Page 10 of Love at Full Tilt
“Issy doesn’t only make gross stuff, though,” I assure him.
“Her aunt Kamila and her grandmother own this restaurant where they make the most amazing Puerto Rican food, and they’ve taught Issy all their recipes.
She’s planning to get a business degree and then go to culinary school so she can take over for them.
Until then, she does foodie stuff on her YouTube channel, Issy Will Cook Anything.
You should check it out. She’s so funny. ”
Pulling out his phone, Mason opens an app and types a note. Like he’s actually going to look up Issy’s channel. “You should make sure to take her to the Land of Plenty in Hero’s Quest. It’s this pavilion—”
“Where they re-create food from the movies! It’s definitely on our list. And Tess’s schedule.” Issy hasn’t stopped talking about that exhibit since she booked her plane ticket.
My eyes hang on Mason’s face a little longer than I mean to.
It’s so…nice…to be around someone who knows the parks the way I do.
Who can immediately come up with places to go based on someone’s interests and doesn’t treat me like I’m immature or straight off another planet because this is what I care about.
Even though it’s early for lunch, a line snakes around the Dog Shack. Tess groans and starts editing her itinerary.
Carter has his phone out, too, the screen bright against his tanned skin. “Do you guys use Cartographer?”
Tess sneers. “We’re not amateurs. We don’t need an app to map the park.”
“Sure, oh wise one.” He sketches a bow. “But you can also preorder your meals so you can spend that time going on rides instead of waiting.”
Even Tess can’t deny the brilliance of this. Along with the rest of us, she downloads the app.
Mason lingers near me. “What are you getting?”
“Not the Cereal dog.”
“I’m so getting that,” Issy declares.
I mime my cheeks filling with vomit, and both she and Mason laugh.
“The Barbecue dog’s good, if you like pulled pork?” Mason offers.
The large menu is giving me serious decision fatigue, so I’m grateful for the recommendation. I add it to my order with fries and a frozen cola (the nectar of the gods) and check out. “Looks like my food will be ready in a half hour,” I announce when the confirmation screen appears.
“Perfect.” Carter thrusts a hand in the air, his index finger pointed up like a sword. “This gives us a chance to ride Squirt’s Wicked Whirl at least three times.”
I thought I’d read enough about Squirt’s Wicked Whirl to be prepared for it.
A tiny ride that packs a punch. Five vomit emojis on the puke-o-meter. Everyone says not to be deceived by the small, compact structure or the seemingly simple restraint system.
From far away, I can see why people underestimate it.
Unlike Dudley’s Tailspin and a lot of the other roller coasters at the parks, whose tall, looming tracks arch and swoop and curl toward the sky as if they mean to burst through the clouds, Squirt’s Wicked Whirl is a rectangular set of rails with multiple levels.
The drops aren’t steep. There are no upside-down loops or barrel rolls, nothing to steal your stomach.
Just a lot of small hills and sharp corners.
And yet, as we make our way through the FOTL queue, screams fill the air from the riders. Louder ones than I remember hearing on Dudley’s Tailspin earlier.
Carter studies our surprised expressions with glee. “This ride is a total dark horse. No one expects it to be as fun or as terrifying as it is.”
“I love that you think fun and terrifying are somehow things that are supposed to go together,” I mumble.
Beside me, Mason huffs a small laugh. It’s so light it could have wings, and I imagine myself catching it between my hands and hiding it away in my pocket.
Serendipitously, the cars for the ride hold five. One lone seat up front, and two doubles. Carter jumps into the single seat, and Tess and Issy grab the middle row, leaving Mason and me to fill the back.
My heart leaps against my rib cage. I’m going to have to sit next to him in this tiny car, where our arms and legs will be flung together. Where I can’t guarantee I won’t strangle his bicep if the drops get too intense. We’re going to be sharing air. Space. Gravity.
Suddenly, I’m too aware of my size. Despite Mason’s height and the broad stretch of his shoulders, I take up more room than he does. I fill the seat differently, my stomach bunching around the seat belt, which, thank whatever higher power is out there, snaps into place.
Does he notice?
Does he care?
I know I shouldn’t. My body is my body. I don’t spend my time counting calories or dreaming of being smaller.
I exercise because I enjoy playing sports.
I like the way my heart dances steadily when I run, how my blood pulses warm in my veins.
I like to feel the muscles in my legs burn after a good workout.
I like knowing my body is strong and capable of the same things other bodies are.
But I also know I don’t fit the way the world wants me to. And that this is usually the first thing people see when they look at me.
I breathe in and squeeze my arms as close as I can to my sides, trying to make myself smaller, to take up a little less room. Mason’s expression is gentle, a smile hanging on his lips, as he looks over at me. There’s none of the judgment I get everywhereelse.
This will be okay. The same way it’s been since I ran into him at Dudley’s Tailspin. It’s ridiculous to think that going on a ride together would suddenly change the way he sees me.
We both reach up at the same time to pull down the over-the-shoulder harnesses. Mine clicks once into place. Mason’s clicks twice.
When I peek at him, I see that his harness is pressed against his flat stomach, while mine hovers closer to my chest. I bear down on it a little harder, but it bounces back up.
My pulse quickens. Maybe it’s broken? That happens all the time at places like this.
With so many people on the rides, there must be a ton of wear and tear.
A little less discreetly, I shove the harness down.
Panic starts to bubble, viscous and bitter, at my center, and I can feel my cheeks growing hot.
This stupid thing has to lock. It has to fit. It has to. I cannot be too big for this ride. Not with Mason and Carter here. I can’t. I just can’t….
I’m fighting with the harness roughly enough now that Mason notices. My arms hurt from shoving it down, and tears burn at the corners of my eyes.
“These things can be so stupid,” Mason says softly. He reaches over to give me a little more leverage. With his help, the harness pushes deeper into my stomach, but the telltale click of the lock never comes.
The ride’s attendant approaches, making his rounds to ensure everyone is secured.
He checks Mason’s harness and nods, then eyes mine. “This needs to go down more,” he says. He’s barely looking at me. He must do this so often every day that he stops seeing the people he engages with. His name tag reads Mike .
“I think it’s broken or something.” I hate how much I hope that’s true. How much my voice begs him to agree.
“Nah, sometimes they just need a little extra encouragement.” He grips the sides of my harness and thrusts down.
It jams into my stomach hard enough that I have to swallow a grunt, but I still don’t hear a click.
“Ah…” Mike keeps pressing the harness down and bounces against it, trying his damnedest to force the mechanism into place. His eyebrows knit together, and his mouth twists in a frown. When our eyes meet, I’m pretty sure he is actually seeing me for the first time.
He takes a reluctant step back and grimaces. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to say the thing I so desperately don’t want to hear.
At this point, we’re holding up the ride, and this has invited an audience. People waiting in the queue are standing on their tiptoes to see what’s going on. Another attendant is heading our way. Tess and Issy have turned around in their seats, their faces full of questions.
I can’t bring myself to look at Mason.
I wave Mike off and shove up the harness. My hands are shaking as I try to release the seat belt. I have to clench them into fists once, twice, three times before they’re steady enough for my fingers to fumble with the button.
Rising to my feet, I mumble, “I’m going to…um…wait…out…outside.” The tremble in my voice brings more tears to my eyes, and my stomach is a pit of snakes, writhing, churning, squeezing.
I don’t care that I can’t go on this ride. It happens. But I didn’t need all these witnesses. It’s like a neon sign screaming, Hey, look at the fat girl, at a time when I don’t want to be seen.
I don’t wait for Tess and Issy to reply before rushing for theexit.