Winn

What if life were a musical?

If life was like High School the Musical, everyone would be infinitely energetic, musically inclined, and groovy. God, that would be fun. Y'know, seeing everyone sing and dance without so much as a thought to the weirdness of it. Yeah, it's a shapeless thought. But think about it, that would be like Jackson Browne and Valerie Carter performing together again.

Both are unrealistic.

Humans are judgemental.

And Valerie Carter is dead.

Anyways? That's a depressing thought.

At least Jackson Browne is still alive and well.

Quirking my lips while skimming over the ever-growing line, my smile grows wider. It always gets busy after six on Sundays. "What else can I get for y'all?"

"Clary? Hey, which one do you want?" The middle-aged mother bends her head down at a little kid who gleams up at me with a toothless smile.

"A strawberry one!" With a look from her mother, she adds, "Please," with a gigantic grin.

"Anything else?" I glance at the mother. With a shake of her head, I ring up the total, spin around, and grab two junior cups.

I think I live for these moments.

Yeah, that sounds right.

I live for moments of unrestricted enthusiasm and joy. Childish exuberance. It's reassuring not to consider the cons and feel through the moment. The kid is going to enjoy this treat. They're both going to smile. I'm going to smile. Paul gets another dollar for the lights. We get paid. Fizzy's, the best slushie place in town, gets to slush another day.

It's easier to think of glowing thoughts.

As Peter Pan would say, "Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Land!"

My grandmother loved reading me the fairy tales of Peter Pan. She always narrated with such enthusiasm that I always tried to mimic. I loved the way Gran could always make me–anyone smile. She always had a twinkle of wonder and mischief in her eyes. That must have been why kids loved her. In my opinion, she's the best kindergarten teacher to ever exists. She kept the adventures of Huck Finn, Treasure Island, and Winnie the Pooh captivated within me. We were Winnie and Kanga on an antic quest for fun, the highlights of my life then. All we needed was a little faith, trust, and pixie dust.

Thinking of all the good I do is like fuel for my flying car. It's my pixie dust, everything I need to fly away from this–real life.

Think happy thoughts, Winn.

Then, reality hits, and my optimism falters. The strawberry slushie has enough sugar to send a diabetic into a sugar coma, and this kid's teeth could rot out of her head if she doesn't brush.

Still sporting a bright smile, I hand the little kid the strawberry slushie. Her face radiates childish glee while the mother sends me a slight smile before guiding her kid toward the back. My eyes follow their tracks. I freeze. Familiar chestnut locks and stick straight posture greet my eyes in the back, the far back.

Isn't she supposed to be with Jack? Did Jack bail? Is he a no-show? Did he stand her up? Aren't those all the same things? What happened? Is she okay? What the hell, Jack? What happened to avoiding this situation? Kyle, we've made a mistake. Why did I listen to him at our meeting yesterday?

Rarely do any of Scramble's clients become a no-show. The process takes effort. You have to get a consult, read our material, and show up for yourself. I've only had three people go awol in my four years with Scramble. Two of the three had panic attacks. The other had to have emergency surgery.

Then, where's Jack? Jack seemed thrilled when I discussed the different profiles with him. He wanted real connections. That's what he said, at least.

God, what's wrong? She looks so blank. Like blanker than she usually does. How is that even possible?

Biting my lip, I glance at the time—ten more minutes. With an aggravated sigh, I plop myself back into the present, greeting the next in line with a beam of a grin. A blue raspberry slushie, a coke, a plain hotdog, a limeade slushie, a grape slushie with nerds, two chili dogs with mustard, a green apple slushie, a peach slushie, and finally, a blood orange slushie speed out the line.

I snatch the blue cap off my head and retreat to the back store room where the fluorescents blink worse. The steel-red locker, one of the five back here, opens with a bang and a tug. Grabbing my backpack from the space, I jerk out a pen, a sticky note, and a dollar fifty.

Willing myself to not run up and squeeze the life out of her, I deposit the cash in the register, leave the change, and grab a small cup from the stack. My fingers grip the green pen as I scrawl on the paper and slap it against the chilled cup.

God, what did Jack say? Did he even come? Why wasn't I watching?

I know the answer to the last one. Watching is weird, intrusive, and rude.

But I already rubbed my nose in that turd. I offered Natalie the job, sent her Jack's profile, and told Kyle she was a new recruit yesterday. I shouldn't get closer to help or pin emotions here. She didn't ask for another responsibility, the job, or for Scramble to come spiraling into her life. It's too late to reconsider. I'm being a useless time waster.

"What's hopping, Natalie?" My blue Fizzy's tee slash uniform crinkles as I slide into the seat across. My thoughts creep to a standstill at a cavern ahead. They cannot cross here. Not until they find a creative solution. They always do.

Natalie stares at me, straight-faced, her eyes unmoving from the sun-cussed window. The way her hands pass through her hair to the glaze in her eyes compels me to hug her, but I stop myself. I lean forward, speaking instead. "Did Jack come?"

She nods, mouth parting as she inhales sharply, seemingly unaffected by the action. "He did." Jack ditched? Like Natalie, my shoulders tense under the pressure of my thoughts. Why would he do that? How did he feel when he left? Did he rub Natalie the wrong way? What happened?

Sucking my questions into a vacuum, I nod, suffocating my urge to jump up and embrace Natalie's rigid figure. She looks so sad if that's even the right word. Depressed? Gloomy? Disappointed? Annoyed even? "Do you want to talk about it?" As I continue, hushing my voice, I catch Price risk a glance our way. They relay the message to Paul, probably rambling about another one of my regular sessions of watching people cry. No, not in a bad way. People just talk... and cry.

Natalie's eyes harden into what I'd like to call a "pre-glare", and her jaw visibly tightens. "No." Her voice rings flat and monotone, but a layer of venom fills the backdrop. "I should go." With a hand clutched around a blue handbag, her knuckles lighten. Natalie rises from the booth, her lips pinched and her shoulders rigid.

"I got you this!" I blurt, shoving the slushie in her hand.

Natalie's eyes freeze on mine. She blinks, a glare sinking into her features. "Goodbye, Winn."

Swallowing thickly, my thoughts, sadly, construct a bridge over the crack. Natalie didn't need my spontaneity, desperation, or feelings. I knew she didn't like Scramble, at least not much. But I listened to the irrational voice bleeping inside my head, following my heart flutters. I asked the burning question I held for months. God, just why? Just why?

I gave her a new problem.

At least ditchers get fissures.

The beat of my heart thrums in my ears. The sound blows away as Natalie starts her Volvo, and I stomp to my bucket of bolts, revving my engine.

I shouldn't have given her the flyer.

My hand passes over the top of my head. Instead of running through a shock of rusty brown hair, I'm forced to rub the base of my ear. Glancing at the backseat, I toss my backpack into the rear next to my guitar and speed out of the lot, avoiding the meandering fair-slash-tourist people.

No, this is alright. This is purely diplomatic. This is great, actually. This is great.

Shoving eight quarters in a pay toll, I slam my door, letting the crisp breeze rush past me and my most beloved, my guitar. An easy grin brushes my lips. It's too easy to smile, to fake it. The look is so practiced. I could smile while I sleep, eat, drive, work, talk, and die...

...talk, and walk.

After high-fiving two OG Scramble reps, I drag a yellow barstool to the front of the booth. My gaze drifts across the venue, finding people. Just people who are here to have a great time. Who wouldn't want to be at the fair? There's food and lights and rides and laughter. Pure magic. All except the Ferris wheel.

Got it. I'm a buzz kill.

Taking my guitar from my case, I select one of my many green picks and tuck my capo along the first fret. My pointer and middle finger press on the third fret, and E minor strikes first, ringing in my ears. It's then I know I'll be here for a hot minute. Until I know my mind is settled, ready for what awaits me at the house.

As my fingers dance across the neck of my guitar and my gaze sweeps over the crowd, I can't touch the shadows lurking. My chest bubbles in familiar exuberance, and my mind soars through the clouds.

Think happy thoughts, Winn.