Nothing to Lose by Alex Flinn Page B

Kirstie. “I mean, does it make you feel less lonely?”
    “Nope,” she said. “But you think it will, at first, so you try. Usually it makes it worse.”
    She was right. In the beginning I took a few girls up on their offers. But lately I’ve sat back. I’ve held back. Maybe I’m waiting for someone I love.
    But for some reason—maybe because she looks like Kirstie—I say to Lisette, “I’ve got a break in an hour. See you then?”
    And she says, “Maybe you will.”
    She walks away just as Cricket steps up. “Hold a sec,” I say, and I start the game. Around me, they’re all pounding. Cricket slips a copy of the Miami Herald in front of me.
    “This guy looks like you, doesn’t he?”
    I glance down, knowing before I do that it is me, recognizing the photo, me and Mom at one of my games. Someone at school, maybe even Tris, must have snapped it, then sold it to the paper when the price was right. I hear the pounding in my ears.
    “Since when do you read the paper?” I say. My throat hurts to talk.
    “Some guy left it on the ride.” He looks at it. “Is it you … Michael? His name’s the same as yours.”
    “My name is Robert.”
    “But it used to be … look, you know I’m on your side. But it says… I mean, people might be looking for you. For this guy.” He jabs the paper. “If it’s you, maybe you were right. Maybe you ought to bail. You could get in trouble.”
    “It’s not me!” But I grab the paper from him.
    “Hey!” A voice interrupts. “Hello? Anyone there? I won. Where’s my prize?”
    “Sure.” I walk away, still holding the paper and barely able to see the prizes through the blur from the ride lights, and the haze of smoke from hamburgers burning.
    Later, on my break, I go to the men’s room and stare at the photo for a long time. Then I tear the article into little pieces and flush it down the toilet.
    I forget all about Lisette until I head back to my joint and see her walking away, mad. I wish I cared, but I don’t. There are only two people I care about in the world, and I can’t be with either of them.

LAST YEAR
     
    I left the double Ferris wheel at ten with twenty-five dollars in my pocket.
    “Aw, you don’t have to,” I said, when Cricket handed me the money. “I’d have been here anyway.” I tried to give the money back.
    Cricket waved me off. “Fuggedaboutit. You work, you earn cash. That’s life.”
    I pocketed it. It was mostly ones, and they felt heavy and good in my pocket. I raised a hand to Cricket and went back to find Kirstie. I was tired, I realized. Not sleepy but tired like I used to get after a football game.
    Kirstie put me to more work, closing up her joint. While I pulled down the awnings, she finished counting her money and wrote the final figure on a slip for her money bag with a satisfied smile. I checked the beeper in my pocket. Still silent. But, of course, if Walker had my mother up against a wall, she wouldn’t be able to call.
    “I can’t stay long,” I told Kirstie. “It’s late. I should get home.”
    “Early bedtime?”
    “No.”
    “No,” she agreed. “You’re afraid something will happen if you aren’t there.” Not a question. She tossed the money bag to a guy who came around collecting them, then came outside the joint to help me close up.
    “What’s your problem?” I said. “You tell me to come here tonight, then ignore me for hours. Now, when I have to go, you say stay. I just have school tomorrow. That’s all.”
    She shrugged. “You want to go home, go home.” She started to walk away.
    I don’t know if she walked really quickly or if I just sort of blacked out, but the next thing I knew, she was yards away, across the nearly empty fairgrounds, and I was listening to the thuds of my running shoes against the pavement, watching her hair, raven-colored, full of moonlight.
    “Wait!” I said. “Wait for me. Please.”
    When she heard my voice, she stopped for me.
    She took me back to the circus tent.