Dunk (5 page)

That got my attention. “Pay up,” I said, holding my hand out.

Jason groaned, then gave me a dollar. We had a rule—mention school during the summer and you owed a dollar. Mention a teacher's name, and it was two bucks. School didn't belong in any part of our summer.

We squeezed through the crowds by Panic Pier and then walked past Thrillville, the smallest of the ride piers, without running into any of our friends. Like everything else, the boardwalk came to an end. The crowds thinned out, the shops got smaller. After crossing a final stretch with no shops at all, we reached the southern end. I leaned against the railing for a minute, looking back at where I'd been, and tried to let the images fill my mind and push away all thoughts.

“Don't worry,” Jason said. “She'll show up.”

“Hope so.”

“Ready to spend some money?”

“Sure.”

We headed back north.

“How about a tattoo?” Jason asked. He stopped in front of the entrance to one of the seven zillion places that offered tattoos, henna, branding, piercing, and, for all I knew, emergency appendectomies.

“Right.” I'd gotten an earring after the second time Dad split, when I was in sixth grade. Other than that, I hadn't had anything pierced or tattooed. Jason had a unicorn on his left shoulder, and he was always joking that I should get a tattoo. But the one time I was actually thinking about it, he'd told me he'd kill me if I went ahead.

Still, it didn't hurt to look. We stepped inside and checked out the samples on the wall. Incense burned my eyes and tickled my throat. I wondered if everything in the shop was supposed to cause pain. “The tiger,” I said, pointing to a large Bengal. “Now that's me.”

Jason shook his head and tapped a long-stemmed rose. “
That's
you.” He leaned over and sniffed my head. “Yup. Definitely. With all the fertilizer in there, flowers would do great.”

I gave him a shove and we moved along.

“Laser tag?” Jason asked as we passed near the entrance to the Galactic Zapper.

“Too expensive.” It was great running around in the dark, shooting friends and strangers in the back, but at five bucks a game I didn't play too often. “Want to hit a few?”

Jason grinned. “Sure.”

We went to the batting cages. I tried the seventy-mile-per-hour hardball. I only hit three out of twenty, and one of those popped straight up from the bat, nearly taking off my nose. That was more than enough for me. After the third hit, my hands were buzzing. Besides, I had a hard time concentrating. Stepping into the cage got me thinking about how it would feel to climb into the dunk tank. And a batting cage is a bad place to be when your mind is drifting.

Jason stuck with slow-pitch softball. He knocked nearly every ball straight out against the netting at the far end of the cage.

“It's no challenge when they come that slow,” I said as I watched him bat a second round.

“It's no fun when they come that fast,” he replied. He whacked a solid shot. “It would be like trying to hit off Stinger Dalton.”

I thought about the kid from the baseball team at school with the awesome pitching arm. “I think he throws faster than these machines.”

“Yeah,” Jason nodded as he nailed his last ball. “It definitely wouldn't be much fun batting against him.” He took off his helmet and stepped out of the cage.

On the way back we found Mike and Corey inside Panic Pier. They were standing under the sky ride. Mike was staring up at the girls as they passed overhead. So was Corey, though he was pretending not to.

“Pervert,” Jason said, giving Mike a push.

“What's up?” I asked.

“Can't hang long,” Mike said. “I'm on break.”

“Whatcha working?” Jason asked.

“A wheel,” Mike told him.

“I'm free,” Corey said. He shrugged, then added, “I'm always free.”

Something smelled strangely familiar but oddly out of place. “You wearing sunscreen?” I asked Corey.

He nodded. “Nothing wrong with being careful.”

“It's dark,” I told him.

“It wasn't when I left the house. You can laugh at me now, but in twenty years we'll see who's right. You guys are going to have faces like grilled steak.”

“That's something to look forward to,” Jason said.

“Mmm, steak,” Mike said. He glanced at his watch, sighed, took one last lingering look up at the sky ride, then headed off to continue his shift at the game wheel.

“Heaven help us if he ever becomes a ride operator,” Jason said.

“Heaven help the riders,” I said. But the funny thing was, as sleazy as Mike could get, he was honest. A lot of guys would dip into the cash when they worked a booth. I knew how tempting that could be. There was really no way to catch someone who snuck a couple bucks. But Mike had his own code. He'd never steal from his boss. The couple times I worked a booth, filling in for someone who needed a quick break, I tried to touch the roll as little as possible. I was afraid if I took some money even once, it would become a habit.

We moved farther down the pier and hung out near the Cyclospin for a while, watching people stagger from the cars and try to walk straight as they came out of the exit.

“I'll sell you a ride,” a familiar voice said from behind us.

I turned around and saw Anthony pull a plastic bag partway out of his pants pocket, revealing a handful of white pills.

Jason leaned over and whispered something to Anthony, who shrugged and took off.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“I told him if he ever came near any of us with that junk again, I'd shove it so far up his ass he'd be able to taste it.”

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or shudder at that image. “Just make sure you wear gloves.”

“What a piece of walking scum,” Corey said. “I can't believe he gets away with everything. If I sneeze, the teachers give me an angry look. Anthony could show up half loaded and everyone would think he was being cute.”

“It's like he throws a switch whenever he wants, and people see this wonderful kid,” I said. “They never realize it's all an act.”

We talked for a while about the general unfairness of life. Then Jason and I headed back north. We'd invited Corey to join us, but he wanted to go home to do some work on his computer. I couldn't blame him. He was really good at it. He'd been making money designing webpages for people.

There was a bigger crowd by Wild Willy's now, clustered near the Bozo tank. We pushed our way through.

“Hey, blondie!” a rasping voice shouted at Jason.

I froze as I recognized the unmistakable sound of the good Bozo. Jason glanced over at the cage.

“Yeah, you, cheesehead. What did you do, dive into a vat of mayonnaise?”

“That's weird,” Jason said to me. “I've got this sudden craving for a sandwich.”

“I'd tell you a blond joke,” the Bozo said, “but what's the point? You
are
a blond joke!”

The crowd laughed. And the Bozo unleashed his chain-saw cackle, “Hhhhhaaaaawwwwhhhoooooheeeeeeeyyaaaa!” I flinched in sympathy, but I knew Jason wasn't going to let it bother him. The Bozo was wasting his time on this vic. He might as well have been hurling his insults into an empty room. But he kept going. “Let's make America beautiful, folks. Somebody buy that kid a hat.”

I couldn't believe it when Jason turned around and handed two bucks to the barker.

Thwunk!

He barely missed.

“Could someone explain the instructions to blondie?” the Bozo asked. “Help him with the big words, like HIT THE TARGET!”

Thwunk!

Another close one.

“Better give it up, kid. You've got about as much chance of doing this as—”

Thwank! Splash!

Jason nailed the target. People cheered and hooted. The Bozo scampered back up and started taunting his next mark.

“Good shot,” I said. “You angry?”

“Nah. I was going to just walk away, but I figure the guy works hard in there, so why not spend a couple bucks. It's kind of like with your mom.”

“What are you talking about?” An image of my mom in the tank flashed through my mind. What could she shout?
Make your bed! Finish your homework! Eat your vegetables!
That didn't work. It was about as ridiculous as trying to picture Jason in a ballerina skirt.

“You know—tips. People go to a restaurant and they get a good waitress like your mom who does everything just fine. Maybe even does more than they expected. So it wouldn't hurt them to kick in an extra buck or two for the tip. But lots of them don't.”

Yeah. I knew what he meant. Mom didn't complain much, but I could tell there were days when she wasn't happy with her job. Sometimes she'd work really hard taking care of a table and they wouldn't leave any tip. That sucked.

“Now what?” Jason asked.

It was too early to go back home. And I was right where I wanted to be. But if I admitted that, Jason would start kidding me again. “I don't know. I guess we could hang out here. Want to watch the Bozo for a while?” I asked, trying to sound like I wasn't all that interested.

Jason shrugged. “If that's how you get your kicks. But let's back off a bit.”

“Good idea.”

We stood to the side of the crowd.

“Hey,” the Bozo shouted at a guy wearing a big gold chain and a shirt that was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. “Look who broke away from his leash.”

The mark's head snapped toward the tank. This was great. Guys like that always acted like they were better than anyone else. Once, I was just looking through the window of this Corvette parked on Ninth Street, trying to check out the dashboard, when the owner ran up and shouted at me to get away from it. He had a lot of gold on him, too.

“Please, if you're not going to button that shirt, at least comb your chest before you leave the house,” the Bozo said.

Twelve bucks later, Mr. Chain got his revenge.

A cluster of sullen girls went by, all wearing black clothing, black nail polish, black lipstick, black eye makeup, and black hair streaked with colors normally seen only in comic books. They were the kind of girls who usually stared right through me. I'd have given almost anything for a chance to be in the tank at that moment. It would have been so great to lean into the microphone and let loose. The Bozo had a field day. “Wow. Didn't know they ran a late shift at the coal mine. Next time, WASH YOUR FACE!” That was just for starters. By the time he was done with them, each girl had taken a couple turns.

“Doesn't this strike you as kind of cruel?” Jason asked as the girls headed off, laughing and poking each other.

“Nope.” I figured people got insulted all day in big and small ways anyhow. It was part of life. In school, at work, in stores—even on the street if you ran into the wrong cop. At least here you had a chance to get even. I pointed at the girls. “They don't look injured, do they?”

“I guess not,” Jason said.

I turned my attention back to the Bozo. Nobody was spared—men, women, boys, girls. Say what you will about the insults, the Bozo didn't play favorites. He nailed everyone. The thing that really blew me away was how I never heard him say the same thing twice. Except for his laugh. He let loose with that a whole lot.

I also learned he could do more than just strike out with words. At one point, this guy who missed with a bunch of throws ran toward the target. I guess he wanted to push it and dunk the Bozo that way. The barker didn't even try to stop him. He just grinned. A second later, right before the guy reached the target, I found out the reason for the grin. The Bozo slid smoothly off the ledge into the water. He didn't go under like when he was dunked. Instead, he plunged both hands down in front of him and splashed a double scoop of slimy water at the guy, nailing him in the face.

The guy stood there for a moment, drenched, while the crowd laughed at him and clapped for the Bozo. I could tell he wanted to get even, but there was nothing he could do. Finally, he slunk off down the boardwalk. The Bozo was unbeatable. He had a microphone, he had iron bars, he had makeup. And if you tried to run up and smack the target, he had that covered, too.

The more I watched, the more I wanted a turn. Out here in the world, you never knew what would happen when you opened your mouth. Someone might laugh. Or throw a punch. Or just ignore you. In the tank, it was different. People loved the Bozo. And nobody ignored him. Nobody looked down on him or told him he was a loser.

Finally, near eleven, as the crowds started to thin, the Bozo swung out a section of the bars and climbed through an opening at the back of the tank. Another Bozo—the bad one we'd seen earlier—waddled from a door at the side of a building behind the right corner of the tank, about twenty feet away. The good Bozo headed there.

“The changing of the Bozos,” Jason said. “I've heard all about it, but I never dreamed I'd live to see the ceremony. Oh, I wish I had my camera.” He turned to a guy standing next to him. “Hey, got a camera? Someone really should take a picture of this.”

“Think so?” the guy asked, his eyebrows rising a good half inch.

“Absolutely.”

“Marge,” the guy said, tapping his wife on the shoulder. “Get me the camera, quick.”

“I thought you had the camera,” she said.

They started to argue about who had the camera. I stopped paying attention to them. Something about the Bozo caught my eye. For a moment, as I watched, it didn't really sink in. Why did he look so familiar? Then I knew the answer. And the answer really pissed me off.

“I
T'S
HIM
,” I
SAID
.

“Who?” Jason asked.

“The new tenant. The guy my mom just rented the apartment to.” I glared at the Bozo as he limped up to the dressing-room door and went inside. I couldn't believe I'd thought he was so great. “I'm sure it's him.”