Meg Pokrass
DAY OF THE RENAISSANCE FAIR
It’s the day of the fair, and my friend Vicky's cousin Kyle is sneaking looks at me, flushing and grinning when I catch him, his teeth spaced far apart and skinny. He wears a shield of armor made of recycled cans. It would have been fine (being gawked at) if it weren't for the odor he carries -- a teenage odor I don’t feel ready for, maybe a mixture of Extra Cheese Doritos and Brut cologne. Vicky loves to laugh behind his back, use him for wheels. Such a freak-face, she said once, when we saw him walking downtown alone as usual, unaware that his i-Pod had slipped, his ear-buds dangling down like tendrils. Vicky and I are still content sucking on Popsicles instead of what some girls do-- which might be making us mean (the repression and stuff).
He’s already given us money by paying for parking at the Fair, since he drove. It feels like, no matter what he does, he still owes Vicky something. I admire his responsible attitude, his scurrying around to stay out of our way so he won’t seem like a parasite. Sometimes I think, "play dead, why don't you, while your cousin the bitch uses you, practices her diva skills.”
"Oh, shit, I didn't bring cash. Kyle, can we have a twenty?" Vicky goes (snorts, wrinkling her pug nose).
"Kyle, dude, we'll buy you the perfect present!" she whimpers, knowing how perky her tits look blooming out of her Renaissance bodice, the fair maiden with rusty lip-goop. Kyle seems suddenly frantic, his left eye twitching, looking this way and that as though a predator were stalking him. His face becomes the color of a fruit medley (shades of purple, whiteheads, pink spots). His sunglasses show a tiny crack near the frame, as if part of him is broken but he doesn’t know it.
"Here," he says, handing her a twenty-dollar bill in slow motion, as if any quick movement might ruin something perfect between them. I want to smear him with kisses, yet I follow Vicky into the trashy crowd of fake jugglers, kings, queens, whores, and clowns. I walk to the food palace court and buy a roast turkey leg so I can lick it up and down without eating all the fatty parts, while I watch Vicky flirt with a tattooed freak selling leather-bound water bottles so she’ll get one free.
Kyle doesn’t buy anything, and we don’t even try to find "just the right gift" for him, either. That night, at Vicky's house, I keep waking up, imagining the leather belt I might have bought him.
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