Daya rolls her lips. “Speaking of stalkers… are you not going to tell your mom about Zade?”
I shoot her a look. “That’s like asking if I’m going to tell her about how one time, I let a guy fingerbang me in the middle of a concert.”
She snorts. “Yeah, okay, you win that one.” Hesitation flashes across her green eyes, and I know the question that’s coming. I straighten my spine, preparing for it.
“He hasn’t said anything else about what he does for a living? Or why he’s involved with Mark?”
That last question right there is exactly why I can’t tell her who Zade is. He had said no one else knows about Mark and what he’s really involved in except the few people who assist him.
I shake my head, refusing to give voice to my lie.
Daya nods, accepting my answer without thought, and the guilt that resides within me is almost unbearable. I lied to her face, and she didn’t even question it.
She pours a shot of rum and hands it to me. “Here, this will cheer you up. Pregaming before a haunted carnival is like, law.”
I accept the shot and gulp it down. When I lower the glass, the smile is back on my face. Alcohol won’t cure the guilt, but at least I’m not mad about my mom calling me a prostitute anymore. She snorts when she sees my face.
“What do you think the haunted houses will be like this year?” she asks, patting some shimmery brown eyeshadow on her eyelid.
She’s going to look dangerous when she’s finished. The eyeshadow will bring out her sage green eyes to hazardous levels and attract all the monsters.
“I don’t know, it’s always hard to guess. It’s like trying to guess the next theme for American Horror Story.”
The houses in Satan’s Affair usually all follow the same theme. One year, most of the haunted houses were set up like prisons, and in each house, you had to figure out how to escape.
That’s still one of my favorite themes thus far. That was also the same year Daya peed herself.
She brings an extra change of clothes now, and I tease her every time.
“You ready?” she asks, swiping at her eyelashes one last time with her mascara wand.
“Girl, I was born ready. Let’s go pee-body.”
“Bitch,” she mutters, but I barely hear it over my evil cackling.
Satan’s Affair is one of my favorite places in the world. At night, the fair comes alive with laughter, peals of screams from terror and excitement, and moans of joy from the fried food.
Walking into the field full of haunted houses, carnival rides, and food trucks is like walking into pure static energy.
Daya and I immediately get sucked into the crowd. It’s five o’clock, pitch black already, and some of the monsters are already starting to trickle into the crowd.
My eye snags on a girl dressed up as a broken doll, sitting on the bench and happily eating a philly cheesesteak sandwich. I nearly groan, the scent of grilled meat making my mouth water.
I nudge Daya and point her out. “She’s dressed as a doll.”
Daya hums, and both of our eyes track over the houses. They’re not lit up yet, but some of them make it obvious what the theme is.
“Our childhood,” I murmur, noting the dollhouse dubbed Annie’s Playhouse alongside a house called the Tea Massacre. The entrance is a massive teddy bear with a missing eye, a torn ear, and blood splattered across its fur while a bloody knife is gripped in its hand.
It gives life to a memory from my own childhood, alongside millions of other little girls, sitting at a table full of stuffed animals and empty teacups.
That house won’t be a pleasant tea party, but one full of killer stuffed animals and creepy monsters.
“This is going to taint every single one of our childhood memories, isn’t it?” I conclude.
“Oh yeah,” Daya says, her lips twisted with both excitement and dread.
I grab Daya’s hand and lead her towards the food trucks. We like to eat first before we get harassed by monsters. It makes it awkward when a corndog is shoved halfway down my throat while a creepy monster is standing over me and breathing down my neck.
“What sounds good?” I ask, my eyes roving hungrily over the endless options.
“How can you even choose?” Daya whines, sharing my dilemma.
“We have to at least get a mean hot dog and the truffle fries. Oh! And the fried veggies. Oh, and maybe—”
“You’re not narrowing it down like you think you are,” Daya interrupts, her tone dry.
“Okay, fine. That broken doll over there is eating a philly steak. What about that and some fries for now?” I ask.
“Lead the way,” she says, throwing her hand out in an impatient gesture.
I don’t even laugh—I take food just as seriously when I’m hungry.
By the time the lady in the food truck is handing me my food, I’m ravenous and shaking with the need to sink my teeth into something of substance.
Grease sizzles on our fries as we shove them into our impatient mouths, forcing us to suck in air as they singe our tongues. And by the time we find an empty bench, my fries have already been devoured, and I’ve taken several delicious bites of my sandwich.
Daya’s even further done than I am—probably because the wench has been relying on me to find the spot to sit.
Finally, I sit down and shove the sandwich in my mouth, not caring about the juices dribbling down my chin.
In the back of my mind, I wonder if Zade is here. Watching me like he usually does. Would he be disgusted by my lack of manners?
I fucking hope so.
Then again, the prick would say something about how he likes me dirty, and then I’d want to vomit in his face.
Liar.
Just as we finish our food, the haunted houses come to life, the lights switching on and signaling that it’s time for guests to get in line.
Daya and I rush over to Annie’s Playhouse first, nabbing a spot pretty close to the front.
We’re leaning against the rails when an icy feeling tingles at the base of my neck, traveling down my spine. It feels like holes are being drilled into my back.
“Addie?” a voice calls from behind me along with a soft tap on my shoulder, just as I’m getting ready to turn around.
My eyes widen, and I whip around, coming face to face with Mark.
Oh, fuck me.
“Mark!” I exclaim in surprise, forcing a smile onto my face. I’ve never been very good at acting, especially when I have to pretend to be glad to see a pedophile standing behind me.
Make that four pedophiles.
With him is Claire, and three other elderly men. I vaguely recognize them, and assume they’re politicians of some caliber as well.
“What are the odds? I didn’t know you came here,” Mark says, his eyes consistently straying to Daya. “Who’s your friend?”
Daya smiles, though she doesn’t even try to make hers seem genuine. “Daya,” she answers for me.
Sensing her indifference, Mark flashes a tight smile. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you. Addie, these are my colleagues. Jack, Robert, and Miller.”
We exchange pleasantries, all the while inching up in the line.
“So where is Zack?” Mark asks, peering around me as if a man well over six feet would be hiding behind me.
“He went to find a bathroom,” I lie. I don’t know why I do, there’s no reason to. But I have a gut feeling that if Mark thinks Daya and I are here alone, that maybe he’ll pull something shady.