Optionals: Free choice dives for competitions that have a higher degree of difficulty than voluntaries, which can result in higher total scores.
WE BREEZE into the school parking lot to find a tripped-out version of neo-carnival meets traveling circus has taken over the usual boring lot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many colored lights in one place in my entire life. The dance team and cheerleaders are moving around at light speed, handing out glow sticks to students who are turning them into everything from hats, to necklaces, to whoa—bras.
Chip’s brain must be more compromised than mine tonight because he tries to touch one of the cheerleader’s glowing bras and promptly gets his hand slapped.
“Nice try,” I say.
“Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking the same thing.”
“Oh, I was. I just wasn’t stupid enough to act on it.”
“I couldn’t help myself. She was right there and all I saw were glowing boobs.”
“And I’m the one who needs Adderall to focus.”
I scan the carnival setup. Rides are to the left, and food trucks sending enough sticky, salty, greasy aromas our way to make me salivate are stationed to the right. I take a deep whiff of kettle corn and my focus instantly shifts from glowing bras to food.
That is until Chip starts tapping away at my arm like a woodpecker. “Oh shit,” he whispers. “Here comes trouble.”
I follow his gaze to a set of girls dressed like the four musicians in Kiss. They’re linked arm-in-arm, headed straight for us. The one dressed like Gene Simmons sticks her abnormally long tongue out at me and winks. Size doesn’t matter, my ass. I don’t have time to react before they’re breaking around us, and her friend, the one whose face is painted like a cat—I can never remember that band member’s name—licks my cheek. I stand there a little stunned. I’ve never been the victim of salacious all-girl drive-by before tonight, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.
“Aw, Kitty,” Chip says. “Don’t be like that. Come back.”
Cat-Face sticks two fingers up like she might give Chip the peace sign, then flickers her tongue between them and keeps walking, giggling with her friends.
“Who the hell was that?” I ask, wiping my cheek on my shoulder.
“That’s Bliss. The school’s all-girl Kiss tribute band. Those chicks are capital D dirty. I hooked up with the one dressed like Peter Criss after a show once, but I forgot her name and never called. My bad.”
“I’m guessing her real name’s not Kitty.”
“Trish. She wrote it across the hood of my car in face paint.”
I laugh loud enough to turn heads. “Does Amy know about you two?”
“I dunno,” Chip says. “We never had the are-we-exclusive talk. She doesn’t ask. I don’t ask. No harm, no foul.”
“Or so you think. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. I can only handle one girl at a time.”
“Barely,” Chip says. “But if you want to see my methods for enticing the ladies, Bliss is playing the sound stage later. Hot chicks, rock music—we could go check them out?”
“Can we get some food first? I’m starting to salivate like Pavlov’s dog.”
“Bliss will do that to you, bro. Those chicks know how to ring a guy’s bells. But let’s wait on food until we find Amy. Trust me. We’ll all be starving soon enough.”
Aerosmith is being pumped at maximum volume from the speakers at the Flying Bobs ride—“Walk This Way”—and we do. The music melds with the girlish shrieks erupting from a ride called the Freak Out a few feet away. If I closed my eyes, I bet it would sound like a live concert. Even the smells are similar: sweat, grease, metal. It’s no wonder people puke on rides. They go from all the good cinnamon, popcorn, and cotton candy to the noxious smell of machinery.
“You see Amy anywhere?” Chip asks.
“Psst! Over here.” Amy’s white-blond head pops out from around the corner of a trailer emblazoned with the carnival company’s logo.
I’m about to ask what she’s doing back there when the skunky smell of weed hits me.
“What took you guys so long?” she asks. “I’ve been standing here for, like, forty minutes. Les was supposed to come wait with me, but he bailed.” She hands Chip a half-burned joint and rolls her eyes. “He said something popped up. I can only imagine what that means.” She pops her index finger straight up, in case we didn’t get the picture.
I always forget Les and Amy are friends. Mostly because I can’t wrap my head around it. Les is as straight edge as they come. I’ve never seen the guy so much as sip a beer. And Amy is … well, Amy. Always ready to party with the guys.
“Theo took forever to get out of the pool.” Chip gives me his go-along-with-it face, then takes a hit from Amy’s joint before passing it to me.
“I’m good for now,” I say, remembering what Uncle Phil told me about mixing drugs. Not that it’s ever been a problem before.
“You sure?” Chip asks. “This might help you chill before you go see Iris.”
True.
“Iris Fiorello, huh?” Amy teases. “I heard about that.”
“Oh yeah? What did you hear?”
“Just that you two are sociology partners.”
The way Chip shrugs without looking at Amy tells me he blabbed.
“That’s true,” I tell her. “We are just sociology partners.”
“Mm-hmm. I’m calling bullshit on that.” Amy raises one eyebrow, but that’s all the info she’s getting out of me for now. She’ll put her own spin on it when I bring Iris to the quarry later.
Smoke floats above Chip’s head as he exhales a second hit and the look of nirvana on his face makes me reconsider. Normally I’d wait until the chance of running into parents or teachers has been minimized before I’ll get lit in any capacity. But this week has been everything but normal.
“Okay,” I tell Chip. “Hand it over. But keep an eye out. I don’t need one of my grandfather’s old buddies from the fire station snitching that they saw me smoking weed.”
“He doesn’t know about your dad?” Chip asks.
“It’s not something we’d talk about even if he did.”
He grins, passing me the joint. I use my thumb and first two fingers to cover the end and take a long hit, letting the vapors rise around my nose as I inhale the sweet smoke.
Amy leans forward with a smirk. “You better take it easy, Theo. My brother Ajay calls that his kind weed. That’s not the schwag Sully usually gets for us.”
“She’s right,” Chip says. “If that’s the nitro Ajay got me high with over the summer, it’s a chop to the head.”
“I’m pretty sure living most of my life around pill pushers removes me from virginal drug status.”
“I meant because you rammed your noggin in my pool yesterday. Remember?”
I remember. My short-term memory isn’t the issue.
“I’m fine,” I tell him then take another hit.
Better than fine actually. This might be the most relaxed I’ve felt in days. Months. Uncle Phil doesn’t have it right about mixing weed with Adderall. Chip and I do it all the time and we’re fine. An involuntary smile stretches the corners of my mouth wide enough to fit a wedge of cantaloupe.
Chip takes the joint from me and hands it to Amy before I take a third toke. “I’m doing you a favor, bro. A little goes a long way and we have to be ready to get out there later and … boom … show ’em how it’s done.” Chip gives me a fist bump.
“You’re both ridiculous,” Amy says, snuffing the roach under the toe of her green Doc Martens. “Maybe Les will show you both how it’s done.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just heard he killed it at practice today.”
“Seems like you’ve been hearing a lot things.” I give Chip my best fuck-you-bro glare.
“Don’t look at me,” he says. “I didn’t tell her.”
A wailing screech of feedback from the sound stages makes us cringe. It also pops a no harm, no foul thought into my stoned head that might make Chip reconsider any future blabbing to Amy about me and Iris.
“Amy, have you ever seen the band Bliss?” I rock back on my heels.
Chip’s eyes bore into mine, but he doesn’t need to worry; I’m no snitch. I just want to test his exclusivity theory.
“Once,” she says. “Last year. I’m not a big fan of the drummer.”
“They’re playing tonight,” I say. “We should all go watch. Together. Chip said they’re good.”
“I’m sure he did.” Amy tucks a section of platinum hair behind an ear loaded with piercings and shoots a sour glance at Chip that spills the truth.
“Actually. What I said was that we could check them out. If Theo wanted.” Chip clamps a hand on the back of my neck and pulls me away from the trailer. “Let’s get that food you wanted so bad. You dick,” he whispers, slapping the back of my head.
“Serves you right for talking to her about me and Iris.”
“Point made. My bad. Bros before hos and all that.”
Chip was right about waiting to get food; I’m starving. But he was dead wrong about Amy. She knows about Cat-Face and wants Chip to herself.
We head over to the food trucks and get pizza for Amy, a Polish dog with the works for Chip, and a cheeseburger for me. After we’re stuffed, I pull several rows of Admit One carnival tickets from my pocket. Amy snatches them from my hand before I can even dangle them in her face.
“Holy motherlode. Let’s go win me something.”
“Told you,” I say to Chip.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. And I told you. I got this.”
Amy jogs to the Hi-Striker, a feat of strengths game. She turns with an open-mouthed smile that counts as a dare.
“Step right up, fellas, and test yer strength,” the game operator shouts. “Even if you don’t ring the bell, I’ll give the little lady a prize.” He winks at Amy, causing her to beam.
But the underlying message in his sales pitch irks the hell out of me. This is nature versus nurture too. My dad would be the guy telling me to give back the stuffed Rasta banana or whatever because I didn’t earn it. And I agree. I’m not down with being just another diver at any university any more than Uncle Phil wants to be just another shrink. What’s the point of being good, or even great, at anything if everyone wins?
“Which one of you is the strongest?” Amy asks.
Chip puffs out his chest. “Place your bet.”
As fun as it would be to compete against Chip, I know we have less than two hours before we have to leave for Monarch Night. “Why don’t you win something for Amy while I go see Iris?” I suggest.
“You learned your lesson racing me, huh?” Chip says.
“Sure.” I give him a few smart-alecky pats on the back. “Come find me when you’re done proving your manhood.”
The clang of the weight striking the bell from Chip’s blow reaches me as I snake through the midway toward the sideshow tents. Hundreds of clear latex balloons, inflated around Mylar monarch butterflies hang like rows of chrysalis between each colorful tent. All the signs are painted like old-time circus posters, beckoning patrons to enter and experience the wonders inside.
The psychic’s tent has purple scarves in multiple shades draped over the creases around the outside. The front flap is closed but doesn’t stop the murmured voices inside from reaching my ears, especially the tone of the customer who sounds like he doesn’t want to believe anything Iris is saying.
Chip’s hand lands on my shoulder. “One and done.”
I turn and see the stuffed monkey he won for Amy.
“Iris is in there with a customer,” I tell them.
“I can tell you your future right now if you want. In five or ten minutes you’re gonna go inside that dimly lit tent and punk out. That’ll be five bucks.” Chip holds a hand out for payment and I whale on it the way I should have hit the Hi-Striker.
He’s still shaking out his hand when Amy says, “Look over there.” Her normally raspy voice lilts as she points at a swarm of butterflies being released by one of the biology teachers.
She pulls Chip and me into the crowd where fluttering insects surround us in minutes. An involuntary response causes me to blink fast, mimicking their wings, and the effect is similar to how I felt running through the patches of sunlight by the cemetery this morning. Only this time, images flash on the backside of my eyelids.
Sharks circling a body, red blood seeping into water, people running, yelling.
They pass like flipbook animation, one morphing into the next, too fast for me to understand, and too mesmerizing to break away.
“Hey!” Amy shakes my arm. “You look like you’re having a seizure.”
I stop blinking, but my heart keeps hammering the same wing-flapping tempo. There are people running and yelling, but it’s normal for this crowd. If Amy didn’t interrupt me I don’t know what else I would have seen, but it didn’t feel like a flashback. More like another dream state, which is starting to freak me the hell out. I don’t need Uncle Phil to interpret the meaning of sharks for me this close to the meet against Andover. But blood seeping into water is not something any diver would categorize as a hidden desire.
“You okay?” Amy says. “You wigged.”
“I’m fine,” I say, shrugging it off. “I was just trying to interpret what I was seeing.”
It’s the truest thing I’ve said yet, at least to anyone beside Uncle Phil.
Amy laughs. “Like what, the significance of seeing so many monarchs in one place? Maybe Chip was right to cut you off earlier.”
“I’m always right when it comes to this gigantic fool,” Chip says.
I nod like that’s true. Even though my dream state probably had nothing to do with Amy’s kind weed, and everything to do with the fact that I might actually be starting to go off the rails. Despite what Uncle Phil said.
The majority of butterflies have dispersed throughout the carnival, but a pair lands to rest on Amy’s arm. She tries shaking them off but they’re persistent. Survivors.
“Don’t.” I steady Amy’s arm, remembering how Iris tried to save one monarch this morning, even though dozens swarm the carnival tonight. “Let them break away on their own.”
“I think they’re having sex,” Chip says.
“Play your cards right and they won’t be the only ones,” Amy says.
Jeezus. There’s my cue to leave.
I look back at the psychic’s tent and notice the flap is open. “Looks like I’m up for getting my fortune told. I’ll catch up with you guys when I’m done.”
“Amy’s going with the swimmers,” Chip tells me. “But I’ll be here waiting. Don’t punk out.”
“I got her number, didn’t I?”
“By default.”
That’s true. But so far, I haven’t punked out entirely when it mattered.