Delroy Cowpoke said, “Not tonight, you don’t, darlin’. I won’t be having my bikers shot at, even if you ain’t packin’ real heat. You’ve left us no choice but to make this citizen’s arrest.”
He walked Thrope, kicking and screaming, directly into the UnHappies Jail. Mega-Joan lifted her mouthpiece again as Delroy threw Thrope into Happies purgatory. Mega-Joan announced, “Annette Thrope, be advised that Delroy Cowpoke and I are responsible for the safety of our Happies, and we won’t have them, or their prized figurines, put in danger. Not even by a former Miss Happies.”
“An honor to be shot at by a Miss Happie,” the motorcycle dude with the defiled Miss Happie doll said to Thrope as he rode his bike past her in the UnHappies Jail. “But not cool.”
Delroy took a second set of handcuffs and attached one side to the jail bar in the open-air cell. Then he unlocked Thrope’s cuffs, loosened one of her hands, and latched the free side of her cuffs to the second pair to allow her to move around. She was still attached to the jail cell, but at least only one of her hands was bound. The Happies were such compassionate wardens, but Thrope had no appreciation. With her free hand, Thrope took a mighty swing at Delroy, but he ducked just in time. Delroy laughed. “Feisty, aren’t you?”
Thrope burned. “I will sue you! Ruin you!”
Delroy said, “You do whatever you need to do tomorrow. Tonight, Happies belongs to the Happies. Just till sunrise, darlin’. Then we’ll set you free.”
She didn’t respond, but glared at me. I wasn’t even trying not to gloat. I was thrilled to let my face show it. Thrope sneered, “Enjoy your fun now, Victoria.” She paused for dramatic effect, like a teacher about to announce an unnecessarily spiteful pop quiz. “By morning, your besties won’t be your besties anymore. It’s a promise.”
I don’t know why I couldn’t resist the invitation to engage her. But what could she do to threaten me now that she was locked up in the UnHappies Jail for the night? “Why’s that?” I asked, damningly overconfident as usual.
Thrope smirked. “Because I own part of your group now. Don’t believe me, Victoria? Just ask Mercedes. Your stupid Cuddle Huddle is dead, and you don’t even know it.”
Elation: Thrope was locked up for the night. Bummed: I’d lost Jake to Bandita (and his fury over the destruction of the Chug Bug). Relief: The Chug Bug hadn’t exploded! Unsettled: The weirdness between me, Slick, and Fletch. Sweet: Zeke was still by my side.
My emotions had been bounced around all night like a soccer mom off her antidepressants. With Thrope in UnHappies Jail, at last I thought I might be winning this night (mostly). I was hella tired, but wanting to finally enjoy my own party. I was almost ready to take Zeke’s advice to believe in magic, except for the seed of doubt that master manipulator Thrope had planted in my head.
“Do you know what she was talking about?” I asked Zeke as we walked up Main Street toward the Badlands, where a significant contingent of the party had gravitated, at least based on the noise factor and floodlight strobes coming from that direction and the sweet, mouth-watering smell of roasting marshmallows. Fire safety be damned. Gimme gimme gimme. Hungry hungry hungry.
Zeke said, “Thrope? Nope.” Pause. “Hey, dope rhyme!”
“Tell that to whoever runs against Thrope for mayor this fall. Perfect slogan. Thrope? Nope, Dope!”
“I bet she’ll run unopposed.”
“True. Being locked up for a night in UnHappies Jail will probably help more than harm her campaign. She’ll be like a vigilante hero to the few voters who bother to cast ballots.”
I wanted to party. I wanted to eat. I wanted to put Thrope’s taunt out of my head. But I couldn’t. I had to find my friends and figure out what was going on.
“Do you have a signal on your phone?” I asked Zeke.
“I have a decent signal, but only two percent battery power left.”
“Please use your remaining juice to text Slick and Fletch and ask them to meet at the Ghost Cemetery?”
“Done.”
The legend goes that when the Native Americans and Mexican Army joined forces to slaughter the Union Army who were sleeping on the grounds of what later became Rancho Soldado, the attackers were surprised by an initial line of defense that was of the four-legged variety. The American battalion had traveled with a pack of German shepherds who stood guard at their campsites. The dogs howled, but it was too little warning, too late. The dogs were the first to die. They were the only combatants to receive proper burials. After the savage battle that left the entire American battalion dead, the attackers left the gruesome human remains for the coyotes and wolves, and for the next wave of encroaching Americans to find once searchers reached the site. But the dogs were given respectful burials, in the land that later became the Ghost Cemetery at Happies.
It was a mythological place to any kid in Rancho Soldado, because it was where our parents told us our pets were buried after they were put to sleep at the end of their lives (or when they disappeared). As far as Slick, Fletch, and I knew, the Ghost Cemetery was the final resting ground for the only creatures we loved more than each other: Slick’s rabbit, Fletch’s doggies, and my turtle. It was a blatantly sentimental choice of meeting place, but I knew they wouldn’t question it. They’d show up.
To get there, I first had to go through the Badlands, a fake-engineered area of clay-colored slopes and faux volcanic rock formations. I could smell the roasting marshmallows, but I couldn’t locate them, and I was too distracted for a proper search mission.
A mini-party was happening around a former teapot ride that used to tip kids of all ages into fake quicksand. That ride had been my dad’s favorite. He used to say the sand was soft and warm and it felt like falling into a heavenly cloud. A Nirvana song blasted from a portable device attached to portable speakers, and people were moshing in the middle of the sand, kicking it, throwing it, jumping in it. Just next to the quicksand, Troy Ferguson was dangling upside down from a tree branch that looked like it was about to break off from his weight, while his drunk friends were egging him to do a backflip into the quicksand: “Swing! Swing!”
Nearby, Olivier Farkas had apparently deposited passed-out Amy Beckerman onto a boulder, leaving him free to threaten Emerson Luong with hostile male shoulder bumps. “You’d better not have given any of those Jell-O shots to Genesis Fletcher, asshole. If those shots were laced with any chemical crap stronger than gelatin, I will personally beat the living shit out of you. Is that why Amy Beckerman is passed out right now? Is it, Emerson?”
Emerson bravely tried to hold his own, but Olivier was like twice his muscle mass. Emerson said, “Amy Becker-barf is passed out because of all the tequila and vodka she mixed into the fucking soft-serve machine, Olivier! And if Genesis would rather hang out with me than you tonight, I promise you the Jell-O shots had nothing to do with it!”
Bold words. Big mistake. Full-on fistfight.
Emerson was out flat in a one-two punch.
Zeke stepped over to Olivier. “Stand down, dude. You win this testosterone round. Now hang back and get some rest.”
For a second I feared for Zeke’s safety (while applauding his bravery), but then a very exhausted Olivier conceded. “Okay,” Olivier grunted, wiping his tired eyes.
Olivier started to head in the direction of Main Street again. “By Amy’s side!” I clarified.
Olivier stomped his foot like a whiny child. Then said, “Okay. Fuck.”
“First go find some ice for Emerson’s face,” Zeke told Olivier.
“God you two are bossy!” said Olivier. But he found a Happie with an ice chest, and took it to Emerson, still feebly lying on the ground.
“Let’s move on,” I said to Zeke. “Quickly.”
Zeke and I walked to the other side of the Badlands, dodging spindly cactus trees, ’shrooming classmates, and fornicating Happies (middle-aged people copulating: even grosser than Amy Becker-barf’s soft-serve trail). We found Olivier’s fellow jocks hanging out by the bumper cars in a f
ield behind the exit to the Badlands. “Epic party, Vic!” cried out Jamila Beshara. She was standing on top of a bumper car turned on its side. Upon closer inspection, almost all the bumper cars in the area were either rolled onto their sides or smashed into each other, and every one of them was covered by grass and weeds. Jamila opened her arms wide to lord over the landscape. “I’m the queen of the world!” she announced with an endearing lack of originality, to cheers from the jocks sitting sideways in the cars.
“Jamila,” I called, “I declare you fire marshal for the Badlands for the rest of the night. Unless it involves marshmallows that someone seriously needs to bring me this second, make sure no one tries to start a fire, will you?”
“Let it go, let it go!” Zeke the musical Elsa serenaded me. “Just relax already.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“You can. You won’t,” said Zeke.
From behind Jamila, Avery Freeman, who’d been voted Pyro Most Likely to Light Up the World at prom, flicked a lighter menacingly. “Hunggrrryyyy,” Avery said. “Want fire badly.”
Too much booze tonight, too little food to absorb it, just as I’d feared.
I told Zeke, “All these drunk people swinging from trees and swinging at each other. Too many lighters and matches and dumbfucks who probably think they can put a campfire out by just tamping it down with their shirts. No one to run crowd control, no food to soak up the alcohol—”
“Pizza emergency,” Zeke interrupted. “I volunteer to make the run.”
To be clear, Zeke often invoked pizza emergencies. And while his offer would only address one of my problems, it was a huge help, and I was hugely grateful to the huge-hearted boy. I took my debit card from my wallet and gave it to Zeke. “The PIN is my house number address. Be sure to get a vegan option. Bless you.”
“Anything for you, General Navarro,” Zeke said. “But just to let you know, I could almost accept a meatless pie, but a cheeseless pizza just breaks my fucking heart.” He took off.
“Defy defy defy!” said the voice of Evergrace Everdell, who was lying on her back on top of one of the bumper cars, stargazing next to Bao Ling. Slurring her words, Evergrace said, “I don’t accept General Navarro’s authority. I won’t adhere to any military industrial complex inside Happies tonight.”
Bao Ling suddenly sat up. She raised a beer bottle in salute to me. “Don’t mind Evergrace. She had her first beer tonight. She’s a little wonky now.”
“First five beers!” Evergrace said, and hiccupped. She looked at me and then frowned. “The beer hasn’t made me fonder of you, Victoria. You still look like an annoying know-it-all. I have no idea why Mercedes clings so hard to you.”
“You don’t know me, or my friends, so I’d suggest shutting the fuck up,” I said to Evergrace. It was silly to argue with a drunk person, but I couldn’t not respond to some homeschooled everbitch who had the audacity to challenge my friendships with Slick and Fletch when she’d never even been on school grounds long enough to witness the deep and profound connection I shared with them. Since kindergarten.
“You don’t know your friends,” said Evergrace.
Bao Ling said, “I like you, I guess, Vic. But the Cuddle Huddle is old news. A fraud. We’re taking custody of Mercedes away from you.”
Evergrace said, “We’d snag the other one, too, but she’s taking off for Africa.”
“I hardly think you’re in a position to tell me who my friends are and aren’t,” I said to Evergrace. But I felt a sense of dread. Something was going on, and it seemed like the people I disliked most at this party—Evergrace and Thrope—knew about it.
“I guess you have a nasty surprise coming from the Cuddle Huddle,” said Evergrace.
And then she puked on my shoes.
The Happies caravan supply machine had clearly passed through the Ghost Cemetery long before I arrived. There were portable standing lanterns randomly placed throughout, with flickering candles inside them that lit my way as I walked. The lighting was a nice touch. Why didn’t I ever travel with candles on hand for impromptu cemetery nights?
Mary and Ernesto Happie had reportedly buried their own family’s pets in the Ghost Cemetery. I saw that their tradition had been carried on long after the theme park was closed, as I trampled across grave markers with dates inscribed within the past few years, and referencing pet names that would not have been likely during the Happies park era.
RIP, YEEZUS-DOG. YOU WERE A #SMITHFAMILYBLESSING.
FURREVER IN OUR ♥S, KITTY GAGA.
WE’LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU, TAYLOR NOT-SWIFT.
My turtle! Dear, sweet Taylor Not-Swift! She died soon after Mom left. I never really believed Dad had buried her here, but he had!
I’d spent most of my life believing the Happies theme park was a forbidden place, where only graffiti artists or drunken kids trespassed, but it was clear to me now that many people had been coming through here, and often. Even my dad! Maybe this was where he’d gone to mourn, or just be alone, when being Mr. Mom got to be too much for him.
Why had I been such a coward to never come see this place for myself? I promised myself I’d be more adventurous in the future. A trespasser. Fearless. Lighting my own way and not waiting on others to do it ahead of my arrival.
The Happies Ghost Cemetery was organized like a miniature golf course where you went from hole to hole, but instead of fake castles and moats, you passed through headstones, mausoleums, and benches where a person could sit and ponder life, death, and whether that overconsumption of Happies’ burgers, fries, milk shakes, and RASmatazz pies was going to forcibly come out of your mouth or your butt. I nearly tripped over a plaster cast of a giant gypsy woman’s head, tipped on its side. Some smart-ass had painted a thin stream of blood from the side of her mouth. I assumed the head belonged to Madame Svetlana, the once glass-encased, animatronic fortune-teller who predicted the death dates of generations of morose Happies seeking her counsel. Just past Madame Svetlana, I spotted the backs of Fletch and Slick, sitting on a small boulder.
There was finally a little wind, noticeably cooling the air, but it wasn’t strong enough to account for the loud howling noises emanating from an unknown location within the cemetery perimeter. Were these grounds truly haunted? As a whoosh of white noise felt like it cut through my body, I could definitely be counted as a believer. “Hey!” I called to Fletch and Slick. I was as frightened to face them as I was by the howling, and the knowledge that I was traipsing on sacred burial ground.
Evergrace Everdell didn’t know what she was talking about. The homeschooled girl was a known anarchist. What could she possibly know that I didn’t about my most important friendships? I reached my BFFs and stood in front of them. I said, “Evergrace Everdell, of all people, said you have some big news for me.” Why am I hearing that from her first? I didn’t say. This whole situation was so stupid. Really what I should have been announcing was the amazing discovery of Taylor Not-Swift’s final resting place.
Fletch wrinkled her nose. “Have some buried animals risen from the dead? You smell like you just stepped through dog shit.”
I said, “No. Evergrace Everdell barfed on my shoes. But thanks for the warm welcome.”
Fletch said, “That Evergrace is full of surprises tonight, for a girl who never showed up to school except for extracurricular activities.”
“Everbitch also owes me fifty bucks for a new pair of shoes,” I said.
Fletch said, “She could get you paid, because guess what? She’s got a job now. Wait’ll you hear this one.”
Fletch looked accusingly at Slick, who then looked guiltily at me. Slick said, “I just finished telling Fletch. I’m moving to Las Vegas.”
Yeah. Okay. This was good news for Slick, I supposed, but it didn’t feel like a big reveal, either. With Slick’s typical laziness, it could take months, or years, before Slick evolved out of her basic inertia and got past the idea to actually moving to Las Vegas. Like, with all her stuff, and not just going there for a quick
trip to see if her fake ID worked at the Bellagio hotel bar.
“That’s awesome,” I said, trying to be encouraging. “You should try new places. You don’t always have to be stuck here.”
Fletch said, “Oh, she’s definitely not stuck here.”
Oh, Slick had a reveal alright. She announced: “I got an apartment. My parents cosigned it last week. The lease starts first of July. I’m going to be roommates with Bao Ling and Evergrace Everdell. Thrope helped us get hotel jobs.”
“WHAT?” I yelled.
“Right?” said Fletch to me.
I felt beyond betrayed. Slick must have known for a long time about these plans, and she’d never once given so much as a hint. A huge part of her life had played out over the past few months without her including us in any of it, and aided and abetted by Public Enemy Number One: Thrope.
I said, “It’s like you want to cut us out of your life.”
“Because I have other friends?” Slick asked. “That’s absurd—”
“No,” Fletch interrupted. “Because you didn’t include us in any stage of this big plan. It’s like you’ve been leading a double life. What you do with us—”
“And everything else,” I finished.
“That’s because I don’t trust you two!” Slick let out.
There was a stunned silence, broken only by deeper howling noises coming up from the ravine. I couldn’t imagine how Slick could have hurt us worse.
“You don’t trust us? What did we do?” Fletch finally said, very low and calm, which meant she was on the verge of eruption. Traditionally the steadiest member of our group, Fletch also had the most volatile temper once her calm reached its tipping point.
Slick held up her phone and hit play on a video on the screen. “I found this on Jake’s phone and sent it to mine.” Fletch and I looked closely. It was a montage of images from the Happies restaurant security cameras. There was Jake, flirting with pretty, besotted girls at the cashier booth. There was Jake, feeling up the attractive lady who delivered the produce to Happies every morning, in the back parking lot. There was Jake, making out with Fletch on the DDR platform in the game room. There was Jake, with me, in the freezer room, about to…