I.
The carnival lights enticed. Purple and red reflecting off the wet blacktop. Freshly tarred. The construction men worked. Scooping, pounding, smoothing. We walked like vultures, from McDonald’s to Stubby Park and back again. They whistled, we giggled. Too young to understand, too old to ignore.
Our mothers slipped twenties into our chubby hands. Pushed us from cars, told us to stay together. Just inside the gate, a man on the remnants of a KitKat box smiled. Gimme a break. Gimme a break. He itched his neck like a flea-bitten dog. Hey, little girls. We grabbed at each other and ran screaming into the lights. Bags jingling, bracelets jangling, jellies slipping off sweaty feet.
We filled our cheeks with candy cigarettes and bubble gum. Sucked the sugar, blew bubbles, stuck our Lee Press-on Nails inside. Pop! We twirled the stickiness around our fingers. We twirled our hair. Twirled on the Tilt-a-Whirl, while the boys at the concession stand watched with jaws agape.
Corn dogs! Frito pies! Funnel cake with cherries on top!
In line for The Scrambler the high school girls swapped secrets, smacked their lips. Bonnie Bell. We rifled through our bags for Cotton Candy or Wild Raspberry. Imagined their stories as our own. Darkened movie theaters. The zipper of a rough pair of Levi’s pressing into our bellies.
We crammed into bumper cars. Pushed the pedal to the floor, crashed headfirst into each other. The electric buzzing above us, around us, inside us.
II.
Someone said a girl was raped on a picnic table up on Haven’s Hill. We searched for the table. We wondered about the boy. What he looked like, how his arms were muscled. We envisioned the wood scratching our backs. But we never talked about the girl.
Our parents were drunk at a bar, so it was easy to sneak out. Someone’s older brother had a truck, so it was easy to get there. It was, for a short time, all so easy.
The parking lot was gravel. The lights shot out. Payphone busted. Stale smoke lingered in the boys’ bathroom, Love’s Baby Soft in the girls’. We huddled in a stall repeating the names etched into the metal.
Amanda
Samantha
Vanessa
Our own talisman.
We laughed at the girls. Traced their letters with our fingers. Dug markers and nail files and broken pens from Lisa Frank bookbags.
Amanda + Adam
Samantha 💙 pussy
Vanessa = whore
We hid off the park trails lined with tree roots and trash. We watched the seniors in pick-up trucks. The backseats of Mustangs and Beetle Bugs. We learned this way, hiding and watching. Later in our basements and bedrooms, we practiced on pillows, on ourselves, on each other.
We talked about being loved and getting fingered. Flowers in the Attic. About popping cherries. We talked about the high school soccer coach who slept with his players. P.S. I Love You. But we never talked about the girl.
III.
We went skating on Friday nights. The Wheel Thing. Crawled from the backseat of TransAms and busted Volvo wagons. Full of crushed Mini-Thins and angst. We walked down Metropolitan Avenue, past the prison, acting tough, hoping someone said something to us.
Where the carpet turned to wood, we yelled. Play our song! Feet sore from stiff boots, hairspray running, stone-washed jeans tight in all the right places. We huddled between Pacman machines, at the snack bar, or the carpeted benches. Fooled around in darkness, hands down sweaty pants, neon lights shooting like stars.
My mother said I needed to watch my attitude. Better make good choices, she told me while she clicked the remote. You hear me? She was always asking. Shouting. I knew that somehow our hearts and minds were connected. We’re made from moonbeams, I said to no one. She cocked her head like a parakeet. Moonbeams! She opened her mouth for a laugh, but a cough came instead.
We’d drive out to the county. Major Tom wailed. Wind blew bleached hair. Air drums in the front seat. Turn the thrusters on. We raced dimly-lit gravel for papers. No one ever won or lost, the papers were joints and the joints were good. We laid on car hoods, imagined life in space. Weightless. Ethereal. Threw sticks into fires, rocks into windows. Planned our escape from this fucking place.
Note: The final portion of this piece was previously published by New Orleans Review.
Melissa’s work has appeared in New Orleans Review, Litro, and Moon City Review among others. She holds an MFA from Mississippi University for Women and an MA in creative writing from the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. She is an associate editor at West Trade Review and lives in Atlanta. You can find her at www.missygoodnight.com.
Image Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/kiarras
