Ellison

“Your ego can handle being beaten by a five-year-old,” I say.
A guy in their group that had been hanging back strides up. “I’ll play.”

For a second, there’s a flutter in my chest, the lightest touch of butterfly wings. I secretly wish this guy would chance a look in my direction, but he doesn’t. Instead he hands the carnie five dollars and claims the spot next to me.

Wow. I’m definitely okay with this.

He’s taller than me and he’s in worn blue jeans. His white T-shirt stretches against his broad shoulders, and he’s gorgeous. The defined muscles in his arms flex as he switches the mallet from one hand to another, and I’ve stopped breathing. His blondish brown hair is shaved close on the sides, but the rest of his longer hair is in complete disarray. His freshly shaved face reminds me of a modern day version of James Dean, and everything about him works well. Very well.

I’m staring, and I need to stop, and he’s also aware that I’m staring and haven’t stopped. He turns his head, our eyes meet, and those butterflies lift into the air. Warm brown eyes. That’s when I’m finally scared into having the courage to glance away. But I peek back and sort of smile to find he’s now looking at me like he can’t stop. For the first time in my life, I like that someone is looking. Now someone—him. I like that he’s looking at me.

“We let her win,” I whisper.

He nods, and I lift my mallet. It’s tough to not get into position—to be poised and ready to strike. I love this game, I love winning, and losing to be nice is all fine and good, but I have to fight the instinct to go full throttle.

“You’re good at this,” he says.

“I play this game a lot. AT every fair and festival I can. It’s my favorite. If there were on Olympic event for Whack-A-Mole, I would be a gold medalist several times over.”

If only that were enough to make my parents proud—or to make a living at when I graduate from college.

“Then I’m in the presence of Whack-A-Mole royalty?” The laughter in his eyes is genuine, and I watch him long enough to see if he knows who I am. Some people do. Some people don’t. I’ve learned to read the expression of recognition, and he has no clue who I am.

My body relaxes. “Totally.”

One corner of his mouth edges up, and I become tonguetied. That is possibly the most endearing and gorgeous grin I’ve seen. He twirls the handle of the mallet around in his fingers, and I’m drawn by the way he makes the motion seem so seamless.

This incredible fantastic humming begins below my skin. To be brutally honest, I’m not sure what attraction is. My experience with boys has been limited, but whatever this is, I want to feel it again and on every level of my being.

The bell rings, my heart jumps, and I inhale when the worn plastic moles pop up from the holes. The instinct is to knock the hell out of them, but the tinkling laughter of the littler girl farther down causes me to pull back. I hit one. Then another. I have to score something. She needs to think we at least tried.

The guy next to me hits a few moles, but in a rhythm. A crazy one. A catchy one. One that my foot taps along with. The bell rings, the little girl squeals and my hopes of winning the large snake die.

A chirp of my cell, and I immediately text back my mother: Still at the midway. Heading back now. Mom: Hurry. I think we should curl your hair for the event.

My hair, my outfit. That’s what’s important to her. I squish my lips to the side. It took her an hour this morning to decide she wanted me to wear it straight. Then it took her another hour to decide what I should wear on the midway, in case I should be recognized. Then there was the painstaking additional hour to decide what I should wear to the press conference.

When I look up, disappointment weighs down my stomach. The boy—he’s gone. Not really gone, but gone from beside me. He’s rejoined his group, standing with them and belonging. I will him to glance one more time my way, but he doesn’t.

That’s okay. I’m just a girl on the midway, he’s just a boy on a midway, and not everything has to end like a daydream. Truth is, once he found out what my world is really like, he’d have taken off running.

But I have to admit, it would have been nice if he had at least asked for my name.