Page 20 of Love at Full Tilt

Vale of Villainy, Fableland

Orlando, FL

—“Little Known Facts: Fable Industry,” Film Quarterly

My lungs are still gasping for air as we step back into the sunlight.

I’m pretty sure I didn’t stop screaming for the entire three minutes of that ride.

“Roller coasters in the dark should be outlawed,” I mutter. I thought seeing the upcoming loops and steep drops was bad, but it is so much worse when you can’t anticipate what’s ahead.

“No way.” The apples of Tess’s round cheeks are bright pink with excitement. “That was epic.”

Issy looks just as elated. “Should we go again?”

“Feel free, but Mason and I need to go get that last clue.” It’s getting close to lunchtime. Who knows how many contestants have already secured their place for tomorrow by this point?

“As long as you’re sure?” Issy says.

Tess hooks her arm in Issy’s. “They’ll probably be faster without us anyway.” She smiles and waves at me as she drags Issy back toward the entrance of Valyrad’s Flight.

“Text us where to meet you!” Issy calls over Tess’s head.

My stomach dips as they disappear into the crowd. I know I told them to go, but it feels like they’ve chosen the rides over extra time with me.

And we have so little time left.

I sigh. I can’t focus on this right now. Not when I haven’t finished the contest for the day.

Mason peers over my shoulder as I get out my phone, his shadow enveloping me. We were so absorbed in the statue and the ride that we both forgot to check the final clue for the day.

“?‘No one likes their summer drinks undead,’?” I read.

The words blur as I scan them a few more times. Summer drink. Undead. Neither means anything to me.

My eyes flit to Mason’s face. “Any ideas?”

He shakes his head, his mouth pulled tight.

“What’s undead here?” That seems like the most important word to parse.

“There’s the skeleton dragons from Moonwatcher, but that attraction is over in Hero’s Quest.” He scratches the back of his neck. “They don’t seem to be having us park-hopping yet.”

The two of us peer at Carter.

His hands fly up in surrender. “I’m getting out of here before I accidentally help you cheat.” He and Mason share one of those elaborate fist bumps guys like to do. “I’m going to meet up with Isaiah for his lunch break. Let me know if you want to join us.” His hazel eyes drop to me. “Or…not.”

His boyish face is beaming with mischief, and Mason looks ready to kill him as he scurries off.

I cross my arms. “What do people drink in the summer?”

“Ice water?” Mason suggests.

“You know some yawners,” I quip.

That little tick of a smile that tells me he appreciates my jokes passes over his mouth.

“Icees?” he tries again.

“Iced tea?” I offer.

Nothing is jogging my memory.

“Lemonade?”

“Wait.” That word triggers something in my brain. I reach out an arm to stop Mason from saying anything else.

“When life gives you lemons,” I mumble.

Mason’s watercolor eyes pop open. “Use them to kill some zombies.”

“Debbie Lemon.”

We’re already walking when Mason says, “The Last Steps walk-through is behind Hellfire.”

“We’re probably okay, then, right?” I ask. “A lot of serious Fableland fans don’t even know about that movie.”

“I’m honestly surprised it’s a clue so early on.”

“I went to my eighth-grade Halloween dance as Debbie Lemon,” I admit sheepishly.

It took my mom and me weeks to find the right prom dress (Debbie’s is purple and puffy and covered in sequins, not exactly the style these days), and then to tear it up and cover it with red paint.

Her anxiety had been less overwhelming then, and I still remember how much fun we had destroying that dress in the most artful way possible.

Mason’s eyes are pinned to my face. “I bet you looked incredible.” He’s completely serious, not so much as blinking as he saysit.

“It was a cool costume.” I do my best to sound nonchalant, but every inch of my skin has caught fire. None of the guys I knew at school were ever so direct or sincere. I feel adrift, like a white-water tube headed straight for a waterfall.

As we cross through the middle of Vale of Villainy, where the crowd is thickest, I hear two dudes talking loudly behind us. “Why do fat girls think they don’t need to wear more clothes?” one of them says.

It takes one quick glance over my shoulder to know they’re talking about me. They look like they’re in their early twenties, both of them white, one with short blond hair, the other with brown waves to his chin. Their shirts have gym logos on them, as do the bandannas tied around their foreheads.

My heart’s a hammer, and I want to use it on their smug faces. I’m wearing shorts that hit me at midthigh, and the Elorra shirt covers everything but my arms. I’m not flaunting anything. And even if I were, what I put on my body is no one’s concern but mine.

I grind my teeth.

Beside me, I feel Mason stiffen, and his hands snap into fists. I touch his arm and subtly shake my head. Fableland has a zero-tolerance policy for violence. We’re not risking our chances at the prize money over some fatphobic jerks.

“Seriously,” the other guy replies. “No one wants to see that.”

He’s halfway through the sentence when two hands grab my ass hard enough to hurt.

I squeak and jerk away, heat flooding my face. Embarrassment snakes around my bones and coils tight.

The guys laugh like a pack of hyenas, and the blond guy steps toward me as if he intends to pinch my ass again.

Mason slips between us, his body a brick wall in the middle of the path. He’s easily a foot and a half taller than the two guys and just as broad and muscular. His eyes flare wide. “Dude. What the hell. ” It’s the loudest I’ve ever heard him speak.

My hands tremble, and I press them to my thighs to still them. This is not the first time I’ve been ridiculed by strangers, and normally I would say something snarky and walk away. But this guy put his hands on me. I’m having a harder time shaking that off. I honestly don’t even know what to do.

The two of them stare at Mason, bewildered. As if they have no idea what has him so riled up.

The blond holds up his hands. “All I’m saying is that fatties—”

Mason stalks forward another step. “Call her that one more time.” His back muscles roll taut beneath his T-shirt, and tendons stand out in his neck. Everything about his posture screams predator ready to pounce.

This guy is about to throw a punch for me. The realization is enough to clear the panicked fog in my head. I clutch the back of his shirt and pull him toward me.

“Let’s go,” I murmur. “They’re not worth it.”

I feel those dudes watching us, hear them laughing. Nothing Mason does, nothing I say, is going to change their minds. Ignorance is thicker and harder than steel.

When he doesn’t move, I release his shirt and plant the palm of my hand on his shoulder blade instead. “Mason.”

That seems to snap him out of it. He looks at me. His eyes are the color of storm clouds. They flash like lightning.

“We have a contest to win,” I remind him.

The way his face softens tells me that he hears everything I’m not saying in those words. That I don’t want to be a spectacle, that I don’t want to see what happens if we keep antagonizing those assholes, that I want to get back to why I’m here.

He nods, and we stride ahead, taking the first right into another area of the park, even though it’s not the fastest way to the Last Steps attraction. For the moment, I care less about being the fastest ones to the clue and more about putting some distance between us and what just happened.

Mason is keeping closer to me than usual, and when I tip my face up to peer at him, he lifts an arm and asks, “Okay?”

I take his wrist in my hand and pull it down, slinging his arm over my shoulders. His side is warm against mine, and for a second, I let myself press my cheek into his solid chest.

It feels safe here, with his strong body so close to me. Mason could so easily be one of those guys. But he doesn’t see what they see when he looks at me.

He doesn’t see a body.

He sees me.

“How are you so calm?” His breath stirs the soft hairs around my forehead.

I don’t feel calm at all. My heart hasn’t slowed, and I can’t get the memory of that guy’s rough hands on my ass out of my head.

I shrug beneath his arm. I don’t know what to say.

“Does that happen a lot?”

“Not the ass-grabbing.” This is the first time anyone has ever touched me anywhere but my arm or my shoulder without my consent.

I want to shower, or maybe burrow into a hole in the ground, and I want to cry and eat two hundred bowls of ice cream, but I also want to throw up.

Yet I also don’t want to give those guys that kind of power over me.

Tess likes to say that only you get to decide how people make you feel.

It’s a sentiment I’ve cross-stitched on my heart (one day I’m going to put it on a pillow, too).

And I’ve decided that no jerks are getting under my skin today.

Anytime now, that will become true. I just have to wait long enough.

Mason’s chin rests on top of my head. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“When you look a certain way—one that makes people notice you—this happens. You must deal with some form of it, too, right? I mean, you’re so hot.” I’m too raw and frayed to hold my tongue.

Of course, the moment the word is out of my mouth I want to melt into the asphalt.

Neither of us is looking at each other, but he hasn’t let go or run away. Nor have I died of embarrassment and faded into a ghostly form.

“Something tells me it’s not the same,” he says softly.

His words are like a warm blanket in the middle of winter. All I’ve ever wanted was for Tess and Issy to understand this way. To recognize how my experience in the world is different from theirs, rather than to dismiss me.

I burrow my face a little more deeply into his chest.

We’re quiet as we make our way through the kiddie section of Vale, themed around Fable Industry’s Western, Annie DoGood.

Just past the saloon, the aesthetic shifts from the town of Homestead and its frontier vibes to that of an abandoned carnival.

Most of the rides in this area are old-school: a Tilt-a-Whirl, some giant swings, two creaky roller coasters with wooden tracks.

There’s also a Ferris wheel with cars that twist and turn precariously in the wind.

Off the main paths, the grass is overgrown and graffiti is scrawled across the benches and game booths.

Last Steps is tucked away in a corner, its sign one of those whiteboards with interchangeable black letters you sometimes see in front of schools announcing events.

In fact, the whole attraction is made to look like a school: a long, wide brick building with almost all its windows broken.

Bloodied curtains hang out of a few and red handprints mar others.

Above the entrance, metal block letters once spelled out the school’s name—New Cumberland High—but a bunch have been rearranged or removed so it reads Hide and Run .

Now that we’re so close to the third clue of the day, I want to break the haze left by our encounter with those guys and get back to winning. But I can still feel their hands on my body, still hear every word they said.

I rush forward like I can outrun those thoughts, but Mason catches my hand and tugs me gently back toward him.

“You know you’re beautiful, right?” His eyes sear into mine, and his voice is more resolved than I’ve ever heard it.

I shake my head. I don’t want to dwell on what happened. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. “Mason, it’s—”

“Right?”

I sigh. “I know I’m not what those guys want me to think Iam.”

He hasn’t let go of my hand and he draws me in a little closer, so our sneakers are toe to toe. “When I saw you at the welcome party, it was like staring into the sun.”

“I hurt your eyes that bad, huh?”

He nudges my foot. “No, you were that stunning.”

There’s a lump the size of a baseball in my throat. I can barely swallow around it. “I felt the same.” I can’t help but add, “Even if I wanted to kick your chair for tripping me.”

He grins for a second, but then it fades from his face.

He squints, his gaze tracing the periphery of the Last Steps building.

“Would it be too much”—his voice cracks a little—“if I texted you or something sometime?” He rubs his face with his free hand.

“I know you’re leaving in four days, and this isn’t any—”

I interrupt him by making a production of digging my hand into my pocket for my phone. When the screen turns on, it’s so covered in text messages I gasp.

Mom

I’m sorry I missed your call. Dad says things are going well?

(11:28 AM)

Mom

I really wish you’d let me know that you’re okay.

(11:32 AM)

Mom

Sweetie, I think you need to start checking your phone more during the day. I don’t like this.

(11:34 AM)

Mom

Lia. Please check in. Maybe a little earlier than yesterday.

(11:36 AM)

Mom

What are you girls up to today?

(11:38 AM)

They go on and on, a full map of my mother spiraling over the past half hour.

“Whoa,” Mason says as he notes all the texts on my screen.

Normally, the idea of him seeing this would make me sick to my stomach, but there’s already too much in my head.

“My parents are super overprotective. I still can’t believe they let me come here for a week without them.

” I swipe away text after text. “Sometimes, I think they opened the furniture store just to make sure they could keep me close.” For the first time since Mason and I met, I don’t feel the impulse to say more.

“That has to be hard.”

“I feel like I’m going to spend my whole life being smothered by them. And then I feel like a jerk for being mad that my parents give a crap about me. There’s no way to win.”

I type out some responses to my mother to avoid looking at Mason’s face.

Lia

Hi Mom. Sorry I missed you earlier too!

(11:55 AM)

Lia

We’re having a great time, though it’s been super hot today!

(11:57 AM)

Lia

We’re about to go see one of the musical performances so I am going to turn my phone off. Call you tonight!

(11:58 AM)

Flicking open a new contacts window, I ask, “What’s your number?”

He rattles it off, and I save it, then send him a message. After that, my phone goes back in my pocket.

I’m still feeling shaky, but I know I need to refocus on the contest. On money that can help me carve out some freedom from my parents.

On the opportunity to share my ideas about more body-inclusive characters with Fable Industry.

Maybe I could even join that storytelling department Mason told me about.

What if my stories could change someone’s mind? What if I could help make sure one less person has to experience what I just did?

I peer up at Mason and push a smile onto my face. “Let’s go hunt some zombies.”