36
“THE BLUE STREAK, the Mean Streak, and the Millennium Force,” Robinson said. “I want to go on all of them. You only get to go on the Mean Streak, Axi.”
He was pretending to be mad at me because I’d told him he couldn’t have a Slim Jim until he’d eaten a banana. Who are you, my mother? he’d asked. I told him I couldn’t watch him eat things made from mechanically separated chicken, aka slimy pink meat paste, anymore. Then he’d accused me of being a snotty vegetarian, and I had tackled and tickled him in the cab of the truck until he pleaded for mercy.
Now we were inside the gates at Cedar Point, the roller-coaster capital of the world, nestled away in Sandusky, Ohio. Robinson, the daredevil, and me, the one who gets queasy on swings.
“I feel like the Junior Gemini might be more my speed,” I said.
Robinson snorted. “Axi, you’ve done things lately that were a lot scarier than a roller coaster.” He cocked a finger at me, miming a gun.
“Don’t remind me,” I said.
“So. Shall we?” he asked, and held out his arm.
How could I refuse him? My scalawag, my partner in crime, my heart. He seemed like he was in perfect health. Was he? I didn’t know, but now was the time to enjoy it.
We stood in the first line for an hour at least, surrounded by tired parents, their hyperactive eight-year-olds and sullen thirteen-year-olds, and a handful of sunburned retirees apparently willing to risk a heart attack to pull four g’s on a single plummet.
Robinson saw me picking nervously at the hem of my T-shirt. “I’m telling you, this is going to be awesome,” he said. “You’re going to love it.”
He reached out and stroked my hair, and then his fingers moved down to my neck, kneading gently, reassuringly.
I almost moaned in pleasure. “Whatever you say …” Suddenly I wasn’t thinking about the ride at all anymore. I was thinking about his hands. “Just keep doing that.”
He laughed, rubbing my shoulders now, his body long and warm against my back. “Is this all it takes?” he asked. “A little back rub and tough Axi Moore turns into a quivering pile of acquiescence?”
“Ooh, that’s a big word for you,” I teased, trying to reclaim some measure of my sass. It wasn’t easy.
“Maybe a good vocabulary is contagious,” he said.
“Mmmmmmm.”
“Although it seems like you might be losing yours.”
“Mmmmm, lower …”
Robinson pulled me against him then, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “Maybe we shouldn’t get too carried away,” he said into my ear.
I sighed. “I guess …”
“But you’re not afraid anymore, are you?”
I shook my head firmly. I wasn’t.
Of course, my heart did begin pounding as soon as we climbed into the rear car of the Millennium Force, but I told myself it was because of excitement, not fear. I told myself that compared to all the things we’d done that were authentically dangerous, like stealing cars and riding motorcycles and breaking into people’s pools, this was a walk in the park.
When we rose slowly up the hill, the tracks amazingly smooth beneath us, I grabbed Robinson’s hand. Ahead of us people were already screaming. My knuckles went white around Robinson’s fingers.
“Here it comes,” he said.
When it seemed that the car could climb no higher into the faultless summer sky, we came to the top, paused for one silent, anticipatory second—and then plunged down. Downdowndowndowndown.
I screamed more loudly than I ever would have thought possible, and beside me Robinson let out a wild whoop of joy. We raced and looped above the park, the wind making my eyes water and the car whipping me back and forth. I never stopped screaming, not for one single instant. And Robinson, he just laughed and laughed, letting my fingernails dig half-moons into his skin.
When we finally slowed down on the last approach and pulled under the awning to stop, I turned to Robinson, an enormous smile on my face. “Wow,” I declared. “I want to do that again.”
He gave me a triumphant look. “I knew you’d like it. I know you better than you know yourself.” Then he reached up. “Give me a little help here, will you?”
I bent down and grabbed his hand, felt the weight of his palm in mine. “Thanks,” he said. He brushed my bangs out of the way, and then his lips against my forehead were soft and sweet.
Holding hands loosely, we walked out onto the concourse, which was lined with flowers, streaming with people, and fragrant with the smells of fried food and sunscreen.
“Let’s get cotton candy,” I said.
“And sodas as big as our torsos,” Robinson added.
“And nachos and licorice ropes,” I cried, beginning to skip.
Robinson laughed as I tugged him along behind me. “I think the roller coaster knocked a screw loose. Don’t you want some kale or something?”
“Tomorrow! Today we’re going to act like normal teenagers!”
Because today I actually felt like one. As if nothing made Robinson and me different from anyone else our age—not sickness, crime, or anything. We were carefree. Lucky. Immortal.
“Have I ever told you I love you?” Robinson asked, catching up to me.
“Yes, but tell me again,” I said, stopping to press myself against him.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you back,” I said.
And then we kissed on the midway as crowds of people streamed around us and the roller coaster cars corkscrewed overhead.