Fortune

Skye made a sound of triumph. She knew it, the creep was up to something.

“Hey! Brat-face!”

Skye stopped and glared over her shoulder at Rick, the kid who ran the shooting gallery, a particularly odious creature. When she and her mother had first joined Marvel’s, he and a couple of his equally gross friends had tried to scare her by locking her in the fun house after closing. Instead of scaring her, he’d made her mad. When one of the roustabouts discovered her and let her out, she’d found Rick and popped him square in the nose, bloodying it. He had never forgiven her for that. But he’d never tried to scare her again, either.

She propped her fists on her hips. “What do you want?”

“I gotta take a break.”

“So take it. I’m busy.”

“Marvel sent Benny to cover the coaster for a while. If I don’t get to the john, I’m going to piss on one of the customers. Get over here.”

Skye looked at the mystery kid’s retreating back, then at Rick. She sniffed. “Do you always have to be so gross? You’re disgusting. Find somebody else.”

“If you don’t get your ass over here, I’m gonna beat the shit out of you.”

“Yeah, right. I’m so scared.” She cocked her chin up. “Pretty clever, the way you sneaked off the lot last night to meet that girl. Hardly anybody saw you. Except me. What do you think Marvel would say about that?”

His face turned beet red. He glanced at her, and shoved his hands in the back pockets of his blue jeans. “You’re such a little twit. I wish you’d fall off the face of the planet.”

“And you’re a brainless butthead.”

“You’re just jealous ‘cause no boy’s ever going to want to sneak out to meet you. You’re probably a queer, you act more like a boy than a girl.”

For a moment, Skye couldn’t find her breath. Her eyes burned and her chest ached. Horrified, she struggled for a comeback, struggled to keep Rick from seeing how much his comment hurt.

She tipped her chin up again, as much for show as to keep it from wobbling. Why should she care if Rick thought she was ugly and unlovable? So what if he thought she was a…queer. He was gross and stupid, and she hated him.

“You better watch it,” she said, “or I’ll get my mom to put a curse on you.”

Rick snorted with amusement, but only after a moment’s telling hesitation. Showmen were notoriously superstitious. They believed in bad luck and gris-gris and witches. And the truth was, her mother’s ability scared them silly. They thought that, somehow, if Madame Claire could see their future—which she could—she could also change it. For the worse.

Because of that, they kept as far away from Madame Claire as possible.

Skye grinned. Silly, superstitious delinquents. It didn’t work that way, of course. But if they wanted to believe it did, that suited Skye just fine. Her mother wasn’t interested in being one of them, and Skye liked being able to yank their chains every once in a while. Sometimes a girl needed a little threat to hang over a bully’s head; it was a way to even the odds a bit.

Skye knew using the other trouper’s fear of her mother’s ability that way didn’t make her too popular, but that was tough nuts. She was used to not being liked, to not having friends. Besides, when she and her mom left, she wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind. Goodbyes were a real bummer.

But detest Rick or not, she was part of the troupe. And he needed her help.

Skye took one last look at the direction the mystery kid had disappeared, sighed and turned back to Rick. “Go already. But hurry back. I’ve got things to do.”

Chapter Five

Chance had taken one last glance behind him—the woman at the concession stand appeared to have forgotten all about him—and tossed the remainder of his perfectly edible hot dog in the trash.

This had to work. Abner Marvel had to give him a job.

He had no contingency plan.

Chance wiped his damp palms on the thighs of his newly resurrected blue jeans. He had dug them, a T-shirt and the remainder of his pre-Lancaster County things out of storage, dressed, packed, then written his aunt and her husband a note. Then he had headed out into the night to hitch a ride.

From there he had winged it. The food-poisoning routine had been a last, desperate attempt to find a way to get to the carnival’s owner. Before he had come up with that scheme, he had asked a half-dozen carnival employees who the owner/manager was and where he could find him; each time, his inquiry had been met with surliness and suspicion. All had told him the same thing—no jobs available.

Then he had realized his mistake. He had done it all wrong—to get to the owner he needed something better than the truth, he needed a scam.

If there was one thing people understood, it was liability. If nothing else, Chance had learned that from his father. The bastard had considered Chance a liability. And nothing else.

Thus the rotten-meat routine had been born.

Determination swelled inside him. Confidence with it. Chance shifted the strap of his duffel bag, inching it higher on his shoulder, and picked up his pace, anxious to secure his future.

Chance made his way down the wide, crowded midway. People streamed around him, laughing with each other, jostling him as they passed. Garish pink, green and yellow neon lights illuminated the moonless night. The scent of popcorn made his mouth water. Rock music blared, a different song from every dizzily spinning ride. Carnies called out lewd greetings to one another; with each revolution of the hammerhead and tilt-a-whirl, girls screamed. The sounds blended together creating a strange, at once ugly and exciting mix.

A group of rowdy teenagers pushed past him. One of the girls giggled and glanced back at him, but not in admiration, Chance knew. He had grown taller in the year he had been imprisoned at his aunt’s, his shoulders had broadened, his chest thickened. Consequently, his denims were too short, his T-shirt too tight; he hadn’t even been able to get his feet into his old Nikes, so he’d been forced to wear his farm-boy work boots. He looked like a total nerd.

Chance stiffened, straightening his shoulders. Not for long, he vowed silently. He was going places; he was going to be somebody important. Someday, girls like those would look at him and wish, pray even, that he would look back.

Up ahead he saw the little top, as the woman had called it. Actually, there were several tents of varying sizes at the end of the runway. Chance decided to try the one dead center first. It was empty save for a man sweeping trash from ringside. Chance hesitated a moment, eyeing the burly man. It seemed doubtful that this was the carnival’s owner, but he might know where Abner Marvel was.

Chance moved farther into the tent. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I’m—”

“The next show’s not for an hour,” the man said, not glancing up. “Come back then.”

“I’m not here to see the show.” Chance swaggered toward the man. “I’m looking for the boss.”

“That so? The boss?” Chance earned a glance. The man’s face could only be described as battered. It looked as if his head had once played ball to someone’s bat and the exchange had left his entire face pushed in.

“That’s right. You know where I might find him?”

The man swept his gaze over him, head to foot, real leisurely-like. He was built like a gorilla, thick and strong, and he was looking at Chance as if he might want to flatten him. No doubt it had been his pleasure to have flattened many punks in his day.

“You already did,” he said.

“You’re Abner Marvel?”

At the obvious disbelief in his tone, the man’s mouth twitched. “None other. And who are you?”

“Chance McCord.” Chance held out his hand, but the man ignored it, going back to his sweeping.

“What can I do for you, Chance McCord?”

“I’m looking for a job.”

“Figured as much. What kind of job you looking for?”

“Any kind.”