former.
The roller coaster’s construction didn’t inspire my confidence, remodeled or not. It looked more than a century old and was made of wood that had spent a lot of time exposed to Maine’s harsh elements.
The artwork painted on the sides was even less inspiring.
The car Patch chose had a grouping of four paintings. The first depicted a mob of horned demons ripping the wings off a screaming male angel.
The next painting showed the wingless angel perched on a headstone, watching children play from a distance. In the third painting, the wingless angel stood close to the children, crooking a finger at one little green-eyed girl. In the final painting, the wingless angel drifted through the girl’s body like a ghost. The girl’s eyes were black, her smile was gone, and she’d sprouted horns like the demons from the first painting. A slivered moon hung above the paintings.
I averted my eyes and assured myself it was the frigid air making my legs tremble. I slid into the car beside Patch.
“Your past wouldn’t frighten me,” I said, buckling my seat belt across my lap. “I’m guessing I’d be more appalled than anything.”
“Appalled,” he repeated. The tone of his voice led me to believe he’d 108
accepted the accusation. Strange, since Patch never degraded himself.
The cars rolled backward, then lurched forward. Not in a smooth way, we headed away from the platform, climbing steadily uphill. The smell of sweat, rust, and saltwater blowing in from the sea filled the air. Patch sat close enough to smell. I caught the slightest trace of rich mint soap.
“You look pale,” he said, leaning in to be heard above the clicking tracks.
I felt pale, but did not admit it.
At the crest of the hill there was a moment’s hesitation. I could see for miles, noting where the dark countryside blended with the sparkle of the suburbs and gradually became the grid of Portland’s lights. The wind held its breath, allowing the damp air to settle on my skin.
Without meaning to, I stole a look at Patch. I found a measure of consolation in having him at my side. Then he flashed a grin.
“Scared, Angel?”
I clenched the metal bar drilled into the front of the car as I felt my weight tip forward. A shaky laugh slipped out of me.
Our car flew demonically fast, my hair flapping out behind me.
Swerving to the left, then to the right, we clattered over the tracks.
Inside, I felt my organs float and fall in response to the ride. I looked down, trying to concentrate on something not moving.
It was then that I noticed my seat belt had come undone.
I tried to shout at Patch, but my voice was swallowed up in the rush of air. I felt my stomach go hollow, and I let go of the metal bar with one 109
hand, trying to secure the seat belt around my waist with the other. The car lunged to the left. I slammed shoulders with Patch, pressing against him so hard it hurt. The car soared up, and I felt it lift from the tracks, not fully riveted to them.
We were plunging. The flashing lights along the tracks blinded me; I couldn’t see which way the track turned at the end of the dive.
It was too late. The car swerved to the right. I felt a jolt of panic, and then it happened. My left shoulder slammed against the car door. It flung open, and I was ripped out of the car while the roller coaster sped off without me. I rolled onto the tracks and grappled for something to anchor myself. My hands found nothing, and I tumbled over the edge, plunging straight down through the black air. The ground rushed up at me, and I opened my mouth to scream.
The next thing I knew, the ride screeched to a stop at the unloading platform.
My arms hurt from how tightly Patch held me. “Now that’s what I call a scream,” he said, grinning at me.
In a daze, I watched him place a hand over his ear as if my scream still echoed there. Not at all certain what had just happened, I stared at the place on his arm where my nails had left semicircles
The roller coaster’s construction didn’t inspire my confidence, remodeled or not. It looked more than a century old and was made of wood that had spent a lot of time exposed to Maine’s harsh elements.
The artwork painted on the sides was even less inspiring.
The car Patch chose had a grouping of four paintings. The first depicted a mob of horned demons ripping the wings off a screaming male angel.
The next painting showed the wingless angel perched on a headstone, watching children play from a distance. In the third painting, the wingless angel stood close to the children, crooking a finger at one little green-eyed girl. In the final painting, the wingless angel drifted through the girl’s body like a ghost. The girl’s eyes were black, her smile was gone, and she’d sprouted horns like the demons from the first painting. A slivered moon hung above the paintings.
I averted my eyes and assured myself it was the frigid air making my legs tremble. I slid into the car beside Patch.
“Your past wouldn’t frighten me,” I said, buckling my seat belt across my lap. “I’m guessing I’d be more appalled than anything.”
“Appalled,” he repeated. The tone of his voice led me to believe he’d 108
accepted the accusation. Strange, since Patch never degraded himself.
The cars rolled backward, then lurched forward. Not in a smooth way, we headed away from the platform, climbing steadily uphill. The smell of sweat, rust, and saltwater blowing in from the sea filled the air. Patch sat close enough to smell. I caught the slightest trace of rich mint soap.
“You look pale,” he said, leaning in to be heard above the clicking tracks.
I felt pale, but did not admit it.
At the crest of the hill there was a moment’s hesitation. I could see for miles, noting where the dark countryside blended with the sparkle of the suburbs and gradually became the grid of Portland’s lights. The wind held its breath, allowing the damp air to settle on my skin.
Without meaning to, I stole a look at Patch. I found a measure of consolation in having him at my side. Then he flashed a grin.
“Scared, Angel?”
I clenched the metal bar drilled into the front of the car as I felt my weight tip forward. A shaky laugh slipped out of me.
Our car flew demonically fast, my hair flapping out behind me.
Swerving to the left, then to the right, we clattered over the tracks.
Inside, I felt my organs float and fall in response to the ride. I looked down, trying to concentrate on something not moving.
It was then that I noticed my seat belt had come undone.
I tried to shout at Patch, but my voice was swallowed up in the rush of air. I felt my stomach go hollow, and I let go of the metal bar with one 109
hand, trying to secure the seat belt around my waist with the other. The car lunged to the left. I slammed shoulders with Patch, pressing against him so hard it hurt. The car soared up, and I felt it lift from the tracks, not fully riveted to them.
We were plunging. The flashing lights along the tracks blinded me; I couldn’t see which way the track turned at the end of the dive.
It was too late. The car swerved to the right. I felt a jolt of panic, and then it happened. My left shoulder slammed against the car door. It flung open, and I was ripped out of the car while the roller coaster sped off without me. I rolled onto the tracks and grappled for something to anchor myself. My hands found nothing, and I tumbled over the edge, plunging straight down through the black air. The ground rushed up at me, and I opened my mouth to scream.
The next thing I knew, the ride screeched to a stop at the unloading platform.
My arms hurt from how tightly Patch held me. “Now that’s what I call a scream,” he said, grinning at me.
In a daze, I watched him place a hand over his ear as if my scream still echoed there. Not at all certain what had just happened, I stared at the place on his arm where my nails had left semicircles
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