Duncan jumps up. “Are you sure?” He taps my forehead with his fingernail, hard enough that we all hear the faint click, click, click. “We’ve had this old thing as long as I can remember.”
I grind my teeth, but no one seems to notice.
“Really.” Suddenly Sharpe, though he doesn’t seem old, is the jaded cop from every TV show. “Exactly what use does a carnival have for a mannequin?”
If Duncan is stumped by this very good question—because, seriously, what use does a carnival have for a mannequin—he doesn’t show it. “I think she started as something for the knife throwers to use during practice, but then she just kept popping up all over the place. And then it became a contest, to see who could leave her in the weirdest place. But we had to stop when someone left her inside one of the porta potties. Scared the hell out of a little kid two towns back and made him wet himself.”
I’m going to punch Duncan.
Officer Sharpe nods slowly. “I’ll bet she did.” I don’t think Duncan or Gin catches it when he presses a finger to what should be the soft flesh of my forearm; it’s only when he meets cold resistance that he straightens and turns toward the door. Gin gives him a thousand-watt smile as he hands her a flyer with my face on it. “Keep the flyer, and call us if you see her, all right?”
“Yes, sir!” Gin and Duncan say a little too brightly. The second Officer Sharpe is out of the trailer, Gin locks the door.
Duncan lifts the pile of clothing off me and heaps it onto the floor, and the instant he does, I begin to tremble.
“Hey,” Duncan says, laying one of his big hands over mine. “You’re okay, honey. You’re okay.”
I nod, though I feel like I might have emotional whiplash.
I want to bask in their friendship, but after last night, it feels idiotic to not question their kindness. They’re only nice to me because I am, essentially, their meal ticket to a life free of injuries, illnesses, and aging. Who wouldn’t be nice to the girl who gave those kind of gifts? The golden bulbs give off a soft heat, as does Duncan’s nearby body. I want to lean into both but manage to restrain myself when I realize how much of a creeper that would make me.
Neither Duncan nor Gin notices my momentary weirdness, the both of them returning to the tasks they’d started before Officer Sharpe interrupted them.
Duncan helps me stand only to immediately lower me onto the padded bench in front of the old-fashioned vanity. “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d give you a bit of a makeover,” he says. A flat disc of powder, trays of eye shadow in a succession of browns, and a tube of lipstick are placed on the counter. “When you work in a carnival, everything has to be bigger. Brighter. Your everyday look isn’t going to work here. Enter: me. And Gin’s a peach, always helpful. She’s going to pick out something for you to wear while you work in the booth.”
“Thank you, Duncan,” Gin says, in an airy sort of way that makes it seem like the costumes in front of her are far more interesting than what Duncan has to say. She reaches around to drape me in a little black flapper dress that has beads in swishy rows all over it.
“Plus, I’m selfish. It’s been years, years since we’ve had fresh blood besides the Morettis in this place. And while my groin-al area would prefer you were a boy, the rest of me is glad to have anyone.” He begins to apply makeup. The brushes sweeping across my face don’t register as touch; I only know he’s making progress because I can see it in the mirror.
When I look at my reflection I see that Duncan has already painted my lips a deep ruby red, and he’s even put a fake beauty mark at the corner of my mouth. He shapes my long bangs into a swoop across my forehead.
I take hold of his wrist to stop him before he can apply a set of false eyelashes to my lids. “Why are you helping me, really? I mean, I get what you just said. But are you just doing this so I’ll be happy and complacent? Keep the charm that benefits you in place?”
Part of me can’t believe I just said that. The other part thinks I wasn’t harsh enough. Above my reflection, Duncan and Gin exchange a loaded glance in the mirror.
When Duncan speaks, he’s concentrating a little too hard on swirling a makeup brush around in the lid of an eye shadow pot. “Because this sucks. Because not all of us are epic douche canoes like the Morettis; some of us were just born into this place and don’t really know any other way of life. Because I don’t know you but I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re scared and lonely and don’t deserve any of this. Take your pick, doll.”
Flurries of golden dust motes dance in the air as he brings a powder brush to my cheeks and swirls some color on, and I feel a smile stretch my mouth. He seems to mean it. And so does Gin, judging from the encouraging smile she gives me in the mirror. They want to help me. Maybe I can do this after all.
Chapter Seven
Emma
If someone had told me a day ago that in a few short hours I would have a one-way ticket out of town, I’d have been ecstatic. But somehow, leaving as a cursed puppet-girl doesn’t have the same excitement factor. More like a panicking-the-hell-out factor. I guess there’s a perk to not being able to sob my eyes out—my makeup won’t run.
Leslie assigned Sidney to watch me this first night and to give me pointers when applicable. His breath is a barely visible white plume in the night, and never in my life did I think I’d be jealous over a simple bodily function. Sidney leans against a silver trailer near the entrance to the carnival grounds, a quickly disappearing apple in his hand and two cores at his feet. I haven’t eaten since yesterday, and I hate that the last thing I tasted was a corndog and some cotton candy.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” he asks as I approach.
If I could still blush, I would. I’ve got on the black flapper dress, the beads dangling off it softly clacking every time I move. At the last minute, Duncan threw on the red velvet marching jacket for a burst of color. More than a little pissed, I shoot back, “Is that what you’re wearing?”
He looks permanently rumpled, like the clothes from the bottom of the dirty laundry bin, a far cry from the perfect brows and pressed shirt of just last night. His hair is actually curly now that it’s not slicked into perfection, unruly waves falling across his forehead from underneath the bowler hat. His mouth isn’t as red, but it’s more mischievous, more knowing. He’s wearing the same jeans, but the suspenders hang loosely from his hips, and he’s replaced the stiff white dress shirt with a faded green T-shirt. He’s wound a chunky hand-knit scarf around his neck a few times and tucked the ends under a heavy wool coat.
He’s not the same boy I saw last night, but he is a more human version of the boy from last night. Though the knowledge of his assholery makes him decidedly less cute.
“That reminds me.” He plucks the hat from his head and drops it onto mine. “This is yours now.”