like ice, but I was so used to this tone directed at me that on some sort of sick, animalistic level it pleased me to hear her growl at Brandon instead. I lingered there, not leaving like I knew I should have, and listened closer.
         There was a muffled click and a pop as Brandon opened another beer and took a sip. “He didn’t believe me when I told him you were home with the flu,” mom continued frostily, flicking the ash off her cigarette onto her empty beer can because the ashtray perched on the stained coffee table was overflowing. I could tell she was getting angrier as she took a deep drag, closing her eyes, and running her hand over her grungy brown ponytail.
         “You stupid skank! That’s cause it ain’t flu season!” Brandon snarled deep in his chest, leaning against the refrigerator as he raised the can to his lips again.
         “God Brandon I’m not your skank! Why are you at the bar pissing away all of the money I’ve worked hard for when you should be at work! You’re gonna get fired again, and we have bills to pay that my salary won’t cover! You know this, so what’s your fucking problem?” she hissed out, trying to touch up her caked-on makeup, without success.
         “Shut up and relax,” Brandon slurred as he wiped his chin with his forearm. “I’ll just get another job, baby. C’mere.” He staggered towards my mom, who had given up on her makeup and stood up to put out her cigarette.  Brandon wrapped his arms around her waist, his mouth on her neck.
         For a moment she sighed and relaxed into him, then stepped back. From where I peeked around the corner, I could see his red, drunken eyes flare up, like burning coals being stirred. He didn’t take rejection well. “Brandon,” she tried to reason with him, “You can’t lose this job. Even if you get another you’re just gonna lose that one too before you even get your second paycheck. I know how this goes.”
         Brandon shrugged casually, and drank more of his beer. His unoccupied arm slithered down my mom’s waist, his hand fumbling for the button on her dirty, torn, day-old jeans. Mom slapped the beer out of his hands. The coals erupted into flames as fire flew from his eyes and he recoiled like a snake ready to strike, his hands clenching into fists.
“Ooh,” the sound escaped me, barely above a whisper, before I had time to call it back. It was just enough to turn his gaze to me. I could see a strong, pulsating vein popping out of his tattooed neck. It looked like the skull drawn there was alive, laughing, or maybe screaming. His own silent battle cry. Brandon’s burning red eyes met my widened, dark brown ones. I slapped both hands over my mouth and stared, the whites of my eyes clearly visible as the snake struck. He sprung, charging me, his blond pony tail flying back, his yellowed teeth glimmering, and his claws scratching my scalp as his free hand beat at my ribs and stomach and back, choking the air out of my helpless body. “Dammit! No Brandon! Goddammit stop!” my mom sobbed, but she was as helpless as I was; chained to the couch by her twisted love for this man, this beast.
My brown hair was yanked from my scalp, the roots just letting go, leaving me. “You stupid child! You can’t do anything right!” he hissed between blows. But I was gone. Floating above, watching this car wreck, this sick scene from a movie. Who was he beating? Surely not me. I am gone. “How the hell do you expect me to succeed when everything is your fault? You’re dragging me down!” This man was snarling, spit and beer flying from his mouth. And the sobbing, oh the sobbing was so loud. Please stop crying little girl. But it wasn’t the girl. The girl wasn’t moving.
The sobbing came from the couch, where the tiny woman sat, paralyzed. “I can’t teach you anything because you won’t even listen!” the man continued to scream, spit leaving his lips. “You know it’s wrong to eavesdrop! Your father would be so ashamed of you. So disappointed in you. If he wasn’t dead, he would’ve left a failure like you!” the man roared as he kicked the girl, again and again, and I watched her body and bones and skin breaking, bruises blossoming down her entire corpse, sickly beautiful, similarly colored to the American Flag.
“No!” the sobbing turned to screaming, as the little girl’s little mother stood up. With surprising speed she ran to the man, her thin arms grabbing at his shirt, trying to pull him off of her child. “Stop it! Dammit stop this!” she screeched, an inhuman, sickening sound. He turned around and in one swift movement shoved her across the room, where she fell, her head on the edge of the couch, her black makeup running down her face like a polluted waterfall.
His attention turned back to the girl, and he stomped down on her right arm. The crack was so loud it brought me into the body, not my body, but the body of the girl. Agony. Screaming into my brain, the pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. She shrieked out, and I couldn’t take it. I was mercifully ejected out of the body, away from the pain, but again watching, as helpless as she was, as we were. “I’m so glad that I haven’t created such a foul creature as you!” he spit at her, standing above her, staring down at his work, his mess, the product of his outbursts. “Stop crying you stupid whore!” he shouted.
The sobbing became so loud. The girl, looking so tiny, covered in blood, was lying on the rug. Her arm was bent at such an odd angle, her shoulder looking wrong. It was all wrong. I heard sirens, so distantly and then coming closer. The door was broken open, the man and woman were shouting at each other, and loud, unfamiliar voices were using unfamiliar terms. A mask was put over her blackened face, and as breath filled her so did I. I could breathe, but each breathe was agony. The sweet agony of life.
Bands were strapped across my body, and a hard board was put beneath me. I was carried out of the ugly green trailer, filled with its ugly people and ugly memories, and ugly peeling paint like a scab on a wound that refuses to heal. There were sirens and voices and needles and doctors. I could hear a heart monitor, fluttering awkwardly, and then a never ending beep. “Get the paddles! She’s flat lining! We’re gonna lose her, oh God help her!” the voice was deep, comforting. Dad? Dad? Yes I hear you! Where are you? Why is everything getting so bright? Where am I going? Is this death? This is death. Dad, I’m coming. But suddenly the burning, shocking pain hit me, and brought me back.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Damn. I leap up out of my sweat-soaked sheets and slap the ‘snooze’ button on my alarm clock. I lay back down, instinctively rubbing my stiff right shoulder, the ache a little more intense than usual. Ugh. I throw my pillow over my black hair. It was all just the dream. Nothing but a memory now, I try to reassure myself. I thought things were better; it’d been months since that recurring nightmare. I try to contribute that terrible night’s sleep to the full moon right out my window, glaring at me through the night. I need to shake this off, but I know there’s no way I’ll be ready to face another Monday.
         My little black phone goes off. I groan and reach for the vibrating piece of plastic.
         “What?” I growl, too tired and disturbed by my nightmare to put much effort into my words. My voice comes out raspy, and I clear my throat.
         “Up and at ’em silly!” my best friend sings.
         “Cursed is she that's happy before noon,” I growl menacingly.
         “Oh don’t be such a downer. Up, up, up!”
         “Why? There’s no point,” I mumble, but I don't think she understands because I’m speaking into my pillow.
         “Cause it’s time for school, silly,” she says happily, ignoring my second statement.
         “Stop calling me that!” I throw the flattened pillow off my face and the covers off of me, shivering in the frigid morning air. I rummage through my tiny, worn dresser for something to wear.
         “Only if you get up!”
         I'm already pulling dark blue skinny jeans on, and begin searching for my black high tops. “Shut it,” I mutter and hang up. I locate one shoe in the corner of my room, and have to hunt under my bed for the other one. After pulling out a few old stuffed animals, a cardboard box of junk, and what’s left of an old box of cigarillos, I locate the shoe. I sit on my bed and pull on my shoes, then begin shoving everything back under my bed. My hand lingers over my cigarillos, and I decide to pull one out, sticking it in my backpack.
         I stand up and pull out my makeup. In the middle of putting on my many layers of mascara to go with my smoky eye shadow, my cell rings again.
         “What?” I mutter putting the phone on speaker so I can add eyeliner. I stare at my face in my mirror, a single piece of reflective glass that hangs off a tack on my dirty white walls. Damn. I am not pretty. Not even close.
         “You awake?” my only other friend asks.
         “Yeah Cassandra, I’m up. You call Jasmine back for me yet?”
         “I’m on it.”
         “Thanks, Cass.” I try to make my voice sound at least semi-happy.
         “You, okay?” she asks, picking up on my negativity.
         “Fine,” my automatic reply comes out more fiercely than I intended, so I elaborate. “Just the nightmare again,” I say vaguely.
         “Jeez, I’m so sorry Alex,” her voice is full of concern, “Just remember it’s all over with now.”
         “I know, I know. I’m fine, really, thanks.” I try to sound sincere.
         She audibly hesitates. “Okay, but if you do want to talk, I’m here.”
         “Thank you.”
         “Anytime girl, I mean it,” She pauses, then, realizing I’m not saying anything, continues, “I’m gonna call Jasmine, see you soon.”
         “Kay, bye,” I slide my phone shut.
No matter what I can never be mad at Cass, even if I’m pretending my hardest to be mad. I finish my makeup, applying deep red lipstick, and pull on an overlarge black sweatshirt that’s base hangs at my thighs. I stop to pick at my chipping black nail polish, make my rumpled bed, pull on my backpack, and then walk out into the rest of my tiny, worthless home.
         I step into the living room and realize my mother is just coming home from her night job. I freeze as she opens the door. Her tired, angry eyes meet mine, but she only glares for a second before she continues deeper into our house, dropping her keys onto the cluttered coffee table, and shrugging her coat onto the floor. It's a miracle she'll ever find either of them again.
         Knowing I’ll have no breakfast, not that there'd be anything worth eating in my house anyway, I open the door and step into the frigid morning air.
         I pause on our tiny front porch to pull out the cigarillo and my blue lighter. I light it, and inhale gratefully. The minty calmness floods my body, the perfect solution to wash away my nightmare’s lingering terror. I pull out my iPod and the white headphones Cass bought me last Christmas, putting them in my ears between drags. I smoke as I walk out to my bus stop – the sound of the cold wind overpowered by my depressing music.
         I take my time, and as I near the bus stop I finish the cigarillo, dropping it onto the pavement with one last exhale. As the bus rolls around the corner, I’m in a much better mood. Its doors open, offering its warmth, and its escape, but not much more.
         I’m the only passenger at my stop, so I file on alone and find my seat in the corner in the back. I shrink up against the wall, pulling my health homework onto my lap. It’s quieter back here. I'm alone – the way I like it. I’m not the type of girl good things happen to, so I shove people away so they can’t hurt me . . . and I can’t hurt them.
         I shake my head and focus on my schooling, one of my few escapes from life.
         The health homework I know is due within the hour occupies me until the bus arrives at Lincoln High. Jasmine is waiting for me when the bus creaks open its doors, releasing its passengers to walk onto the grounds of our small high school. I’m the only junior I know who still takes the bus, and in our school, I know every junior.
         Sometimes it’s scary that Jazz and I are friends. As I shove down the bus aisle, past the lower classmen, I can see her standing on the sidewalk in her pink skirt and low neckline blouse and pink flats. When I step off the bus, she’s clapping as if seeing me is something that makes her whole day worthwhile. Her long, wavy, blonde hair is held back in a pink headband. We’re opposites – she’s day, I’m night, she’s spring, I’m winter.
         “Lexi!” she calls as I scuff my feet and stroll up to her.
         “Alex,” I correct her for the millionth time, taking out one ear bud. I stopped counting in fourth grade so it’s somewhere up there by now.
         “OMG!” she rambles as we walk together to the buildings in the distance – dark and looming like prison towers. “So basketball is getting over which means softball season is starting soon,” Jasmine continues, talking quickly. It’s obvious I don't focus on much of what she says, but she keeps talking anyway, as if only to hear the sound of her own voice. “Do you think the new student will play? I'll bet he's amazing at baseball. I'm thinking about getting highlights, but I’m not sure. It'll be pretty awesome if I do.”
         “Wait what?” I asked. Something she said had caught my attention.
         “I’m probably getting highlights! Isn’t that great?”
         “Yeah,” I murmur absentmindedly as we head through the doors. “Before that.”
         “Softball open gym starts Thursday. You’re playing right?”
         “You know I don’t do sports, not even softball. What did you say after that?”
         “I wonder if the new student will play.”
         Bingo. “New student?” I ask.
         “Ooh, yeah, I hear he’s supposed to be pretty cute,” Cassandra joins in as she jogs up to us. Our school is so tiny everyone knows everyone. “Maybe you’ll like him,” she winks at me.
         “I don’t do cute,” I growl.
         “No, really?” Cass sasses and I smirk. We're in the hall now. I throw my backpack into my locker, only taking my textbook and binder with me to health.
         “Hey Alexandria,” a voice calls out to me.
         “What is it this time, Jake?” I sigh in annoyance.
         “Will you go out with me? I’ve only been asking since like fourth grade.”
         I stare at him. People avoid us as they make their ways to class.
         “That’s a yes?” he asks excitedly. I waited a little longer, frowning. “That’s a no.”
         I smile. Not a real smile, but a “you think?” smile. I slap him lightly on the shoulder. “You should stop asking questions you already know the answer to.” I walk into the health room.
         “It was worth a shot though right?” he asks desperately, following me.
         “No, not really.”
         “Alex, wait,” he says, reaching for my hand.
         “Would everyone take their seats please?” our timid rotund teacher – Mr. Cornan – orders quietly. Jake looks at me before obeying our teacher’s orders. Goody two shoes.
         “Now I have a new seating arrangement. Could everyone please c-come stand over h-here?” He swings his arm to the left. “Now,” he stutters as he walks around the tables. “Alexandria.” I go to where he points. He flinches – I know he fears me. “Cassandra, Jasmine . . . er, how do you pronounce that?”
         “Ericantage. I go by Eric.” That accent is fabulous.
         “Yes, well then, Eric.”
         I stare as the boy sits across from me. He's gorgeous. Black tousled hair, dark blue eyes, so dark they're nearly black. A dark blue leather jacket. Perfect broad shoulders, chiseled face. Beautiful full lips, gorgeous long eyelashes.
         He smiles at me.
         And I immediately wish I had worn a different shirt. I wish I wasn’t emo. I wish I could be pretty and blonde and happy like Jasmine.
         And I hate him for making me feel that way.
         I glare at him, then look away.
         Mr. Cornan begins his lecture on abstinence, the same lecture we've all been hearing since 8th grade.
         The next time I look at the boy, he is staring at my teacher, hanging on to his every dull word.
         When the bell rings, I gather my books and prepare to go.
         Eric stops in front of me as I make my way to the door.
         “Mind showing me around?” he asks. He smiles, because it makes him beautiful.
         “Y’know, I’m kinda busy with my own life thanks,” I growl and push past him.
         “What’s wrong Alexandria?” The way he says my name is so beautiful it is torturous, making me stop. “What have I done to make you hate me so already?”
         I glare at him. “I need to go to class.”
         “May I walk with you?” he asks, following me anyway.
         “Look Mr. Manners, I don’t need your pity. Just leave me alone.”
         “How do you know my last name?”
         “I don’t,” I growl and keep walking. He follows me.
         “But you just said it,” he insists.
         “Manners? Your last name is Manners?” I laugh and pause to watch his expression.
         “Yes. Ericantage Manours,” he says, frowning.
         “Fascinating. Now let me pass.”
         “Could you at least show me the direction to where Mr. Byron’s is?”
         “Only if you leave me alone!”
         He frowns then leaves to speak to another girl who swoons at the sight of his every gorgeous feature. I rush off before he can come for me again,
         “Saw Eric flirting with you,” Cassandra coos as she trots to my side. She and Jazz always have perfect timing.
         “Mr. Hot-Hottie,” Jasmine cries, appearing next to me.
         “Yeah, the devil himself,” I mumble.
         “You don’t like him?” Cass asks, startled.
         “Oh the devil? Of course I like him.” I smirk.
         “Ha ha, you’re hilarious!” Jasmine glares at me. “No. I’m asking if you like Eric.”
         “Straight forward, I wish he didn’t exist.”
         “Why?” Cass asks in shock.
         “Because. . . I just do okay!” I storm off down the hall, leaving my friends behind. I know they’ll forgive me. They never stay mad.
         It's a few minutes later by the time I realize I'm heading in the wrong direction. I take a shortcut through the library and barely make it to class on time.
         Eric is sitting next to the only empty seat.
         I frown and glare at him as I reluctantly took the vacant spot.
         “You’re late,” he says with a grin just as the bell rings.
         I smirk. “Technically I’m not. Now stop following me.”
         He folds his hands behind his head and grins. “I can’t. You’re friends told me we have the same schedules.”
         I glower at him. “Leave me alone.”
         He frowns and looks away. “You wouldn't give me the time of day if I was the last man on earth.”
         “You're right there,” I almost shout, abandoning our whispered conversation.
         “Miss Valance,” the math teacher calls, “Is there something you would like to share with the class?”
         I sigh and pull out my damsel in distress face. “Pleas Mr. Byron, could I have a different seat. This guy’s picking on me; he's calling me horrible things.”
         “Oh really?” Mr. Byron says, hardly falling for my act. “What exactly did he say?”
         Come on tears, cry. I remember my father’s gentle hug. “Well,” I say dropping my voice to barely audible. “He called me a fat, lesbo pig.” I love you Alex, he always said. The tears pour.
         Eric fights back. “I called her no such thing!”
         “You did too, freak!”
         “Did not!” he says stunned.
         “Did too!” I scream, angry.
         “Both of you!” Byron shouts. “Office, now! I have a class to run.”
         I bury my face in my hands to hide my smirk. I could really use a trip to the vending machine, I seriously need some chocolate.
         Byron picks up the phone, probably to call the office. If I run, I can make it believable. If I leave the mascara running, I can probably win some sympathy from the counselor and principal.
         I turn and run bawling out of the room.
         Straight toward chocolate.
         I get two Milky Ways and a Snickers bar before heading to the office and even then I beat “Ericantage” there.
         Mrs. Javen, the counselor, is at the office and sees me. I run to her and collapse into her arms, knowing that if she thinks he hurt me that bad, that loser will really pay.
         Eric shows up a few minutes later. Mrs. Maier, the principal, hauls us into her office.
         “Alexandria, would you like to tell us what happened?” Mrs. Javen asks.
         I bite my lip and start babbling. “This guy has been stalking me all day,” I start.
         “That’s because-” Eric breaks in.
         “Eric, we don’t interrupt other people,” Mrs. Javen interrupts, and Eric silences himself. “Please continue Alex.”
         “Well, when I got to math, there was only one seat left, and I didn’t want to cause trouble, so I took the seat but as soon as I sat down, he started insulting me.”
         “I did not!” Eric breaks in again. He seems angry and stunned. Good. He’s starting a bad reputation as a new kid. He’ll regret ever speaking to me for the rest of his life.
         “Eric, what did I say about interrupting?” Mrs. Javen says again.
         Eric frowns and slouches lower in his chair.
         “Anything else?” I’m making him look like a fool.
         I shake my head and hide my face again.
         “Eric, what do you have to say?” Mrs. Javen asks.
         He sits up and sighs. “It’s true.”
         I look at him, appalled but he continues. He’s messing up my plans.
         “I was just so surprised to find myself sitting next to such a pretty girl, that I freaked out. I have really low self-esteem, and I apparently use violence to make myself feel stronger. Please, I’m sorry.” He turns to look at me. “I want to make it up to you. Please, let me make it up.” He has an arrogant smirk is pasted on his face. I want to slap him. Suddenly the tables have turned. Eric has the principal and counselor in his hands.
         Mrs. Javen looks at me. “Well Alex, what do you say?”
         “What?” I gasp. “No way! I don’t want anything to do with that guy!”
         She frowns and I know I said the wrong thing.
         “I think you two need to work this out alone. Mrs. Maier?” The two women stand and leave, leaving us in the room behind.
         He smirks at me as I rummage in my bag for a mirror.
         “Well aren’t you smooth,” I sneer as I dab at the extra mascara, smearing it across my face until it’s finally all gone.
         “Actually, I see this as a positive thing.” He sits upright in his chair, his hands behind his head.
         I pull out my Snickers bar and stretch out on the two armless chairs. “Whatever. I’m taking a nap until we get out of here.” I close my eyes and slowly chew the candy.
         “We won’t get out of here until we work this out.” He sounds frustrated, but also humored.
         “Then it looks like I’m gonna have a long nap.” Once done with my snickers I curl up and fall asleep.
         “Alex,” a gentle hand is on my shoulder, shaking me awake. “Alex they’re gone. Let’s get out of here.”
         I look through sleep clouded eyes and make out Eric’s face. “No! You woke me up for that?”
         “Listen to me Alex, let’s get of here.”
         “Why?!” I almost shout.
         He slaps his hand over my mouth. “Sh! What’s your problem? You’ll get us caught! The carnival is open. Let’s go to it.”
         “Why?” I try to say but it comes out garbled.
         “Because I’ll buy the tickets.”
         I glance around and pry his hand off my mouth. “Fine. But I get to pick the rides.”
         “Deal. Let’s go. Keep it quiet though.”
         “Please,” I hiss. “You act like I’ve never ditched school before.”
         Halfway down the hall, Eric frowns.
         “What?” I ask, sensing his frustration, just curious enough to care.
         “Act sick,” he orders.
         “What?” I repeat.
         “Act sick! Do it! Now!” He wraps his arm around my back as I weaken my knees, just in time to see the superintendent come around the corner.
         “What are you kids doing out here?!” he orders.
         “Alex is sick,” Eric says calmly. “I’m taking her to the nurse.”
         I press my arm into my stomach and groan.
         Mr. Parks frowns and looks at me closely. I swallow hard and start breathing shallowly, which I know always makes my face pale.
         “Get her down there,” he finally growls.
         “Yes sir,” Eric replies.
         Once he is out of sight, I stand on my own again, but Eric doesn’t move his arm.
         “That was good,” he says. “Very believable.”
         “Of course,” I answer smugly. “How’d you know he was coming?”
         He shrugs. “Good ears. C’mon. My car’s out back.”
         “What kind of a car do you drive?”
         “Just an old truck, but it’s sturdy.”
         “Nice. FYI, I’m still mad at you.”
         “Good to know. Tell me again, exactly why?”
         I sigh. I'm not about to tell him anything about me. I come up with a decent excuse. “Stop stalking me, and we might get along.”
         He laughs. “Good. We make a good team.”
         I smile. “I guess we do.”
         He directs me to an older dark blue truck. “A friend repaired the engine a while back. She’s actually really fast.”
         “She?” I smirk as I sink into the plush leather seat on the driver’s side, my hands gripping the steering wheel.
         “Yeah, um, I’m guessing you aren’t going to let me drive, are you,” he says, waiting for me.
         I give him my notorious “You think?” smile and he eventually walks around.
         “Yeah,” I coo as the engine purrs to life. “Yeah!” I scream as the tires squeal on the gravel parking lot as I pull onto the highway.
         “You have your license, right?” he asks, his hand gripping the door.
         “Of course,” I smirk as I run three stop signs.
         “Left,” he says and clenches his jaw.
         “Right,” I reply.
         “No, left!” he shouts but his voice is starting to gain a thrill of excitement.
         “Sorry! I meant okay!” I shout, my hands gripping the wheel, smiling.
         “Right!”he shouts.
         “Right,” I say, taking the turn.
         “No! I meant okay!” When he shouts again, he's ecstatic with adrenaline.
         “Alright, just stop talking and let me drive!”
         “Fine, whatever you say.” He settles into his seat and cranks the radio, the window town, the wind tousling his hair.
         I take my turns in quick sudden jerks and floor it wherever I can. Eventually Eric calms down and cranks up the radio.
         “Yeah baby!” he screams. “Do you always drive like this?”
         “Define always!” I reply.
         I slow down as we near the fair grounds. Already I can smell the stench of grease and fried food and day old vomit. The Ferris Wheel towers above us, a roller coaster is on its right.
         “Where first?” Eric asks after he purchases our tickets.
         “Let’s start with the Death Sentence,” I say staring at the impossibly steep roller coaster, hoping to freak Eric out but he only smirks and says, “Perfect.”
         It is overcast, so we have the whole park basically to ourselves. There is no line for Death Sentence. We're even able to get the front car.
         It slowly crawls up toward the tip of the hill, the chain clacking loudly, jolting us forward in even intervals, all the while moving steadily upward. I relax comfortably as we near the peak, fighting my pounding heart, keeping a careful controlled eye on Eric.
         Down, down, down, we plunge. I scream at the pure freedom of it. Simotaneously we throw our arms in the air.
         We scream, his deep shout under-toning my girlish shriek.
         “Yes!” I cry. I pound the air. We duck underground. “Yeah!”
         As the coaster begins to slow we take quick sudden jerks and finally pull into the barn.
         “What a blast!” Eric cries as we walk away.
         I laugh against my wishes. How could this boy be making me smile when before I’d done nothing but cry? How could this guy make me feel special when the whole world told me I was just another girl? Just the adrenaline, I think.
         “Come along. Let’s get ice-cream,” he's saying when I end my pondering. “What do you like? Cookie dough? Strawberry? Cotton candy?”
         “Vanilla,” I say quietly, staring at the dirt paths.
         He smiles and says just as softly, “Me too.”
         He buys both of our cones and we walk quietly through the park.
         “Where next?” I ask.
         “It’s your choice,” he says gently.
         I shake my head. “You choose.”
         He sighs. “Alright. How about the Ferris wheel?”
         I frown and my stomach plunges. “Not that.”
         He smirks. “You said I could choose,”
         “Anything but that.” Fear clenches my gut. Memories swarm back.
         “And why not?” He sounds cocky when I stare at the ground.
         I'm quiet for a few paces so he says, “Tell me, or ride it with me.” He still sounds cocky, but this time his voice is gentler.
         I stop and sigh. “Please don’t ask this of me. I can’t tell you, and I can’t ride it.”
         “Why not babe?” He looks at me with concern when he realizes I'm not joking.
         I wrap my arms around myself and sit on one of the many benches. “I – I can’t. I’m not faking this time.”
         He sits beside me and wraps his arm around me but I don’t acknowledge him.
         “Alright,” he says. “We can do something else.”
         “Thank you Eric.” I rest my head against his shoulder.
         We sit like that for a while before he says, “So, the crazy apple chairs then?”
         I grin. “Sure.”
         He grabs my hand and helps me unnecessarily to my feet.
         We run to the apple turning ride and decide to gorge ourselves on popcorn, slushies and cotton candy on our way to the magic show. It seems as though his wallet would run out of funds, but there always seems to be more.
         The magician warms up the crowd with a few funny jokes then gets straight to a few card tricks. It gradually improves until the grand finale: an exotic floating dance with “the lovely assistant Gabriella!”
         Once we leave the darkened show room, laughing, he asks me what next.
         “Let’s go see the animals,” I say. I grab his hand and drag him with me, only to stop as I see a fortune teller booth. I smile. “C’mon. Let’s check it out.”
         He laughs and pulls away.
         “What?” I ask.
         “Would you believe me if I told you my mother is the gypsy that works that booth.”
         “No. Let’s go.”
         He sighs. “Alright. If you insist.”
         “I insist. C’mon.”
         We enter the deep purple tent. I grab his hand and pull him with me.
         A gypsy garbed in shawls of midnight blue sits behind a crystal ball. Her eyes open in surprise.
         “Ericantage,” she says with a deep accent that only makes her gypsy act more believable.
         “Hello mother,” he says. He doesn't seem nervous, but I'm startled.
         “What are you doing out of school?” she asks, but her voice sounds like she's used to her son skipping class.
         “Alex got us into trouble so we decided to skip school. We ran into trouble with the headmaster. Alex faked sick and well, here we are.” He shrugs and I'm stunned that he tells her the truth.
         His mother stares at him, watching his expression. “Fascinating. Well, seeing this is my son, Alex darling would you like your palm read?”
         I shrug, still sort of shocked that this really is Eric’s mom, and it down.
         She takes my left hand and stares at my palm. Her face slowly grows intense and finally she mutters, “You have a complicated palm, so I’ll start with what is obvious. This is your lifeline. It says you have the potential for a long life, but you will have to fight hard for it, through many difficult experiences.
         “This is your love line. It’s prominent, which means your love will be strong and lasting, but it intersects two other lines, your life line, and your conflict line. . . .” She pauses a moment, as if debating.
         “Which means . . . .?” I prod.
         “This love of yours will be dangerous, so much so, that he may cost you your life. Your past, future, and path are complicated child. I cannot tell you what to do, only warn you; this love is to come quick and strong. You must be sure of your choice before it’s too late. That is all I have to say.”
         I pause a moment, wanting to ask more but afraid of the answer. Finally, I say as calmly as I can, “This love. . . . have I already met him?”
         “You will have when it happens,” she says watching me.
         I stand and leave. Her riddle answer doesn't help me. Eric puts his hand at my hip, but unlike before when it felt natural and comforting, this feels alien and tense.
         I never wanted to fall in love.