Joyland

Money mattered to him. I never got the sense it completely owned him, but yes, it mattered to him a great deal.

"You're going to school on a wing and a prayer, same as Erin and me, and working at Joyland isn't going to land any of us in a limousine. What's wrong with you? Did your mother drop you on your head when you were a baby?"

"Take it easy," Erin said.

He paid no attention. "Do you want to spend the fall semester next year getting up early so you can pull dirty breakfast dishes off a Commons conveyor belt? You must, because five hundred a semester is about what it pays at Rutgers. I know, because I checked before lucking into a tutoring gig. You know how I made it through freshman year? Writing papers for rich fratboys majoring in Advanced Beerology. If I'd been caught, I could have been suspended for a semester or tossed completely.

I'll tell you what your grand gesture amounted to: giving away twenty hours a week you could have spent studying." He heard himself ranting, stopped, and raised a grin. "Or chatting up lissome females."

''I'll give you lissome," Erin said, and pounced on him. They went rolling across the sand, Erin tickling and Tom yelling (with a notable lack of conviction) for her to get off. That was fine with me, because I did not care to pursue the issues Tom had raised.

I had already made up my mind about some things, it seemed, and all that remained was for my conscious mind to get the news.

15

The next day, at quarter past three, we were in line at Horror House. A kid named Brady Waterman was agenting the shy. I remember him because he was also good at playing Howie.

(But not as good as I was, I feel compelled to add.. strictly in the cause of honesty.) Although quite stout at the beginning of the summer, Brady was now slim and trim. As a diet program, wearing the fur had Weight Watchers beat six ways to Tulsa.

"What are you guys doing here?" he asked. "Isn't it your day off?"

"We had to see Joyland's one and only dark ride," Tom said,

"and I'm already feeling a satisfying sense of dramatic unity Brad Waterman and Horror House. It's the perfect match."

He scowled. "You're all gonna try to cram into one car, aren't cha?"

"We have to," Erin told him. Then she leaned close to one of Brad's juggy ears and whispered, "It's a Truth or Dare thing."

As Brad considered this, he touched the tip of his tongue to the middle of his upper lip. I could see him calculating the possibilities.

The guy behind us spoke up. "Kids, could you move the line along? I understand there's air conditioning inside, and I could use some."

"Go on," Brad told us. "Put an egg in your shoe and beat it."

Coming from Brad, this was Rabelaisian wit.

"Any ghosts in there?" I asked.

"Hundreds, and I hope they all fly right up your ass."

* * *

We started with Mysterio's Mirror Mansion, pausing briefly to regard ourselves drawn tall or smashed squat. With that minor giggle accomplished, we followed the tiny red dots on Joyland the bottoms of certain mirrors. These led us directly to the Wax Museum. Given this secret roadmap, we arrived well ahead of the rest of the current group, who wandered around, laughing and bumping into the various angled panes of glass.

To Tom's disappointment, there were no murderers in the Wax Museum, only pols and celebs. A smiling John F. Kennedy and a jumpsuited Elvis Presley flanked the doorway. Ignoring the PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH sign, Erin gave Elvis's guitar a strum. "Out of tu-" she began, then recoiled as Elvis jerked to life and began singing "Can't Help Falling in Love with You."

"Gotcha!" Tom said gleefully, and gave her a hug.

Beyond the Wax Museum was a doorway leading to the Barrel and Bridge Room, which rumbled with machinery that sounded dangerous (it wasn't) and stuttered with strobe lights of conflicting colors. Erin crossed to the other side on the shaking, tilting Billy Goat's Bridge while the macho men accompanying her dared the Barrel. I stumbled my way through, reeling like a drunk but only falling once. Tom stopped in the middle, stuck out his hands and feet so he looked like a paperdoll, and made a complete three-sixty that way.

"Stop it, you goof, you'll break your neck!" Erin called.

"He won't even if he falls," I said. "It's padded."

Tom rejoined us, grinning and flushed to the roots of his hair. "That woke up brain cells that have been asleep since I was three."

"Yeah, but what about all the ones it killed?" Erin asked.

Next came the Tilted Room and beyond that was an arcade filled with teenagers playing pinball and Skee- Ball. Erin watched the Skee-Ball for a while, with her arms folded beneath her breasts and a disapproving look on her face. "Don't they know that's a complete butcher's game?"

"People come here to be butched," I said. "It's part of the attraction."

Erin sighed. "And I thought Tom was a cynic."

On the far side of the arcade, beneath a glowing green skull, was a sign reading: