A promise he had every intention of keeping until he saw her.
Mary Angel O’Conner.
The girl who sat a few rows before him in school—the girl with the glorious mane of long red hair that spilled over the back of her chair like a trail of smoldering embers. Those silken strands gleaming in the slant of noonday sun that crept through the window—appearing so glossy, so inviting, Satchel imagined it would feel like warmed silk in his hand.
Unlike all the other kids, Mary Angel had, on more than one occasion, said a kind word to him. They were moments he’d never forget. Moments he replayed in his head again and again, like a favorite movie.
And there she was, surrounded by a large group of friends, though one glance at Satchel made it clear he saw only her.
I shot a nervous look first at his mom, then at his dad. Hoping they hadn’t noticed what had claimed their son’s attention, knowing they’d view it as a threat, try to make him fear it. I was already feeling really, really sorry for him.
But they didn’t see, they were too busy discussing all the dangers around them, completely unaware of the spark of an idea that just flared in Satchel’s mind—one that would’ve resulted in a hasty stroll toward the exit if they’d had even the slightest inkling of it.
I have to get away from my parents, he thought. I have to do whatever it takes to rid myself of them. I have to get far, far away—if only for a few seconds.
He yanked at the cuffs on his shirt, then patted his hair with his hand, two of his usual nervous tells. Deception did not come easily to him.
Carefully steering his parents in another direction, one that was opposite Mary Angel and her friends, he looked first to his mom, and then to his dad, as he said, “I think I just saw someone from school. May I go say hello, please?”
I stood off to the side, polishing off the last sticky strands of cotton candy, while his parents exchanged a worried look. His mother verging on no, the most overused word in her vocabulary, some might argue the only word. You could see it engraved on her face, the lines permanently stamped in the place where a smile could’ve, should’ve been.
While his father peered closely at Satchel and said, “Who? Who is this person you know from school?”
Knowing the truth would only land him in trouble at best, and back home at worst, he gulped, crossed his fingers behind his back in an attempt to lessen the sting of the lie, and said, “It’s just … it’s just one of the teachers. I want to ask her a quick question about Monday’s assignment, that’s all.”
I veered closer as his parents consulted, listened as they discussed the possible merits along with the very real dangers of allowing him to drift off on his own. And just as his mother was about to say no once again, his father overruled her when he nodded and said, “We’ll wait here. Right here. We expect your return in three minutes.” Consulting his pocket watch to mark the time. “If you’re not back by then, we are coming to get you.”
If it’d been me, I would’ve run like the wind to get the heck out of there, afraid of wasting a single second of such a ridiculously short time frame. But Satchel and I are nothing alike. Which means he didn’t run. Didn’t even consider it. Running could lead to falling, and falling was bad—a fact that was repeated to him ever since he’d taken his very first step.
With hammering heart, and sweaty palms, he made his way toward her. Having no idea what he’d say once he got there, and knowing all too well there was a good chance that her friends would all laugh, he still had to go through with it. He couldn’t let the chance slip away. He was at the carnival—just like any other kid—just like any normal kid—and he wanted Mary Angel to see it.
He wanted her to see him the way he saw her.
By the time he caught up, she and her friends had made their way to the front of the line for the Ferris wheel, waiting for their turn to board.
I stood beside him, the two of us gazing up at the car that loomed highest. And while I’d always loved the Ferris wheel, carnivals too for that matter, Satchel made me see it in a whole different light.
Carnivals were dangerous and dirty places—operated by shady carnies with even shadier pasts—and while all of the rides held their own unique dangers, the Ferris wheel was the granddaddy—the most dangerous of them all. His father had assured him of that on the drive over, while his mother had sat right beside him, head nodding in silent agreement.
I shot him a worried look. He was just a few inches shy of Mary Angel, and I braced for what he might do, what he might say. He was in unfamiliar territory to say the least.
Mary Angel turned, smiling in a way that made her face shine with happiness, and though the smile was in no way directed at him, she’d been merely laughing at something a friend said, Satchel was too sheltered, too hopeful, too socially awkward to see the smile for what it really was.
He used it as an excuse to approach her. Stopping just shy when a boy, Jimmy MacIntyre, otherwise known as Jimmy Mac, or sometimes just Mac, placed a possessive hand on her back, threading his fingers through her blaze of red hair while gently pushing her toward the vacant, waiting car.
“Hey, Satchel, you gonna ride too?” Mary Angel called, finally seeing him as she slid onto the seat.
And though he’d sought her attention, though it was the number-one reason, the only reason, for lying to his parents and risking their wrath if the lie should be discovered—now that she was looking at him, he was struck dumb, left completely speechless, breaking out in a sweat that soon worked its way from his forehead all the way down to his feet.
Jimmy Mac answering for him when he said, “You kidding? Satchel? Ride this thing? Please. That kid’s such a wimp he has a permanent note to get out of PE. He’s not allowed to run! Can you believe it? Running is too dangerous!” He shook his head, rolled his auburn eyes. “Craziest thing I’ve ever heard and I swear to gawd it’s true!”
Mary Angel glanced shyly at Satchel, shot him a regretful look, as Jimmy Mac claimed the space right beside her, his shoulder pressing into her angora-covered shoulder in a way that made Satchel’s head swim.
Satchel gulped, gaped, all to
o aware of the seconds marching forward, erasing all that remained of the three minutes he was given. All too aware of the mountain of trouble that awaited him if he was caught standing anywhere near the mouth of the Ferris wheel.
“You riding or not?” the carnie asked, his face a mess of crags and crevices—evidence of a life lived recklessly, his father would say. And though he knew better than to ask, Satchel wondered how his father might go about explaining his mother, who didn’t have much of a life to speak of and yet she bore the same, saddened, used-up look.