Part 8-Confession
Eyes trained on a bobbing pink balloon, Sam straightens a dart between his quivering fingers.
“You’ll hit nothing but cardboard,” I say from behind his shoulder.
“You underestimate just how much time I’ve spent practicing on my dartboard instead of doing homework,” Sam shoots back.
We’re tied two for two. He knocked down more plastic ducks, but I tossed more rings over Sprite bottles. He smacked more groundhogs, but no one knows the subtle spin and weight of a bean bag like I do. The loser has to buy tickets for the Ferris Wheel.
Pop!
“Ha! I told you.” Sam grins at me, and I roll my eyes. Tents striped red and white flap in the breeze, while dusk sinks into the sky. Jo and Aaron size up a jar of jellybeans to our right. Scraps of laughter and footfalls filter through the wind, interwoven with the thunk of mallets, of baseballs thwacking plastic fowl.
I still haven’t confronted him, by the way. I’m waiting for the perfect moment, waiting for my excuses to run out. What if this is the end of our friendship?
“It’s getting kind of late,” Sam says. “Want to buy me some ferris wheel tickets?”
“Let’s do it,” I say. We unstick Jo and Aaron from the jellybean-estimating platform and meander over to the towering ferris wheel, gauzy golden bulbs lighting up the length of its spindles. I crane my neck to watch the cars swing back and forth, back and forth.
“Umm, so I’m scared of heights,” Jo begins sheepishly. Aaron, obliging as always, stays, while Sam and I shuffle into a baby blue car with graffiti and stickers splattered on the walls. Grime coats the windows, our glorious view of the park blurred and speckled. If our car somehow swung off its spindle and dove for concrete, this would be a nasty coffin.
As our car groans sky-ward, Sam rests his chin in his palm, watching the sprawling carnival below us. Whenever we ride the ferris wheel to the top or tackle algebra after dinner, he likes to strip down our conversations to silence and the occasional dissection of human nature. I stare out the window with him, trying to think of what to say. Maybe I’ll ask him about his dad. No— that’s a terrible idea. What if I mention (real casually) that his dad visited? I chew over the idea for a moment. Then I take a deep breath and turn to face him.
“Carnivals are kind of violent, aren’t they?” Sam asks suddenly, eyes glazed with introspection.
Not the opening I was looking for, but oh well. “Yeah, sure,” I hear myself say. “A lot of whacking things. Making a profit off of people’s pent-up anger, I guess.”
“I mean, why don’t we have carnivals where we, like, build nests for birds instead of using them for target practice?” Sam says. “Humans like hurting things, I guess.”
Inspiration strikes. “Hurt is kind of in our nature,” I say. “I mean, we accidentally hurt people we love all the time.” Aha. Now to transition to his dad….
Sam nods sagely, stroking his chin. Then he says, “You can tell me what’s bothering you, you know.” He laughs a little at the chagrined look on my face. “Bro, you know you can’t keep a secret. It’s not in your nature.”
I shake my head ruefully at him. “You’re right.”
For a while, I merely stare at my laced fingers, while the easy creaking of our car and the rhythm of our breathing massage the silence between us. Finally, I say, “Your dad visited me a couple days ago.”
Sam raises a brow, his gaze sharpening. “What’d he say?”
“He’s worried about you.” I try to meet his gaze.
“You don’t say.” Sam’s mouth draws into a thin line.
“Yeah, well,” I say, trying to bluster past his barb. “He told me that you guys haven’t talked in a while. I know your dad is a proud guy, but he begged me to tell him what was up with you.”
“What did you say?” Sam asks, wariness creeping into his tone. His eyes lock onto mine.
“Nothing.” I swallow hard. “But I think you should talk to him.”
Sam sets his jaw. “No. He won’t take it the right way.”
“And what exactly is the right way? You’re leaving the faith which is supposed to be the most important part of your life,” I protest, fingers clenched.
“That’s just life,” Sam snaps, throwing up his hands. “People find faith. People lose faith. My dad doesn’t get that. He’ll argue with me for hours without listening to a word I say. He’ll ground me for a year. He’ll pull me from public school. He just doesn’t know how to handle what scares him.” He shakes his head and lets loose a dry laugh. “I mean, have you even told your parents about your doubts?”
“Well, no,” I say. “But that’s different. I—” Excuses shrivel up in my throat, my mouth left hanging.
“That’s because you’re a coward, too,” Sam says, crossing his arms. “You’re a hypocrite.”
Heat burns down my cheeks and behind my eyes. “I’m scared for you,” I say, spitting out each syllable. “If you don’t tell your dad, I feel like I have to.” Though I hate how phony I sound, I want each word to beat him into repentance.
“Fine! Go on, tell him!” Sam shouts. “Just don’t fool yourself into thinking that you’re doing it for me.”
Salt water streams down down my fingers and forearms as I cry into my hands and choke down mangled sobs. I hate myself for showing weakness, for not being strong enough to apologize, for not telling Sam’s father in the first place, for thinking I could do anything but screw life up.
With a crunch, our car grinds to a halt. “Looks like we made it,” Sam says as the car door swings open.
I look up into his red-rimmed eyes and laugh bitterly. “We sure did.”
Photo credit: https://pixabay.com/photos/sunset-roller-coaster-ride-coaster-958145/