She rolls her eyes at me, sighing as though I exasperate her. “What kind of name is Penn?”

“Release the bar, and I’ll tell you.”

“How do I know you won’t open it?”

“You don’t.”

Her face is so close, and I’m starting to realize why people love Ferris wheels. It feels like we’re alone in the universe, isolated. She lets go of the bar, almost in slow motion, and tucks her hands between her bare thighs.

Don’t look at her thighs, bastard. I can practically hear Jaime inside my head.

Why? Her thighs would make great ear warmers, I mentally answer back.

“Close your eyes.”

She does. Just as she did when we were fourteen. I like that she is obedient when we’re alone. I make a mental note not to abuse that power. Daria answers to no one and does whatever the hell she wants—except with me.

“Before drugs made my mom fall down the rabbit hole, she was this poetry chick with nerdy glasses and a library card. She met my dad at church when she was seventeen as a part of some Christian scouts program, and he knocked her up. Then a chain of really shitty things happened all at once. She was involved in a car accident that almost killed her and broke most of the bones in her body. My dad decided to leave with his mother and start a Christian cult. Mom got hooked on painkillers, then illegal drugs. I used to read poems to her when she was in the hospital, going in and out of there for one of her trillion surgeries. Anyway, her favorite poets are—were,” I correct myself, remembering she is no longer alive, “Sylvia Plath and Alexander Penn. So she named us after them.”

“Who’s Alexander Penn?” Her cheeks flush.

She doesn’t want me to think she’s stupid. We are reaching the highest point.

“He was this Israeli-Russian communist poet dude. Off the rails certifiable. He was desperately in love with this chick named Bella. She rejected him, so he tried to commit suicide and shot himself. Failed. She was so enchanted by his love and devotion, she decided to marry him.”

“Just like Van Gogh. Only this girl said yes,” Daria muses.

“Yeah.”

“Kinda gross,” she says.

“Yeah.” I chuckle.

“Some fairy tales are screwed up,” she adds. She can’t shut up. She’s nervous. Her eyes are still closed.

“All the good ones are, Skull Eyes,” I say softly.

I unlatch the metal bar from its hook. She hears the click and sucks in a breath.

“What are you doing?” Her voice shudders.

“Tell me what’s going on between you and Prichard.” My voice hardens around the vowels.

Her eyes are still closed, not because she is still following my directions, but because she is freaking out and would probably faint if she looks down.

“You’re insane!” She squeezes her eyes shut.

“You bangin’ the old man?” I ignore her psychological assessment.

“You said I could trust you!”

“No, I didn’t. I asked if you did. For the record, you shouldn’t trust me. Our loyalties lie with different schools and people. But I answered your question, so it’s only fair you answer mine.”

“Dream on, Scully.”

I push the metal bar open. She can feel the breeze. I hold on to it, knowing I won’t be able to pull it back if I don’t, and that means I’m squatting, my ass in the air.

“Fine! Okay! Fine. No. We’re not sleeping together.”

I yawn loudly, so she can hear, dangling the handle from side to side.

“Not buying it.”

“We’re not!” she screams desperately. People from other carts can probably hear her and see this. Giving a damn, however, is not on my agenda.

“Then what are you doing together? Playing Caribbean poker?”

“That’s two questions,” she bargains.

“Since when are you good at math, Followhill?”

I know Daria would have a lot of fun rubbing the truth in my face. She knows I would never rat her out to her parents. Not only because she holds my residence a secret, but I’m just not that type of asshole.

“What do you care, anyway? Gus said you have a girlfriend.”

“Gus is an idiot.”

“It doesn’t make him a liar.”

True, and I notice she doesn’t ask me again about the girlfriend situation. Which is good, because she won’t like the answer, and I’m not done with her ass, literally and figuratively. I close the metal bar. She hears the click and lets out a breath. She opens her eyes and stares at me. It’s cool to see her like that. Vulnerable. Scared. She’s not the head cheerleader right now, and I’m not the football captain of the rival team. We’re just two teenagers who never stood a chance to be friends in this world, so we became what was expected of us. Enemies.

We reach the top.

“Ever been kissed on a Ferris wheel?” I ask.

“No.”

All your firsts, baby.

I take that as an invitation, pressing my mouth to hers, RSVPing that shit without thinking about her parents down below, the complications of it, or the consequences. Without thinking this is taboo, and wrong, and twisted, and can surely come back to bite me in the ass.

She opens her mouth, groans into mine, and we kiss, and we kiss, and we kiss until nothing else exists. My hand slips to her neck and squeezes it, and when she protests in the form of biting my lip, I laugh and lick her entire fucking face. Then she laughs, too.