Page 8 of Love at Full Tilt

The castle’s shadow spills out around us as we circle the building, offering a momentary reprieve from the sun.

Pointed gold-and-blue flags wave from the top of the turrets, Percivel Night’s crescent moon insignia emblazoned at their center.

Percivel Night was Fableland’s first epic fantasy, and this is the castle where Percivel finally defeated Ike the Sorcerer.

As Ike’s spirit dashed holes in the black cloud he’d cast over the kingdom, Percivel scaled the tallest tower and reclaimed the castle for his love, Princess (soon-to-be queen) Regina.

Somehow they’ve managed to make it look just as imposing and otherworldly as it does in the animated film.

Mason stops at a door on the castle’s far side.

Issy’s face blanches as we approach. “Wait. It says Employees Only.”

He shrugs. “My friend works here.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and shoots off a text. A moment later, the door opens.

The guy exiting looks about our age and he and Mason nod at each other. The guy takes a moment to make sure Mason catches the door before he walks off.

“Is that your friend?” I ask.

“Carter?”

I nod.

“No. He’s inside.” Mason gestures for us to move through the entrance.

Tess, Issy, and I cluster around the threshold like a bunch of novice vampires waiting to be invited in. “We really should get permission or something,” Issy whispers.

“What if there are cameras?” Tess clutches my arm, her fingers digging into my skin. “I can’t afford to be bailing myself out of Fableland jail. Or worse, real jail.”

Mason shakes his head. “They’re not exactly Big Brotherhere.”

“Bullshit. Big corporations are the biggest Big Brothers. You never know when they’re watching you. Or ”—Tess thrusts a finger in the air, her rising voice bouncing off the walls of the corridor in front of us—“they’ve got you brainwashed.”

Mason eyes her, his lips pressed shut, almost like he’s wondering how he ended up with such a group of dorks.

I push forward into the hallway. “Those ‘cameras’?”—I throw some air quotes around the word—“are more likely to get a good look at us if we keep standing here.”

As my friends follow me, Tess nudges Mason in the arm. “Lia knows everything about this place. If she says there are cameras, then there are definitely cameras.”

She’s being purposely ridiculous, but I think she meant that first part.

I hug my arms around my waist. Lately, I keep letting myself forget that my friends love me, even if we aren’t always into the same things anymore.

They might not care as much about Fableland and its secrets, but they still care about me.

Mason and I take the lead as we walk deeper into the building.

“So if you live nearby and your friend works here, you must come all the time?” I ask.

Imagine getting to spend every day surrounded by great rides, amazing stories, and the most delicious food.

It must be like living in a different world.

His brows draw together in concentration, and the natural downturn of his mouth deepens. “I used to. Carter’s uncle is a bigwig in Fable Industry, so he gets us season passes and VIP status and all that.”

“The dream.”

He shrugs. “It’s nothing special. Just a big theme park.”

My mouth falls open. Just a big theme park? Is he serious? “This is Fableland. The most innovative resort in the world.”

Mason looks at me, lifting his shoulders in another shrug.

More words fizz in my mouth and burst in my head.

After years of living with my mom, I can’t stand silence.

It’s too cavernous and open, too much space that can be filled by worries and anxieties and panic.

Already, I can feel myself wondering if he thinks I’m strange and awkward, if we’re going to be too late to find Smokey, if the laugh Tess and Issy are sharing behind us is about something I won’t understand.

“What are you doing in this contest if you aren’t a fan?” I blurt out.

“I’m here for the same reason everyone else is. That cash prize.”

I bristle. I want to insist I entered the contest for the magic, not the money, but that would be a lie. Or a half one, at least. I care about the parks—I can’t wait to see every part of them—but I need that money, too.

The hallway branches off in three different directions. The corridor straight ahead and the one on our left look like they lead deeper into the attraction. To our right, the hall slopes up and around a corner. Deep rumbles and muffled voices spill from that direction.

Mason leads us toward the noises. They grow louder and more intense with each step we take.

“I figured my backstage info might help me win.” He gestures ahead, his gaze settling on my face. “Or help one of us win.”

“Prove it.” I grin. “Tell me something about the parks most people don’t know.”

He doesn’t respond for a long moment. Then he says softly, “There’s a secret tunnel system under all of them. It’s where employees take kids who get separated from their parents.”

My eyes widen. “What? Why? What do they do to them?”

A surprised laugh escapes his lips. “Keep them safe until they find their parents.”

“But why underground ?”

“To maintain Fableland’s reputation as a shiny happy place.”

“I’m not sure murder tunnels inspire shiny happiness in anyone.”

Another laugh. “No one’s been murdered.”

“As far as you know.” I shudder. I don’t actually believe anyone’s been killed at my favorite place on earth (if they have, don’t tell me), but I like Mason’s laughter more than I should. It changes his face, his whole demeanor, as if he’s coming back to life from a century-long sleep.

We reach a door at the end of the hall a minute later, and I have to fight off a squeal. “It’s so cool that you get to do this all the time,” I say.

“Do what?”

“See the insides of the rides and stuff. How everything works.” Have magic flickering beneath your fingertips, I want to add.

“These days it’s mostly computers and programs.”

“All right, Ebenezer Scrooge.”

“I love Christmas. I’m super holly jolly.” His voice is flat, but one corner of his mouth quirks up.

“Well, this place is Christmas on too many espressos. So you must love it too.” I don’t know why I’m so desperate for him to admit it.

Maybe I don’t want to feel like the only one who cares about this place anymore.

It would be nice for someone else to get it for once—to understand me—and for whatever reason, I want it to be him.

If he responds, I can’t hear it because the door in front of us has opened, and Percivel Night’s voice screams out: I may be small, but I am mighty! Heroes come in all shapes!

This is one of Percivel’s most famous lines from his climactic fight with Ike the Sorcerer. Goose bumps pop up on my arms as I listen to him repeat the words over and over on a loop.

When I was a kid, I used to believe him.

Percivel is one of the few characters in Fable Industry’s repertoire who doesn’t adhere to stereotypical ideas of what a hero should look like.

He’s short with a round little belly and a pug nose and a blond widow’s peak so sharp that he appears to be balding.

When I dressed up in armor I constructed out of tinfoil for career day or tried to beat the boys on the monkey bars, when I answered questions in class and didn’t worry about being wrong, when I marched up to Jackson Redmond in third-grade gym class and asked him to be my swing dance partner in front of all my classmates, I didn’t think the way everyone laughed at me had anything to do with my fat body.

How could I when Percivel had said heroes come in all shapes?

It would be another two years before I realized that my shape didn’t count.

That was when Jackson started oinking at me during recess because his friends thought it was funny.

And when Tess and Issy left me alone on the bleachers during the upper-elementary-school Halloween party to slow dance with some sixth graders.

And when our gym teacher, Mr.Alexander, accosted me for stopping to tie my shoe in the middle of stretching by asking if my backside was too heavy to lift off the ground.

Discovering you don’t fit in is a lot like realizing that the rest of the world is painted in Technicolor while you’re drawn in black and white.

You’re duller and less important, but somehow you stand out, in all the wrong ways.

I didn’t see reflections of myself anywhere anymore.

Not even in my beloved Fable Industry movies.

I had to start drawing my favorite characters on my own to make them look like me, because no one else ever would.

I took those drawings off my walls a long time ago, but I still look at them often.

I even tucked a few into one of my research notebooks before I left for the airport yesterday.

Hopefully, someday, Percivel’s words can actually ring true.

And if I win this money, maybe I can be a part of making that happen.

Mason’s still standing by the door, talking to a tall, lanky white guy in a red Fableland shirt with the name Carter on a name tag where a right pocket would be. After another minute, he turns back to us.

He has to lean close so I can hear his soft voice over the noise, and his hand hovers at the small of my back as if he means to usher me forward.

My body anticipates his touch like gasoline thrown on a flame, every inch of my skin suddenly hot, hot, hot, but his palm never finds the fabric of my shirt.

Instead, he explains, “Take a right out the door, and you’ll see the scene you need straight ahead. I’ll follow you,” he adds, when I can’t quite tear my gaze from his fast enough.

With a nod, I force back my shoulders and head toward the animatronic display at the end of the hall. Tess and Issy are close at my heels.

A crowd has just moved on to the next area, the perfect time to sneak in and find the QR code.

But as I get closer, I’m struck dumb by how…

well, real …the scene looks. Ike and Percivel are currently fighting in Regina’s bedroom on their way to the roof, and every detail from this moment in the movie has been captured.

Regina’s favorite golden brush with its missing ruby sits askew on her vanity, knocked out of place by a misfire from Ike’s wand.

One of the thick cream-colored curtains has a tear from the rod to the floor, where Percivel rode his sword down the fabric to avoid one of Ike’s spells.

Two of Regina’s hairpins stick out of a portrait of Duke Hasslington (she refuses to marry his smug ass), his fate from her last fit of boredom.

Percivel stands at the foot of the canopy bed, sword brandished in his right hand, his left keeping him balanced on the footboard, and Ike bounces from toe to toe on the top of a steamer trunk, his wand aloft to release a dangerous spell.

The lines they rehearse are plucked right from the movie.

Face it, Percivel. You’re no match for me. Regina and her kingdom are mine. Bend your knee and you can join us…

…as the court jester, of course.

The only joke in this room is your face, wizard. I may be small, but I am mighty! Heroes come in all shapes!

“Holy shit.” Tess stops beside me. There’s nothing to separate us from the scene but a small, knee-high barrier. If we reached out, we could touch Regina’s bedsheet. “This is wild. I feel like I’m in the movie.” She rests her head against my shoulder.

Issy loops her arm through mine. “Right? It’s almost like it might pull you in if you touch it.” She leans forward a little as if to test her theory. She’s wearing the same expression she gets whenever she perfects a recipe.

We probably have only a few minutes to find Smokey and the QR code before the next group of people pushes through, but I don’t want to move.

Joy pulses through me at my friends’ reactions.

For a second, it’s like we’re back in Issy’s room, making promises about this very trip and speculating about the Sunspark sequel that never happened.

I wish I could freeze this moment, this second when we’re us the way we used to be.

Trap it in a jar. Keep it close to my heart.

But then Mason’s shadow falls over us, and I remember why we’re here. I hurry forward, determined to scan the code before him, even if it is by only a few seconds. Who knows if that might matter later?

Clearly, I’m excellent at this alliance stuff.

My eyes pan over the display, quickly locking on the white shih tzu curled up under Regina’s bed. It’s the one detail out of place. Normally, we don’t see Smokey in this part of the film. He’s missing until the battle is over and he rushes out of the basement, toward his owner.

Kneeling down, I reach over the barrier to scan the code beside the dog’s wagging tail.

As I hover my phone’s lens over the black-and-white square, I can’t help but use my other hand to pat Smokey’s head.