Carnies
That's what we went for, Holly and I, not for the rides or the games we couldn't win. What were we then, fourteen, fifteen, wearing cut-offs and our brothers' workshirts. Holly tossing her hair as we walked down the midway, her talking big and me saying nothing, a halfstep behind her. But don't you know how deep summer crawls inside you in a town like that. You can't keep still, you need fast fresh air from another place. And if boys your own age try showing off for you there, you nod and shrug but keep glancing away. You look over at the quick swipes of grease on the jeans of some muscled roustabout unlocking the safety bars on the Octopus, you watch the flutter of his T-shirt, the travel of his eyes. And when he looks at you you're caught not knowing what to do, and afraid to smile. You just move on through that broken-down music. Holly and I, we took our time getting on and off those rides, we craved that coolness just an extra second airborne, scrambling summer and Main Street and a stranger's level gaze. And you bet we'd take them home with us, their soft goddamns that followed us out, and wouldn't we toss all night with them, too.
—Debra Allbery, from Walking Distance (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1991)
