ANTITYPE

JUNE ~ DECLAN

They blink.

I can’t count the number of eyes opening and closing in unison as I turn in a slow circle, hands fisted, but they stare back at me. Nervous where they used to be delighted. Anxious instead of thrilled. You can’t hide in here forever, they say. Don’t be a coward.

The judgment cast at me is my own, bounced off several lengths of mirrored glass in a seemingly endless room. Red-tinted reflections surround me on all sides and camouflage the way out. I never should have come in here. Attempting to put off meeting Dad as if I’m eight instead of eighteen. What had been the point? I wasn’t going to find my backbone in here anymore than I would out there. This place has lost all its magic.

The carnival used to be our place, which is why I asked him to meet me here. Rides. Circus acts. Fun houses. Food tents ranging from powdery to fried to decadent. This used to be the night Dad left work at home, and we’d walk and talk, man-to-boy, and later, man-to-man. He’d ask me questions and actually listen to the answers. He’d give advice and we’d joke around and laugh. We’d end the night watching the final act: women dancing in scant clothing, wearing feather headdresses.

This year is different. This year I’m “a man with certain responsibilities.” Dad is going to hate my choice, but that doesn’t make my decision any less important. He’s the one who taught me to stand up for what I want. To fight for it until blood spilled. So why can’t I face him and fight for this?

A shadow moves behind me, a dark ghost cast in every reflection. A young woman inches her way into the space, cleaning fingerprints off the mirrors as she goes. Her dark hair is cut chin length and tucked behind one ear.

She realizes she isn’t alone, startles, and stops. Her head tilts in a way that forces her untucked hair to hang over one eye and hide half her face. She avoids my eyes, looking at everything but me. “I’m sorry, sir. I was told no one was in here.”

Probably because I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes, and anyone else would have made his or her way through a long time ago. “It’s okay.”

The woman lifts a shoulder to shift the tickling ends of hair off her cheek. In that one second I understand why she’s hiding. A long scar runs diagonally over her eye. It wouldn’t surprise me if she were half-blind, because who would pay to repair the damage to a woman not meant for marriage? A carnival job is the perfect place to hide what’s happened to her.

I start to ask if there’s some way I can help her. My father wants me to ignore the inside dealings of the women’s training centers, or WTCs, but that’s impossible when facing this woman. Then again, she will probably refuse the offer; I’ve seen it a thousand times. I can’t blame her. I might want something in return. If I were another sort of man.

I palm the back of my neck and rub the tension building to a crescendo there. “I was just leaving. Can you point me to the exit?”

She points, head bowed, and I follow the corridor lined in diagonal stripes the color of fire. I swallow my growing guilt with every step. I can’t save everyone, can I?

Outside in the near-stifling heat of the summer evening, I maneuver around children and parents posing for fun-house mirrors. The air is thick with the scents of sugar and butter and grease. The light breeze carries the muffled sound of screams from carnival rides that flash blue and yellow and red in the distance.

The merry sounds don’t end as I turn a corner into a gaming area. Bright lights under angled roofs highlight the red-and-yellow-striped virtual-reality spheres. Friends and family gather outside to watch a projected 3-D hologram airing every detail happening inside. Most VR spheres are set up with war games: running and shooting enemies in extreme temperatures made possible by unfixed floors and controlled air pressure. Other spheres provide more intellectual stimulation, like crime solving. Some are simply there for fun: dancing or floating.