Part 7- Ferris Wheel
Disclaimer: this article contains mature content that may be unsuitable for younger readers.
“Hey, PB, you feeling alright?” my mom asks, washing dishes. My full name is Peter Bokkun Chung, which my family likes to shorten into PB&J, PBS Kids, and— Mark’s personal favorite— lead head.
“Um, I’m fine.” I drink some milk as evidence.
“You’re not so much eating breakfast as staring at it, kid,” my mom says.
“Guess I’m just worried about public school.” Actually, I googled Hillsong allegations last night, then tumbled down a rabbit hole.
“Don’t worry, I bet you’ll terrify the other kids. You’re a cannibal, after all,” Mark says.
“Hilarious. Thanks, Mark,” I say, wiping peanut-butter from my mouth. Apparently, the megachurch’s founder assaulted boys, and his son covered up his father’s crimes.
“What about public school worries you?” my mom asks, attacking grease stains.
“Umm, the people.” I stare at the kitchen cabinet’s brass knobs, the floral tablecloth. Just a couple decades ago, over 150 priests in the Archdiocese of Boston were accused of assaulting minors. One man was involved with over 130 children.
“Kids your age are always so scared of your peers.” My mom clucks admonishingly. “I promise, everyone is just as awkward and anxious as you are. Don’t be afraid to shine your light, ok, kid?”
“Sure,” I say, resentment winding in my chest. Over 130 kids. Imagine explaining that to your shiny new classmates at public school.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me about, kiddo?” she asks.
“No.” I roll my eyes. Can’t she just let it go?
“Watch your tone, young man,” my mom warns.
“Can you just stop for once?” I say, finally meeting her gaze. Her gaze drills into mine, the scrub hovering over its greasy victim. Color brands my cheeks. Why can I never shut up when I need to?
“Go to your room. You can come back when you’ve rediscovered the art of not behaving like a five-year-old.” Her tone could curdle fresh milk.
“Fine.” I shove my seat away from the table and stomp off. I know it’s childish to throw a tantrum because your mom called out your immaturity, but I can’t help it. Throwing myself onto my bed, I cry a little into my comforter. Then I toss in earbuds and crank up the volume to Twenty One Pilots. Why am I even crying? Stupid, somewhat-depressed teen.
***
After a while, someone raps on my bedroom door. “You have a visitor.”
“Who is it?” I pause my music, then jerk into a sitting position. “Sam?” I’m not sure what to make of the slight knot in my stomach when I imagine him standing in the living room.
“His dad, actually.” My mom looks away, folding her arms.
“Why in the world is he here?” I ask, following her into the hallway and shamelessly avoiding eye contact.
She sighs. “I think he’s worried about his son.” Squeezing my shoulder, she gently shoves me into the living room.
My heart beat starts banging in my ears as I spot a gray-haired man sitting on our couch, the cuffs of his button-down rolled to his elbows, his face lined and weathered. He nods at me, bags heavy under each eye. “Nice to see you, Peter.”
I stand awkwardly, not sure what to do with my arms. “Nice to see you, too, Mr. Johnson. What can I do for you?”
He folds his hands. “I need to know how my son is doing.”
“Um, I met up with him for lunch yesterday. He seemed fine.” My throat constricts as I try to cough up more half-truths. “Why? Did he seem off to you?”
“We haven’t talked in a while,” Mr. Johnson says, tugging at his sleeve.
Sam does the same thing when he’s agitated. Once, as we swung on the swing set in my backyard, he kept on yanking at his sleeve until I asked him what was up. Though I hated to interrupt a good, old-fashioned silence, I could tell he needed to talk. After a moment, Sam told me how when he was six, his dad had taken him to an amusement park to try and make amends for unsavory parenting. At the park, striped tents had billowed in the breeze, laughter and screams erupting from roller coaster cars as they whooshed past. They bought caramel popcorn in paper cones, smeared their cheeks with cotton candy as blue as the summer sky. Sam asked to ride the ferris wheel, but his dad refused, claiming they didn’t have enough money. Although Sam threw a toddler-sized tantrum, he soon forgot about the spat. That is, until he discovered his father’s fear of heights just before coming over. As the tips of our sneakers scraped the sky, Sam confessed, “I wish I could’ve shown him that there’s nothing to be afraid of, y’know?”
Suddenly, I want to tell this sad man everything I know. Palms damp, I open my mouth, close it, open up again.
He leans forward, eyes creased. “Something’s happening to my son. Please, Peter, if you can tell me anything. I–” He swallows hard. “I don’t know what to do.” His words curl into the air, delicate as smoke.
Watching the way carpet crimps under my socks, I try to discreetly rub my palms down my pant leg. Finally, I croak, “He seems fine.”
Mr. Johnson’s mouth draws into a thin line. “Is that all?”
“Yeah,” I say, licking my lips. As much as I want to spill my guts, I need to confront Sam first. I can’t just gamble with somebody else’s secrets.
Photo credit: https://pixabay.com/photos/carnival-carousel-ferris-wheel-1492099/
gj! 👍