Copyright © 2023 by Maura Jortner
All Rights Reserved
HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
Printed and bound in April 2023 at Maple Press, York, PA, USA.
www.holidayhouse.com
First Edition
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Jortner, Maura, author.
Title: 102 days of lying about Lauren / Maura Jortner.
Other titles: One hundred and two days of lying about Lauren
Description: First edition. | New York : Holiday House, 2023. | Audience: Ages 9–12. | Audience: Grades 4–6. | Summary: “After being abandoned by her mother in an amusement park, twelve-year-old Mouse is determined to secretly live in the park on her own, even though getting caught could mean saving her life”— Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022029885 | ISBN 9780823453627 (hardcover)
Subjects: CYAC: Abandoned children—Fiction. | Amusement parks—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.J7845 Aaf 2023 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022029885
ISBN: 978-0-8234-5362-7 (hardcover)
For all the kids who feel like they have to face the world alone
RULES TO LIVE BY:
1. Don’t tell anyone where you live.
2. Don’t tell lies.
3. Don’t steal.
4. Don’t look out the window.
5. Pretend to know more than you do.
LIES TOLD
1. I told Hector I was sixteen.
2. I told Anna I turned sixteen in April.
3. I told Juan the quesadillas I ordered were paid for.
I’ve told him this for 102 days in a row.
4. I told Cat that Lauren Suszek was dead. She isn’t. Lauren Suszek is me.
Every morning, the skeleton-rooster let out a cock-a-doodledoo that could shake a person to their very core. It was so loud you could hear it all the way to the long line of silver turnstiles where the guests waited to get into this amusement park. That rooster clung to his perch on top of the Scary Farmhouse with the nastiest pair of bony rooster feet you ever saw. The Scary Farmhouse was two attractions down from the Haunted House of Horrors, so I considered him a neighbor. I called him Mr. Noisy McSkinnyBones. I thought it was funny, and I tried to hold on to a sense of humor, despite everything. Normally, when I heard Mr. Noisy McSkinnyBones give everyone that Wake up now! farmhouse shout, I was already sneaking past the Bloody River Rapids ride, edging my way along the outer wall of the park. Today, though, when he let his cock-a-doodle-doo rip, I was still lying on the floor with a thin beach towel tucked under my head, holding my old Barbie doll close to my face.
The Barbie’s name was Pretty Dolly because (1) I got her when I was really little, and (2) no one around me had the guts to argue. Heck, no one said a word about it. Life is tragic sometimes, I guess.
The towel I had was threadbare in places, but it was long enough to wrap around my neck and tuck under my head, so I pretended it was a blanket and a pillow. If anyone asked, I was all set. I had a blanket and a pillow, thank you very much. I was fine.
When the last notes of Mr. Noisy McSkinnyBones’s call faded into the morning air, I jolted up so fast both the towel and Pretty Dolly went flying. What the cream cheese and jelly? Why was I still sleeping? If the skeleton-rooster was cock-a-doodle-dooing, it had to be seven thirty—a half hour before the guests would arrive—and if it was seven thirty, I had overslept. A lot.
Crap weasels with skinny, scary chickens on top.
I would have run to the small window that hung on the east wall and looked out, but that would break rule #4— Don’t look out the window—and those rules had been written for important reasons, so I stopped myself and did the next-best thing. I took a few steps back. When you stood at just the right spot in this attic-like room and held your neck at just the right angle, you could see the sky outside.
Cloudy. Dark.
That was why I’d overslept.
It was sunny 90 percent of the time in Florida. Every morning, the sun’s rays would find me through the window, and it was like being kissed awake.
That’s what I would have said to anyone who asked, anyway.
The other 10 percent of the time was usually in the afternoon. A quick thunderstorm would blow in, dump a bunch of rain, and then clear out. Cloudy in the morning almost never happened. Or, at least, I’d never seen it happen here before.
The last few days had been so hot and muggy it was like living in somebody’s armpit. Maybe cloudy meant a cold front was blowing in. Or maybe it meant a storm.
I didn’t give it much thought either way because the real problem with clouds this morning was that Tanner would beat me to the Ghost Town entrance marker. I had to rush. I had to win this race.
Tanner and I had been racing to the Ghost Town entrance marker since early May. It was a game I started and a challenge I maintained. One of the reasons I kept it going was because I always won, and winning was a great way to start the day.
I won every day because I cheated, of course. Living here in this park gave me an edge. But Tanner didn’t know that. No one did.
Rule #1—Don’t tell anyone where you live. This morning would require extra speed. I wrapped Pretty Dolly in the towel and settled her on the floor, telling her I’d see her later, then pulled my fingers through my long brown hair and gathered it into a ponytail (no time for braiding). I threw my “borrowed” employee shirt on over my old blue T-shirt, brushed off my shorts, and grabbed my water bottle. I tugged on my sneakers as I hop-trotted to the ladder and
stepped onto the rungs. I was going fast, too fast, and you don’t want to rush on ladders, I reminded myself. In fact, I might have to make that rule #6 at some point. It seemed like an important thing to remember. No good would come from a broken neck. But official rules weren’t written until they had to be. If I ever fell down that ladder and broke a ton of bones and lived to talk about it, it would be time to make that rule. Until then, I was good. Well, good but late.
Once I got to the third floor, I hurried down the long, winding employee access route leading to the ground floor, and I rushed out the emergency exit that didn’t lock right. My pet spider, Leggy, lived in the fake graveyard just outside the Haunted House of Horrors, and normally I’d stop to say hi. I told Leggy everything. But today I didn’t have time. “See you soon, girl!” I called as I booked it past her web.
Truth be told, I didn’t know whether Leggy was a girl or not. I liked to think she was, and look, there was no way to find out without getting really darned close, so I went with it. Why not?
Lately, she hadn’t looked so good. A few days ago, a bunch of bumps appeared all over her body. They lined her torso, up and down, and I didn’t know what they were. Do spiders get diseases? Maybe. That thought didn’t make me feel good. If Leggy died . . . Well, this place wouldn’t be the same without her. I needed her. As I rushed past the part of the cemetery that had creepy crypts and ghastly tombs, I told myself spiders were hardy animals and she’d be okay.
I was 95 percent sure.
Okay, maybe 90.
It could be natural, right? Maybe spiders develop bumps and live for another twenty years.
I was 85 percent sure.
As I rounded the side of the haunted house, I told myself not to think about it anymore because I didn’t want those numbers to keep going down. I’d see her later, that’s what I told myself. I had to get to the Ghost Town entrance marker.
The employees were already walking around the park. Worse, some of them had reached their destinations. They were setting up the kiosks, yawning as they unlocked restaurants, and arranging tables and chairs under awnings. They were restocking booths with water bottles, battery-operated personal fans, and bubble blowers. They were brewing coffee and baking muffins. Dang it, I was late, late, late! Normally when I was headed this way, it was empty. I’d sneak through this part of the park, staying hidden to avoid the security cameras. Then I could sidle up right next to the Jinxed Carousel and jump into the crowd of employees starting toward their stations without anyone noticing. But today, the park was swimming with people.
Tanner was going to beat me. Crud muffins. He was probably already there.
As I hurried my butt toward the entrance marker, I pictured Tanner in my head. He would be cultivating an air of boredom, playing up the fact that he’d won. His legs would be crossed at the ankles; he might even be fake-cleaning his fingernails, only looking up every now and then to see if he
could spot me. He’d let a ghost of a smile play on his lips, telling himself he was keeping a straight face.
We had raced this same race all summer long, and I had beaten him every time. Each morning, he’d shake his head and say, “How do you do it, Mouse?”
I answered him with a shrug and an “Oh, I don’t know.” That was the best way to answer. I didn’t want to accidentally tell him my secret, so I kept it simple. A shrug and a claim not to have any real idea. Because I had to follow rule #1— Don’t tell anyone where you live.
Tanner said he knew how I beat him. He was convinced it had everything to do with parking. He said he was sure I had a super-secret space that gave me the lead.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I didn’t know exactly where the park employee entrance was, that I didn’t have a super-secret place to leave my car, that in fact I didn’t have a car, and I wasn’t even old enough to drive.
I wasn’t old enough for anything that I did in the park. Not old enough to get a job. Not old enough to be a walkway sweeper. Not old enough for living on my own. I was twelve, but everyone here thought I was sixteen. Sure, some did because I told them that. But others assumed it because of my height. I’m tall. Tall for a twelve-year-old and just tall in general. Add that to my killer smile and folks believed I was a teenager old enough to work here. I had a park employee shirt that I had borrowed (long story) and a pin that looked enough like a name tag, so bingo-bango done. In their minds I was legit. Plus, no one looked closely in this amusement park—especially at an employee who swept the walkways.
As I rounded the Jinxed Carousel, I got a glimpse of Tanner. He had blue eyes and red hair and wore cool sneakers each day. A new pair every week, or so it seemed to me. Now, he stood near the entrance marker, and it was worse than I imagined. He wasn’t pretending to be bored. He was beaming. A smile as wide as the Atlantic Ocean. His head swiveled back and forth. His eyes were literally sparkling. My steps slowed and then stopped, and I felt a hard tug in the pit of my stomach. I was the big loser. For real. Even though I had started out late, I hadn’t quite believed it would happen. I always won. It was my jam.
But not today.
For a moment, I considered simply grabbing my broom and dustpan and heading off to work. I could bump into Tanner later in the day and pretend I’d forgotten about our tradition. Oh, I could say, were we still doing that?
But a second later, I threw out the idea. Tanner deserved this win. He had lost for 102 days, and he’d been a good sport about it.
I should be too.
So I told my feet to walk on over and tried my best to smile as I did. Tucking my hands in my pockets, I strolled up.
His eyes got real big, taking me in. Then his smile grew even wider—like a full openmouthed look of victory and happiness with a little bit of shock that he’d actually done it, he’d actually won, mixed in.
But he didn’t greet me. He didn’t point to himself and say Winner! He started—get this—dancing. That guy rocketed into
a victory celebration like no one had ever seen. He jumped up and down. He did a move like a robot walking in a weird way and then did it again in reverse. He swung his hips. He Dabbed. He did the Floss. He threw up his arms and ran around in tight circles.
Really embarrassing stuff, if you asked me.
Still, I let him have his moment.
Even if he was going way too far.
When he went in for a high five, I gave him one. “Great job,” I said. “You finally won.”
“Can’t talk,” he said. “More triumph.”
I patiently waited for him to finish whatever this weird victory dance thing was, but it didn’t end.
“Are you done yet?” I asked when he was doing this crazy move that included kicking his feet high.
“No way,” he said, and he launched into a super-dorky strut that made him look like a human-peacock hybrid.
I waited. “You know you’re embarrassing yourself, right?”
“You’re jealous of my moooves.” He spread out the word moves like it had three os in it.
I made friends with a girl on a playground once who had three older brothers. “They’re annoying,” she told me. “But also kind of funny in an odd boy way.”
That summed up Tanner. This must be what it was like to have a brother.
He ended his dance by falling to his knees, holding his hands high above his head, and making sounds like a huge crowd was cheering for him.
“Wow,” I said, giving him a slow clap. “Just, wow.”
He rose. “Awesome, right?”
“Not exactly the word I would use. But you won. Congratulations.”
He made that cheering sound again.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll kick your butt tomorrow.”
“Doubtful,” he said. “I found a new parking place.” He nodded at me while holding his chin like he had all the wisdom in the world.
“I overslept, dingdong. End of story. That’s why you won.”
His face fell at hearing that, but he recovered quickly. “We’ll see about that,” he challenged.
I needed a change in subject, or he might start dancing again. “Where’re you stationed today?” I asked.
He jutted a thumb toward the Haunted House of Horrors. “Pushing the big red button.”
“Ooh, good assignment,” I said, because it was. Whoever got to run the ride was allowed to cackle into the microphone and tell the guests to have a spook-tacular time before pushing the red button and sending them zipping off. It seemed like a fine way to spend the day, if you asked me.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Sweeping the south end of the park,” I said. “Ghost Town included.” I tried to make it sound like fun, like it was a new and exciting assignment, but it was what I did every day.
Tanner’s face got squishy. “Sweeping again? You’ve worked here for months, Mouse. You ought to ask them for a change. There must be a better assignment you could get.”
He scratched his wrist. “I’d offer to ask my dad about it, but he doesn’t really deal with the ins and outs of park employee stuff. Also, he hasn’t been home much lately, so . . .”
I didn’t want Tanner to feel bad about it, and I certainly didn’t want him to ask his dad anything about me. That could be dangerous. So I said, “No, no, no. I like sweeping,” and I said it as if I really loved it.
Truth was, it was hot walking around all day and sometimes by the end of the night the muscles in my right hand ached from gripping the broom. In my first week of work here, blisters erupted all over my left hand from the dustpan handle. They’d healed by now, good thing. These days, it was only my right hand that would get tired and achy and complainy. Still, I didn’t let on. People who didn’t actually work at the park didn’t get to be choosy about what assignments they pretended to get. Bottom line was I could sweep without attracting much attention. So I swept and I pretended to like it. End of story.
“But it’s so . . . gross,” Tanner said.
“Not as bad as you’d think,” I said, and I raised my eyebrows at him. “That’s what the broom and dustpan are for— keeping away from any nastiness.”
“Well, if you ever want me to put a word in,” he said. “Not with my dad but maybe with Darren. He’s pretty nice about stuff like that.”
Darren was Tanner’s manager. I knew this because he’d mentioned him before. But I didn’t want Tanner talking to Darren about me either. Still dangerous.
“No need. I’m happy with my broom, honest,” I said, and I wished him well at the Haunted House of Horrors.
Tanner and I first became friends because of his sister. The day I met him, he stared at me for a super-long time. I’m talking like, it was getting creepy, that stare was so long. So I did what I do in situations like that. I faced it head-on. “Whatcha looking at, Mr. McStarey?” I asked.
He looked surprised, but then faced it head-on, too. “You look like my sister,” he said. “Sorry if I was staring. You could be her twin.”
At the end of that sentence, on the word twin, his voice cracked in a way that sounded like his heart had broken into pointy shards.
I’ve always been bad with emotions. They make me feel hot and squishy inside, and I never know what to say or what to do with my hands. And my face! What was I supposed to do with my face when someone felt something? Should I smile in a knowing way, or frown? I could nod, but that didn’t feel right either. There were always so many choices, so many ways to play a reaction. So that thing with Tanner’s voice— how it cracked in a way that sounded physically painful—that kicked me into overdrive. “Oh, I might look like her,” I told him, “but I bet she’s real quiet and sweet and knows when to shut up. Not me. People say I’m salty. They say I don’t know when to stop talking. They say I should do myself a favor and keep my mouth shut. Like all the time.” I paused for a moment . . . for timing. “You can see that I don’t listen to what they have to say.”
Tanner let go of his broken heart and cracked a smile. “She would like you,” he said, and it kind of sounded like he didn’t care that I’d just made a fool of myself, rambling on like that.
I challenged him to a race and we’d been friends ever since. It worked out well. He didn’t mind when I got chatty. I didn’t mind when he did dorky victory dances.
If he knew more about me, he might not want to be my friend. That’s why I kept the personal stuff to myself.
Morning ritual complete, it was time to get to work. Tanner started toward the Haunted House of Horrors. “See you later,” he said with a wave.
“Meet you for lunch,” I called after him.
A second later, he turned around. “Hey, hold up. Actually, I could use your help. Are you free around ten thirty? My morning break time.”
“My break is at ten thirty, too,” I said. I might be bad with emotions, but I am good on my feet. And let me be clear: What I said to Tanner wasn’t a lie. I could take a break whenever I wanted. People who don’t actually work for the park set their own schedules, and ten thirty was fine with me. Plus, I liked to be helpful.
“I need to buy a present for a friend,” he said.
“A present?” I asked, taking a small step backward.
“Kind of like a goodbye gift, or something like that,” he
said with a shrug. “I could use your advice. You might like the same kinds of things as my friend.”
I took this in. He wanted to buy a present for a friend, and I might know what this friend might like. Okay. No one had ever asked me to do this before, but I could fake it. I might actually be good at it. I liked stuff. I liked it even more when someone like Tanner could a fford to buy the stuff. This might be fun even if the present was going to someone else. “Good thing you have me around,” I said. “I’m an expert at presents.”
This was not exactly true, but like I said, I’m good on my feet. I’d only received a few presents in my life—birthday and holidays included.
1. Pretty Dolly, which Mama gave me when I was little.
2. The package of hair ties she bought for me when I wouldn’t stop putting my hair in my mouth in second grade. (I’d lost most of them over the years, but I still had the black one. It was in my hair right now.)
3. The pin Mama bought me here in the park.
4. The hot chocolate Tanner got for me in May. Yes, I counted a cup of hot chocolate as a gift. He spent his own money, and it was awfully nice of him.
He bought me that hot chocolate during the first week of our friendship. After we raced to the entrance marker, he turned to me and said, “It’s cool out this morning.” Note: It was May in Florida. It wasn’t cool outside. But I went along with it because I didn’t know where this whole comment on
the weather thing was going. “You look like a girl who could use a hot chocolate,” he added. Well, sure. I was a girl, and I liked hot chocolate. Two plus two, right? There was only one problem. I didn’t have any money. I wasn’t going to cop to that, so I told him I couldn’t get any this morning because I had forgotten my wallet. This was technically true. Since I didn’t own a wallet, I had certainly forgotten it. Forgotten to buy it, forgotten to fill it with cash, forgotten to carry it this morning. Yup. All of that. Tanner just kind of waved his hand and led me to the Vampire Blood kiosk, where he bought me a hot chocolate and himself a fancy coffee. And I’ll tell you what, that hot chocolate was the most delicious drink I’d ever had. I still dream about it sometimes, if I’m being honest.
So presents weren’t my strong suit, but I would do my best. I could make myself a present expert by ten thirty.
“Great,” Tanner said. “Meet you here. Don’t be late.”
I gave him a salute because that was part of my shtick. Aye, aye, Captain, and all that.
Goodbyes done, he walked off, and so did I.
Tanner worked at the park because his dad made him. Most park employees were here because they were desperate. They were willing to take a minimum-wage job because they had bills to pay. Tanner didn’t need money. First off, his dad was a big shot at the park. Some kind of CEO or something like that. He worked in the hidden offices above the shops on the Boardwalk and made important decisions. Which led to the second reason why Tanner didn’t need this job: his family was super rich.
These were Tanner’s secrets, which I’d learned by accident.
One day a man in an uncomfortable-looking gray suit marched up to Tanner. We’d just finished our race and were chatting before heading to our assignments. Well, his assignment. My self-assigned pretend assignment. The man cleared his throat and said, “Your mother has a migraine. She asks that you not turn on the lights when you get home tonight.”
Tanner looked startled, as if seeing this guy was a big surprise. He pulled it together and said, “Okay, Dad. No lights. Got it.”
His dad cleared his throat again. He stepped to the side, as if he might leave, but he cocked his head and said, “Darren says you’ve been showing up late. Don’t let that happen again.”
Tanner’s face turned red and his jaw tightened.
“Am I understood?” his dad said.
“Yes, sir,” Tanner said.
After his dad left, Tanner shoved his hands in his pockets. He glared at something in the distance.
It made me feel squishy inside, so I said, “You okay there, Chief ?” Tanner didn’t answer, but I could see he was upset. That sent me into a tailspin. “That guy’s your dad? Weird,” I said, “because he doesn’t look like your dad. I mean, you have red hair. He has brown. He’s all march, march, march.” Here, I did an imitation of a soldier stomping. “And you’re all chill. He’s all ‘do this and do that and show up on time and call me sir.’ Nope,” I added. “I don’t see a family resemblance.”
Tanner muttered, “He thinks he’s so great because he’s a CEO.”
I didn’t know what a CEO was, but I figured this was a
time to go with it because rule #5—Pretend to know more than you do. “Yeah, CEOs think they’re so great,” I said.
“Who cares if he makes a bazillion dollars a year? Who cares if he gets invited to this gala or that gala?”
I didn’t know what a gala was, either, so I just said, “Yeah,” like I meant it.
That’s when Tanner seemed to come to his senses. He got a shy look on his face. “Don’t tell anyone Robert Tannenbaum is my dad, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, because the name Robert Tannenbaum didn’t mean anything to me, outside of now knowing it was Tanner’s dad and he was a big-shot CEO who was attending a gala or two.
So that was secret #1. I guess in there I also learned secret #2, but it got hammered home once when Tanner was scrolling through pictures on his phone. A glorious view of gardens and a pool flashed up, and I nodded toward it. “Pretty. Is that your house?”
“The guest house,” he said. Then he blushed and covered his mouth like he had messed up.
Well, he had. Most park employees lived in trailers off I-4, or crowded in an apartment with eight roommates. But he didn’t. He lived in a house—a real house—and probably a big one. Plus, he had two houses. One for his family. One for guests.
“A guest house for when the Queen of Sheba visits?” I asked.
In a resigned kind of way, he said, “It’s more for when executives come over and have too much to drink. Then he
looked embarrassed again. “Don’t tell anyone I said that,” he added.
Who was I going to tell? “Don’t tell anyone you’re super rich?” I asked. “Or don’t tell anyone you’re superduper rich?” I was on a roll.
“I meant don’t tell anyone about the executives drinking too much, but on second thought, don’t tell anyone anything, okay?”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” I said, and I gave him a salute because that was my shtick even back then.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“Me too,” I said. Tanner and I were friends, and I liked it that way. “Your secrets are safe with me,” I assured him, and I swore up and down and over and over again that I’d never tell a soul. I even crossed my heart. And I never had.
Now, with Tanner headed into the Haunted House of Horrors, it was time to get to work.
I made my way to the women’s restroom just past the Scary Farmhouse. It was one of the larger bathrooms in the park— lots of stalls and plenty of guests around. Never any actual park employees. Just how I liked it. The broom and dustpan sat right where I’d found them that first day I decided to pretend to work here. Each night, I took them back and put them against the wall. I didn’t want to steal anything—or, I wanted to take as little as possible—so I “borrowed” these things each morning and returned them at night. No stealing, not for me. Stealing could mean detection, and I didn’t want that.
Detection meant being caught and having to tell my real
name and maybe even go with a social worker. I had a friend in third grade who had to meet with a social worker. She said the lady ate the cookies her mom put out and then she still got taken away and put in foster care, even with the cookies. So in my book social workers were as close to the devil as you could get without flames. In other words, I didn’t want to meet one in person.
By now, the broom and dustpan were comfortable in my hands. Even if my right hand ached at the end of the night, it felt like holding on to a lifeline, which, I guess, they were.
I made my way out of the bathroom and started my job. A sound like thirty sparklers being lit at the same time cut through the air. It signaled the park opening, and as soon as it ended, guests would come pouring in. I couldn’t see them yet, but I could feel them coming.
Yup, three small sweeps later and there they were. Eating, talking, running toward the rides. In their wake, trash started accumulating around the cans. Leftover pieces of muffin and bits of tinfoil. Cardboard containers that had once held delicious baked goods, sticky and coated in icing. Plastic wrappers. Straw wrappers. Empty paper cups. Empty plastic cups. The guests were careless, tossing their garbage in the general direction of the bin, but I was careful. Everything went into the dustpan and then into the trash.
When I first started working this job, I waited for a park employee to empty the bins. I’d bring my dustpan up to an almost-full trash can and cringe, wondering when it might spill over. But I noticed something odd. The trash cans would get to just about full, and then, somehow, be empty. It was
the most incredible thing. After a few days, I figured out that there was a whole underground system of tunnels. Every hour on the hour, the bottom of the bin simply disappeared and the trash got emptied.
This park really was amazing.
I set a schedule for myself in the early days of this job. It helped me have something to count on. I started in the east part of Ghost Town, near the Jinxed Carousel. I’d hit up all the kiosks and eateries in the area, while also checking around each trash can for stuff that hadn’t made it in. Then I moved to the south part, near the Zombie Spinners and the Haunted House of Horrors. I finished up west of the Haunted Mine, stopping near the Liberty Bell, and then did the circuit again.
This morning, sweeping Ghost Town was as normal as normal could be until a guest got my attention. He pointed up the walkway. “Big mess over there,” he said.
I nodded and said, “Okay, sir.” There was nothing to do but go check it out.
It was a mess, all right. The Ghoulish Grill served breakfast, and they had a bowl of oatmeal topped with syrup, butter, brown sugar, and raisins that was supposed to be pretty tasty. It didn’t look tasty smeared across the walkway. My broom and dustpan were going to get hammered, and by that, I meant they were going to get oatmeal all over them.
You would have thought the worst part of my job was cleaning the mess, but it wasn’t. It was the people with phones. Specifically, people recording me as I cleaned.
I got my broom and dustpan ready, and I scooped a
heaping portion of that gooey, gross oatmeal. Sure enough, people whipped out their phones. I knew what would happen next. They’d take my picture. They’d record me. They’d post what they got online. I turned away, because I didn’t want my face on the internet, thank you very much. Someone could start to question what a certain not–park employee was doing with a broom and dustpan cleaning up a mess in Ghost Town. Nope, I didn’t want to be detected.
“Look at how sticky that stuff is,” one guy said as I scooped.
Then another: “It looks like puke.”
They were right. It was gross and sticky and reminded me of the big V too. (That was park talk for vomit.) My broom and the dustpan would need to be cleaned off pronto after this.
The whole experience made me sigh in a You people aren’t very nice kind of way.
But it was done soon enough, and after emptying everything into a bin, I got my broom and dustpan spick-and-span in a nearby bathroom.
Onward and upward, right?
Only, then a guest pointed to some actual vomit on the ground and said, “Big mess right over there.”
I nodded again and said, “I’ll get it.”
It was going to be one of those days.
Ihad just passed the Tricks and Treats gift shop when a cry sliced through me like a knife.
“Mommy!” It was a little boy dressed in a fancy shirt that looked so neat Mama would have called it pressed. In other words, he looked like someone had taken care to make sure he appeared presentable today. Not a good sign. There was only one reason to make sure your kid looked that good when heading off to America’s most famous amusement park: you were going to leave him there. Parents ditched their kids here sometimes. Maybe because they wanted to get in one last hurrah before it all fell apart. Or maybe because parents needed the last memory of their kid to be a good one. Who knows? But it happened. Kids were left behind, and this kid, he looked the part. Dressed nicely, eyes wild—searching, scanning—scared out of his mind.
Normally, I left lost kids alone. Not that I abandoned
them. But I had to be careful so I’d stay on the periphery as they searched for their parents. I’d watch to make sure they were safe. They almost always found their families. If they were alone more than five minutes, I’d swoop in and help, but, like I said, most of the time it wasn’t necessary. Mom was ordering coffee at the nearby kiosk. Dad was around the corner, eyeing the next ride. Big sister had run a few steps too far. Something like that.
Only, every now and then, it wasn’t.
I had a sinking feeling about this kid, so I kept a close eye on him. He’d just gotten off the Flying Ghost ride, and it looked like he expected his mom to be in a certain place but she wasn’t there anymore. He might have even waved to her when he was high up, but when he made his way out the gates looking for her, she was gone.
I knew the feeling, and it made my heart squeeze hard. “Mommy!” he cried again.
I gulped. I swallowed. I tried to shove down the emotions I felt even though they were bubbling up like cold soda.
I should wait, I knew that. I should hold back and watch to see what happened. But I couldn’t. This kid was too sad, too despairing, too little. His sandy-blond hair had been combed and parted this morning.
I went up to him, even though everything in me yelled stuff about being detected and making a huge mistake. “Hey,” I said in a soft voice. “Are you okay?” I scanned the area. Most often, if a kid was lost, the parents were looking for them. The parents were also wild-eyed and panicked. If you could find
the adults in the area who looked like they were super close to shaking and gasping, most often you had the parents in the bag. But there was no one like that around.
“Hey,” I said again to the kid, who might not have heard me over his wailing. I touched his back. “Hi there.” I tried to make my voice soft like Mama’s used to get at night. But then it was too soft, too much like hers, so I cleared my throat and used a different tone—one with an edge. “Why’re you so upset?”
“Mommy left me!” he cried, and he was really crying. Big tears rolled down his puff y cheeks and landed on that neatly pressed button-down shirt.
He didn’t say I can’t find Mommy or Help me, I’m lost. He said “Mommy left me.” My stomach sank and hit the pavement. Crud muffins with Diet Coke that had gone bad three months ago.
“We’ll find her,” I said. “She can’t be far.” And I looked around like she might pop out from around the nearest corner or come strolling up the walkway.
The boy sobbed harder. I mean, if there was an award for being sad, he was going to win it.
My head spun around. I was still searching for his mom, sure, but I was also keeping watch for possible danger. Because there were a few things about this whole situation that were not good. (1) The kid being left. Of course. That was distinctly not good. (2) The fact that this kid was making a lot of noise. Normally it wouldn’t be a big deal—kids threw fits here—but like I said, this kid was really going to town. People would gawk at us, and if they got a good look at me that could mean
trouble. Because (3) if a security guard showed up, which they often did in situations like this, I’d have to take off fast, fast, fast.
I gave the kid a weak smile and told myself to pretend everything was okay. That might have to be a new rule. Rule #6: In all circumstances, pretend everything’s okay. Yeah, that would make a solid rule.
Then I knew what to do. (Sometimes that pretending thing really did work.) I led him to the nearest kiosk—a small stand-alone shop that sold magnets and snow globes. Anna was running it today, and I could trust her.
“Could you call in a lost kid?” I asked her. “This little guy seems to have misplaced his mom.”
See, if Anna made the call, if she took charge of this kid, then I could go. No more people looking at me, no more security guards showing up and asking me questions, no more possible detection.
Meanwhile the kid was howling, really letting loose like he wanted to be a fire truck.
“Sure,” she said, but she narrowed her eyes at me like she was about to ask me more, to question why I didn’t have my official park tablet.
“Thanks,” I said, answering before she could ask. “So sorry, but I have to run.” I jutted my chin to the left in a vague way and held up my broom and dustpan. “Iced coffee emergency over there. Some lady spilled like three of them.”
I gave a chuckle to sell the possibility I was telling her. I didn’t like lying, and this wasn’t a lie. I called it a possibility because it could be true. Some lady could have spilled three iced coffees
just off to the left somewhere. It was that kind of day, after all, and I wouldn’t know for sure until I checked. “That’s what you get for not using a drink carrier, am I right?”
I gave the kid a quick but firm hug. “Be strong,” I whispered in his ear. I wasn’t sure if he could hear me or not; he was making noises like a dying cow. “You’ll be okay,” I said. I didn’t know if he’d be okay, quite frankly. With Anna calling the Lost Kid Patrol, this kid might be in trouble with a capital T. I mean, yeah, he would get the help he needed, but sooner or later a social worker might show up, and I didn’t know what would happen to him after that. But I liked to be encouraging so I told him again he’d be okay.
I would have liked to say more, but my eye caught a bit of bright color hurrying toward the kiosk. I had to scoot. As I turned the corner, I glanced over my shoulder. It was Nalo, as I suspected. That guy was the worst. He was always showing up and causing me trouble.
There were regular security guards in the park and undercover guards, and Nalo was undercover. The regular kind wore blue shirts and black pants and fancy police hats. They had official badges, too. Plainclothes security guards wore whatever they wanted. It was their job to blend in, to look like park guests. But once you were here long enough, you could spot them. Nalo wore Hawaiian shirts. Like every day. Who does that? Nalo had pink ones and yellow ones and blue ones. Shirts with flowers, shirts with surfers, shirts with pineapples. He even had a Hawaiian shirt with little C-3POs and X-wing fighters all over it. It would have been kind of
amazing, and I think I would have liked him if he hadn’t been so annoying. He was from Uganda. At least that’s what his name tag said. Every park employee had a name tag that identified them and their country of origin. Mine only said MOUSE . But that’s a different story, and let’s just say it’s a good thing no one here looked too closely. If they had, they might have realized that my name tag wasn’t a real name tag.
As I watched the small group—Nalo, the howling boy, Anna—I could tell Nalo was acting like he was all kinds of nice. He got down on one knee to be more at the kid’s level, and he even patted the boy on the back. Sure, he was acting like he cared, but he didn’t. No one really cared.
My insides tugged. If I was being honest with myself, I already knew what would happen. The kid would keep crying. The Lost Kid Patrol would show up and eventually he’d be taken off to who knows where, a social worker in tow. Watching it go down would only make me feel worse.
So even though part of me wanted to confirm that I was right, that this kid’s mom wouldn’t show up, I didn’t hang out. Anna was there; he’d be okay. At least that’s what I told myself as I held my chin high and trotted over to the nearest mess I could find.
But dang it, even though I had physically moved away, that howling kid stayed in my mind. Even though I couldn’t hear him. Even though I told myself over and over again that he would be okay. As I swept up bits of snack wrappers, tears filled my eyes. Not tears of sadness. No, they were angry tears, and they stung hard. Hot bricks piled into my stomach and
dropped into my legs and then dropped more on top of them. I grew angrier. That kid was cute. He was sweet. I mean, he could make a noise like I’d never heard before—loud and squeaky and gulping with undertones of pain and hints of a dying animal—but he wasn’t a bad kid. And despite that, his mom had left him. She had abandoned him. It was so unfair. For a second, an image of Mama waiting by the green gate that encircled the Cursed Twirling Teacups popped into my head, but I pushed it out super quick. I didn’t want to think about that. I didn’t want to start breathing hard or feeling my heart beat. I didn’t want to feel like I was dying, no thank you. Not today.
But want to or not, my ears filled with static and my pulse went crazy. No, no, no. I had to get this to stop. I stomped my feet on the walkway as I moved closer to the trash bin, and I brushed those wrappers into the dustpan with as much force as I could. The broom whacked against the side of the plastic scooper with a loud crack. It made me think about something other than what was happening inside me. So I did it again, and I stomped some more. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I muttered. I didn’t know who or what I was calling stupid, but it slowed the pounding in my chest and when my eyes filled with tears again, they were the sad kind.
“Poor kid,” I said to myself. I shook my head as the wetness made the bits of colorful trash swirl and swim in the gray of the walkway. “Poor, poor kid.”
A woman walked by and threw her Cinna-Scary-Bun wrapper toward the trash can. It floated down to the ground, landing right beside my broom.
“I’ll get it,” I said. But she didn’t hear me. She was already gone, hurrying toward the rest of her family, who were a few steps ahead.
Sometimes I loved this park—the magic on display, the secrets it held. But sometimes I hated it.