Colored lights blink and move and spin against the dark sky. They're white and red and blue and green and gold, and Clint feels like he's been spinning around, fast, fast, fast, when he tries to follow them with his eyes. Barney is at the rifle shooting booth, sighting at the ducks with the peeling bull's eyes painted on them. They shouldn't be out this late. Mommy will be worried, and if Dad was home… well, if Dad was home they wouldn't be out this late. But he's not, so when Barney had told Clint he was sneaking into the fairgrounds, Clint had begged and begged and begged, until his brother had reluctantly agreed he could come. Clint had gotten his piggybank down from the top shelf and snuck a table knife from the kitchen. He had slid the blade smoothly into the coin opening and wiggled it until the coins fell out.
He'd been saving since summer, since he saw that bike in the store in town. Billy has one almost like it, but he never lets Clint ride it. When Clint had shown Barney how much he had saved up, his brother had laughed said it wasn't anywhere near enough to buy a bike, and that Clint would be super old before he could afford one at that rate. Clint fingers the coins in his pocket and decides he doesn't want a bike, anyway. Bikes are stupid, and they always run, anyway, always race each other everywhere they go, even though Clint's legs are shorter than Barney's and he always loses.
"Barney," he calls over the din. "I wanna go see the goldfishes."
"So go," his brother says as he raises the rifle and aims. He pulls the trigger and Clint is relieved when the rifle doesn't say boom. It says 'chink' and one of the ducks falls backwards.
Clint looks down the row of booths, then back at Barney, who has reloaded the rifle and is sighting again. "Promise you won't leave without me."
'Chink'
The duck stays upright.
"Promise," Clint presses.
"Yes, fine! I promise. Now get lost, you're making me miss."
Clint heads down towards the booth with the small plastic bags of goldfish hanging from a rod. The carousels squeak and rattle on each side. The lines to the rides are long, and the people already riding are shouting and shrieking and laughing, and Clint thinks he would just laugh, he wouldn't scream, he'd be brave. Like Barney. He's never afraid. Not of stupid things like Clint is sometimes afraid of, anyway.
He spots a girl walking next to a man and a woman, and she's eating cotton candy. Clint feels his mouth water. He thinks he has enough money for that, and he' hasn't had cotton candy in so long, so he slips between people to the cotton candy stand and waits patiently in line. The man at the stand has to lean over his counter to see Clint behind the soda cans and candy boxes. Clint gets pink cotton candy. For a moment he's dismayed, because pink is a girl's color. Everyone says so. But then he pulls a wad of soft, still-warm sweetness from the stick with his fingers and the color is forgotten, because it melts in his mouth and it's so damn great.
He looks around quickly, then realizes that he's not going to get into trouble for using a bad word, because he was just thinking it. No one heard him say it. He smiles and thinks it again. Damn. Then he thinks Hell. And Shit. And Fuck (Clint knows that one is really bad, because mom got really angry when she heard Barney say it once). He looks around furtively and when no one seems to be paying attention to him he tries it out aloud, whispering it under his breath. He can't help giggling.
Down the lane there's a ride that looks like saucers that spin, and Clint stands there watching for a while. He remembers Barney being sick and throwing up after riding the old wobbly carousel down at the playground, and he would probably be sick if he rode this one, too. Clint had laughed at him, and Barney had gotten so mad. He takes another pinch of cotton candy. He's licking his fingers to get rid of the stickiness when he gets a shove that makes him drop tumble to his knees.
"Watch it!" The older boy, even older than Barney, glares down at him. He's holding a soda can that's foaming over the edge, and his t-shirt has a dark, wet stain on the front.
"Sorry," Clint mumbles. He wants to point out that it wasn't his fault. He had just been standing still, it was the other one's fault for walking into him. But the boy is larger and looks angry, and Clint knows better than to talk back when faced with that combination. "Sorry," he says again.
But Clint's apology doesn't appease him, and the boy steps into Clint's space, grabs his jacket and pulls him up from the ground, pulls him up on his toes, and Clint's eyes flit towards the rifle stand, looking for Barney. Barney won't let anyone hit him. He's always saying that he's the only one who gets to hit him. He can't see Barney. He scans the people desperately, but Barney isn't at any of the rifle stations, and he isn't standing to the side watching other shooters. Where is he? Clint pulls at his jacket, trying to get out of the boy's hold, but the grip is strong. He swivels his head and looks all over. Where's Barney? He said he wasn't leaving! Clint starts struggling for real, and calls out for his brother, but the boy lifts his hand and Clint pulls his head down, tries to make himself as small as possible. Just as the downward swing of the hand begins, a sharp shout rings out and the boy looks up, startled. A moment later he's running, zigzagging between people, disappearing in the crowd.
For a moment Clint is sure it's Barney who has come to his rescue, but then a woman kneels next to him.
"Hey, sweetie." Her hand comes to rest lightly on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
Clint just nods, his heart still in his mouth.
"Where are your parents? Little boys shouldn't roam around on their own in a place like this."
"Not on my own," he mumbles and brushes his palms against his jacket to get rid of the gravel and sand. They hurt and his eyes start to sting. He looks over at the rifle stand again. No Barney anywhere.
The woman leans closer. "Sorry?"
"I'm not on my own. I'm with my brother," he says louder.
"Where is your brother, then?" She brushes the dust of Clint's sleeve.
"I don't know," he says, and he feels his lower lip start to wobble. He bites down on it. Big boys don't cry.
"It's okay," she says. She points at the ground. "Is that your cotton candy?"
He sniffs and nods.
"Know what?" She gives him a reassuring smile. "I'll buy you another one, and then we'll go look for your brother. Sounds good?"
That does sound good, so Clint nods again. Then, because it's rude not to answer, he says, "Yes. Thank you."
As they wait in line for the cotton candy she looks down at Clint. "What's your name, darling?"
"Clint."
She smiles warmly at him. "Such a sweet name." She pays for the cotton candy and hands it to him. "Nice to meet you, Clint."
The cotton candy is blue this time and she laughs with delight when he stuffs his whole mouth full. When he has eaten it all, she offers her hand for holding, and Clint takes it.
"I see my husband." She points further down the lane. "He'll help us look for your brother." She hurries through the crowd with him in tow. Clint holds on as best he can.
"Darling!" she calls. They come to a stop in front of a man. He's got what Dad calls hippie hair. Clint sees black dirt under his nails. Mommy always checks his and Barney's nails to make sure they're clean. "Look what I found," she says and runs a hand over Clint's hair. "He was wandering around all by himself."
Clint looks up, because her tone suddenly doesn't sound right. Her grip tightens, and he doesn't know why, but suddenly he wants to pull his hand away, wants to go find Barney on his own. But she bought him a new cone of cotton candy to replace the one he dropped, and Daddy always tells him to not be so ungrateful, so when she doesn't let go, he stops pulling.
"Isn't he precious," she purrs.
"Absolutely precious," the man agrees and takes Clint's other hand.
Clint glances up and sees them exchange a look over his head.
Their smiles make him think of shark teeth.