Page 17

According to Jojo, the amusement park’s walking distance; technically true, I guess, since we’re walking there. She shooed

us out the door right after lunch, in hopes of maximizing our chances to, quote-unquote, “beat the rain.” But rain itself

feels like a concept from an entirely fictional universe. There’s a whisper-soft breeze, and my hair’s catching every ray

of sunshine. Maximum hello lamppost vibes. Even the air feels sugar-spun.

I catch up to Nat, hop-skipping over a sidewalk crack. “You done picking on Walter, or what?”

“Never.” She smiles.

“Because God forbid you give him a chance and realize you love him, right?”

“Good point. It’s not like I’m driving six hours to attend his meet and greet or anything.”

“It’s a road trip! We’re distracting you from your breakup!”

“Definitely. Right. It’s about my breakup, not you chasing your boyfriend all the way upstate—”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“He’s your subjunctive boyfriend.”

I let out a laugh. “What a callback!”

Leave it to Natalie, right? A vintage inside joke for every single occasion.

This one’s a classic metaphor from the depths of Zora’s giant poindexter brain.

Zora, who probably knows more about verb tenses than any teacher at our school.

Though, it turns out, they don’t even call the subjunctive a tense.

It’s a grammatical mood . And most of all, it’s a wish.

According to Zora, a subjunctive boyfriend is someone you wish was your boyfriend. An if-only, maybe-one-day kind of boyfriend.

“Walter Holland is not my subjunctive boyfriend, Nathaniel.”

“Hey,” Mark calls back—by now, he and Zora are almost a block ahead of us. “Why are you guys walking like elderly turtles?”

Natalie and I raise our middle fingers in perfect unison.

“Is this because of the prom video?” I ask. “Honestly, I just did that to prove you wrong.”

“Me?” Nat hits me with a side-eye so pointed, I’m pretty sure it counts as assault.

“Yes, you! You’re the one who called it a no-risk parasocial infatuation!”

“Okay, I take it back. You’re just in love with him.”

“Oh my God, I’m not—”

“Fine. You’re in crush with him.”

“He’s a YouTuber .”

“You can have a crush on a YouTuber,” Nat says. “I checked the rules. It’s allowed. Even geeky little ginger boys.”

“What do you have against geeky little ginger boys?”

“I love geeky little ginger boys. I just love them in a lesbian way.”

“In a lesbian way.” I squint. “So, like, brides dancing gayly to Ed Sheeran?”

“Okay, yes. Absolutely that.”

A breeze wafts by, tickling my cheeks with the loose parts of my hair. Number one favorite kind of weather, hands down. The air feels like a screened-in porch with a ceiling fan.

I pause. “Okay, but you don’t think I’m creepy, right? With Walter?”

“Um. What? No!”

“I just like his content. And I think he’s cool. And he’s cute.”

“Allegedly cute.” She shuts one eye.

“Says the girl who had a crush on the Aristocats.”

“Not all of them. Just Duchess.”

“I don’t know who needs to hear this,” I say, “but cats can’t be MILFs.”

We catch up with Zora and Mark at the end of the block. “Okay! Let’s talk strategy,” I say. “Do we want to get our priorities

in order now? Wait until we get there?”

Zora furrows her brow. “What do you mean?”

“I just want to make sure we at least get to our S-tier rides.”

“We get unlimited rides.” She holds up her hand. “Wristbands, remember?”

“Right, but I’m guessing the fast pass is separate.”

“Fast pass.” Zora laughs. “So, you’re picturing Disney World.”

I smile. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“It’s old-timey, right?” Natalie says. “I was reading about it. Apparently, some people think it’s haunted?”

“Exactly!” I point at her. “That’s what I’m talking about. Do we really want to wait in line with ghosts? Folks, just file

right in behind Wraithlyn Shadonia Phantombreath and Ghoulia Hauntoria the Bloodless.”

“Depends,” Natalie says. “How bad’s the phantom breath?”

“Bad. And they’re not cute. We’re talking, like—big gaping eye sockets. Dripping with blood.”

Zora tilts her head. “I thought Ghoulia was bloodless?”

“That’s her name , not a literal description of who she is as a person. That’s like saying, Oh, your last name’s Long? ” I gesture at the twins. “Must have a super long—”

“Wow, this conversation has been a journey!” Mark says.

“I’m just saying. Might be worth investing in—” I stop short. “Okay. Whoa. You know what Wraithlyn and Ghoulia would be absolutely

flawless names for?”

“Cats?” suggests Zora.

“Not cats. What about...” I give my boobs a quick pat. “These. Supernatural. Entities.”

“Nope. No thank you. Kill me,” says Mark.

“If that’s what you want.” I clear my throat. “Friends and family, we are gathered here on this sad day in May to say our

goodbyes to the esteemed Marquis de Mark. He died as he lived, panicking about boobs.”

Natalie pats his shoulder. “What a way to go.”

“A man of great courage. Let us honor him now by placing a hand—nay, both hands—on our chests. You know where. And we say, as one.” I exhale. “Breast in peace, young hero.”

“That was—wow.”

“I know. Be strong, sweet Natrina. He wouldn’t have wanted us to cry.”

Mark blinks. “No, he would.”

“Hey, look!” Zora lifts her chin.

I follow her gaze—there’s a playground, a candy shop, and an almost entirely empty parking lot.

Right behind it: a domed white pavilion with an art deco facade, and the words “PLAYLAND” in all-caps, neon red letters.

There’s another pavilion beside it, topped with giant, colorful letters spelling out something I can’t quite read from this angle.

But the vibe is unmistakable. As are the two brightly painted clowns on the roof.

As are the blue and red Ferris wheel capsule seats rising in the distance behind them.

“Told you it’s old-timey,” Nat says.

I shake my head. “When was this place even built? The fifties?”

She pulls her phone out to check. “Oh, wow. 1886.”

“That can’t be real.” Nat holds up her phone and I lean closer to read it. “Whaaaat?”

“I know!”

“It’s cool, right?” says Zora.

My only response: a stunned, wordless nod. Mouth hanging wide open. Hi! Amelia Applebaum here. I’m the girl whose face looks

like the front of a mailbox.

Zora glances back at me. “Millie, you good?”

“Yeah. I’m just. Man. ” I press my forehead. “Like, is your car the actual DeLorean? What century is this?”

“Who could say?” Zora presses the walk sign button. We’re just across the street from the entrance by now, and my eyes don’t

know where to land first. There’s a polka-dotted ticket booth and a tall spiral of roller-coaster tracks. By now, we’re close

enough to see the full front of the clown pavilion, which appears to be a nightmarish fun house called LAFFLAND . And there are other rides, too—poised to spin and whirl above the concrete, or tucked under striped domes like circus tents.

Beyond that: rows of midway games, and at least three arcades. Everything’s painted in such vibrantly bright colors, it’s

like we’ve stepped beneath a filter.

But here’s the most surreal part: it’s practically empty. Just some roaming groups of middle schoolers and a couple of families with kids. And us, I guess.

There’s no way this place is real. I think I might have dreamed it.

The walk light flips on, and I’m drawn in like a magnet. Toward Laffland, toward Playland, toward the rainbow-dot ticket booth.

But something stops me in my tracks, and it’s not a game or a ride or a weird painted clown. It’s a plain metal bench in the

grass, surrounded by clover and weeds. And, most important: two perfectly spherical dandelions.