Chapter Thirty-One

Trista at Sea Bottoms

My fake smile fell. I counted the blasts again as the music erupted once more into the same, clear halting pattern. There was no doubt about it. It was an SOS.

“She’s in there!” I screamed to Grace. “Trista’s inside the Root Beer float!”

Grace’s face twisted in shock, then she whirled toward the small TV monitor in front of us. Lauren Sparrow’s image filled the tiny screen as she gripped the remote control and waved it at the camera playfully.

“Better keep your eyes on the road, Lauren!” Mr. Diaz yukked it up. “You’ve got a whole marching band ahead of you.”

I squinted down the sloping hill of the parade route. The paved road curved gently to the left at the bottom, not far from the jagged cliffs jutting above the ocean. Panic bolted through me as I realized what Lauren Sparrow might have in store.

“The bluffs!” I shrieked. “The floats have to turn before the bluffs, Grace! What if . . .” I pictured the Root Beer float rolling straight past the turn, plowing through the dusty lookout point, and tumbling right over the cliff’s edge.

Grace grimaced. “I know!” she shouted back as The Royal Court shot us nasty looks between their waving and smiling. The crowd beamed and cheered cluelessly as a skywriter dotted the perfect blue sky above them with a HAPPY WINTER SUN FESTIVAL! greeting.

Lauren Sparrow couldn’t be that crazy. Could she?

I looked toward the bluffs again. They looked red in the noon sun. Crazy or not, we couldn’t risk it. I whirled around to Grace and reached out my hand, palm down. “On three. Ready?” She nodded and slapped hers on top of mine. “Break!” I shouted. We flung up our arms and dashed to opposite sides of the float, dodging Danica and Denise as they stared at us in horror.

I grabbed one of the dolphin’s fins and leaned over the side of the float. The asphalt below rolled by in a blur. We weren’t moving fast. Just a few miles an hour. But the cut of my dress made it impossible to jump.

The float rocked, and I turned to see Grace leap over the side, her dress billowing behind her like a parachute. I glanced back at the announcer’s booth and my heart stopped.

Lauren Sparrow was gone.

Mr. Diaz and Ms. Hoffman were grinning, flipping through their notes to comment on the next entry.

Did she still have the remote?

I wasn’t about to wait to find out. I leaned over, hiked up my dress, and stuffed its ends into my pantyhose, Grace-style. At least I wasn’t wearing Wonder Woman underwear. The top folds of the dress bloused back around me like a puffy miniskirt, thankfully. I sucked in a deep breath, then sprang off the float through one of the ocean “waves” of white flowers, bending my knees to cushion the short drop.

Then, I ran. I ran past Neptune’s silvery trident pointing ahead. I ran past the marching band, the saxophone players looking at me out of the corner of their eyes as their cheeks puffed like fish. I know I must have run past my family in the bleachers, too. I cringed thinking about how I must’ve looked—dress half shoved in my stockings, ruining the whole Festival.

In my earpiece, I heard Mr. Diaz and Ms. Hoffman, papers rustling, uhing and aheming as they scrambled to say something. “Was this planned?” Mr. Diaz asked, his voice muffled, obviously thinking that he’d safely covered his microphone.

My lungs bursting, I strained to pick up my pace. Ahead of me the blue-and-white-striped uniform of the band’s leader marching was a hazy blur through my wind-stung eyes. His baton thrust upward as he kept time. I thought of the staffs we’d been practicing with in tai chi class, and a plan sprang into my muddled head. The baton was only half the length of our staffs. Still, my idea could work. If only I could get my hands on it in time . . .

Just then something soft caught my legs and sent me sprawling to the asphalt with a sharp sting. I winced and pushed myself onto all fours, only to find myself staring into a wild-eyed grin. Pookums. He panted back at me, thrilled, his tiny tiara off-kilter.

“Go back! Back to Kendra!” I stood up and pointed, but he just danced around in his sparkly blue vest and yipped. The Root Beer float barreled on ahead of us, the wide blue ocean looming in the background behind it. I spotted Grace on the other side of the marching band, sprinting, chin high as she held her dress at her waist.

We didn’t have time for games. I faked out Pookums and made a break for the bandleader. The little puffball followed, barking and weaving his way through a line of bewildered trumpet players. They tried to step clear, their legs tangling. Seconds later, I heard a jumble of drooping trumpet notes and a crash of cymbals on pavement. I didn’t dare look back again. The crowd’s puzzled shouts joined the uproar as I zigzagged through the flute section and dashed behind the bandleader. I hesitated only a moment, then hopped onto my tiptoes and snatched his baton midthrust before charging onward like a football player headed for the end zone. The root beer mug towered ahead, right next to the red cherry that I’d nearly fallen off scaffolding to decorate. My skinned knees burned and I could barely breathe, but I was almost there.

“Folks, it looks like we have a little situation to clear up. Not to worry. Everything’s under control!” Mr. Diaz practically yelped. Then, in the background, he rasped to someone: “Where’d she go? She didn’t take the remote, did she?”

A piercing shriek rang out behind me. I glanced over one shoulder and saw Kendra tearing after Pookums, strands of blond hair from her former updo flapping around her face like wet party streamers. Her cries seemed to only push Pookums faster and farther away, like a leaf cartwheeling away in a gust of wind.

“Look at these Royals showing off their athletic talents,” Ms. Hoffman chimed in for cover. “An unusual choice for the anniversary year, but it sure is a memorable one.”

The spectators murmured skeptically. A stabbing pain split my side, but I pumped my arms harder and jetted past an acrobat doing handsprings and the fire-twirling clown on stilts. Finally, I approached the float. It was rocking from side to side as someone—it had to be Trista—pounded against the driver compartment hidden behind the cascading scoops of white cotton fake whipped cream on a sundae. The float’s Willard Ridley figure toward the back of the float swayed a little with each of the blows, his white grassy beard rattling like maracas.

“Hang on, Trista! We’ve got this!” I yelled, jogging to keep up with the black seaweed-covered wheels of the float thundering down the route. I hoped she could hear me even if I couldn’t see her.

“Next we have the Sheep Family Thrills float?” Ms. Hoffman’s hesitant soprano piped up. “Look at the fun those sheep are having on that Ferris wheel! Made of polyurethane foam and covered with onion seed, those cuties took twenty volunteers a solid week to decorate. . . . Er, is someone going to stop those girls?”

My plan was a long shot. I’d have to time my move just right. It was the best hope we had, though. I tightened my grip on the bandleader’s baton, made a wish on Grandpa Young’s dog tags, then sank low into Needle at Sea Bottom, thrusting the baton into the front right wheel’s spokes as smoothly as if it were a tai chi practice staff. A painful jolt ran down my funny bone as the baton twisted. Metal scraped and sparks flew—but the float squealed to a halt. Trista cheered just as Grace joined me, panting, her hair a wind-whipped mess.

The marching band behind us had melted into blue-and-white chaos. A wail of sirens kicked up, followed by the far-off roar of motorcycles. The float’s electric engine still whirred, begging to push forward. One slip of the baton and we would. I scanned the route ahead. The lead car and first float had already hung the left onto Vista del Mar, the Palominos clip-clopping after them. Rod and his crew strutted cluelessly onward in their white jumpsuits.

Trista’s wide eyes peered out at us through the fluffy carpet of white flowers that camouflaged the driver compartment just above the front wheel. “She bolted me in!” she shouted. “The door’s completely jammed.”

“We’re coming!” Grace hollered back, then turned to me. “You first,” she said, boosting me up over the wheel hub and onto the float. She hauled herself up after me, sending clumps of carnations flying. As Trista’s eyes bulged even wider, we both madly tore away the flowers hiding her compartment until we’d exposed the metal-grate door underneath. A wrench had been wedged—possibly even hammered—tightly through the steel loop of the door latch.

Grace and I looked at each other. If Lauren Sparrow was unhinged enough to lock Trista inside a parade float, who knew what else she’d be willing to do.

“Don’t worry. We’ve got this,” I called to Trista, hoping she didn’t hear the doubt lurking in my voice. Grace clutched the end of the wrench with both hands and tugged, the cords of her neck straining. It didn’t budge.

I should’ve known it wouldn’t be easy. If Trista couldn’t get herself out, we didn’t have much hope. I wrapped my hands over Grace’s, braced my foot against the float, and on the count of three, we both heaved as hard as we could. There was a bone-jarring screech of metal on metal, but the wrench only gave way a tiny bit.

“You need more leverage!” Trista called out.

We reached out to try again when suddenly something clanged and squealed beneath us. Grace toppled into me with a shriek as the float gave a single horrible lurch forward. We grasped at the metal grill of the compartment door as the float jolted again. Apparently, a baton was no match for a gajillion pounds of flowers, plastic, and chicken wire determined to barrel ahead.

Trista was breathing as heavily as we were.

“You got your inhaler, right?” I called in.

“It’s in my cargo jacket,” she answered calmly. “But as long as I don’t panic, I’m fine,” she added in a singsong, as if she’d been repeating the words to herself nonstop for the past half-hour. She probably had. “As long as I don’t think of these flowers, I’m”—she closed her eyes—“fine,” she finished.

I remembered her telling herself to take her allergy meds that morning, and I prayed she had. An image of her panicking in the refrigerated flower shed flashed before me. We had to get her out. Fast.

Grace and I eyed each other, then both hurried to yank the wrench again. Nothing. The float shuddered under us. Grace’s eyes went wide. It wasn’t until I heard the crowd gasp behind us that I realized that she wasn’t worried about the float rolling ahead. She was staring at something behind my right shoulder. I spun around to look.

I froze. The fire-twirling clown tottered on his stilts alongside the Root Beer float by the rear wheel. High above the road, concentrating on his spinning wheels of flame, he hadn’t noticed that Pookums Pritchard had just darted directly into his path.

Kendra ran close behind. In the meantime her up-do had fully unraveled. Her hair streamed behind her and her dress was torn. “Watch out!” she shrieked to the stilt walker, arms waving.

Startled, the man looked down to find Pookums running crazed circles in front of him, yipping up at his spinning fire sticks. He staggered to avoid the dog, flinging out one arm to regain his balance. Everything would have been fine, were it not for one small detail. His hand had grazed the side of the Root Beer float.

And in that hand was a flaming ring of fire.

There was a whoosh and crackle as flames leaped up from the cottony white foam of Willard Ridley’s root beer mug. My legs went numb.

Trista cocked her head at us. “Something wrong?” she asked.

In a minute she’d smell the smoke herself. In a minute it might be too late, anyway.

“Not yet,” I said, tugging at the wrench again. Grace looked back at the fire then back to me in panic. The flames had already raced up Willard Ridley’s arm and caught his grass beard. Black smoke spiraled up from his head, clouding the blue sky.

Another grating screech of metal split the air. Grace and I shrieked as this time the float rolled forward and kept rolling, careening around like a bad shopping cart as it slowly gained speed down the hill.

Trista locked eyes with us as we clung to the door. “I should have never fixed the pulse duration,” she said quietly. I had no idea what she meant until I remembered with horror why she’d worked on the Root Beer float that morning in the first place: it hadn’t been reaching its full speed. Who knew how fast it could go now.

The sirens wailed louder, closer. They had to reach us soon. Time had slowed down so much it felt like they never would. The rest of the parade dimmed around me, though I knew Brown Suiters had to be rushing toward us to help. The voices of Mr. Diaz and Ms. Hoffman in my ear had fallen silent.

I looked ahead. The last of the “Celebration”-blaring marching band was marching onto Vista del Mar. Nothing was in front of us. Just the road, the bluffs, and the wide, wide blue of the ocean waiting to swallow us.

“The police are coming any second, Trista!” Grace shouted, her voice hoarse. “Everything’ll be fine!”

Trista turned to us, her panicked eyes tearing up. She smelled the smoke. She had to have by now.

“Jump!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “You’ve got to jump off!”

My throat felt like it was closing. I knew she was right, but I tightened my fingers around the metal grate and leaned closer. Grace clutched my arm.

Trista frowned, trying to look stern despite tears running down her cheeks. “Keep your heads! Leave me! Now!”

Grace let out a sob. She looked toward the fast approaching bluffs and back to the fire. The sirens’ wails were finally closer. I prayed there was still some chance they could save her. Maybe a fire truck would zip right in front at the last second, blocking the way. Maybe the Brown Suiters could jam the wheels like I had. I could hear shouts and footsteps thundering toward us. People were trying to help. Maybe they really could.

I fumbled for the dog tags around my neck. I wanted Trista to have them. I needed Trista to have them. I reached them out. “Semper fidelis, friend,” I said, choking on the words. But just as I was about to shove them through the slats of the door, an idea came to me as bright and clear as the glint of the sun that caught in them.

“Help me, Grace!” I shouted as I looped the dog-tag chain around the wrench. Trista was right: we needed more leverage. Grandpa’s dog tags might be able to give it to us—and if Trista said they were indestructible, they were. I grasped the chain and leaned back with all of my weight. Grace wrapped her arms around my middle and leaned with me. The chain vibrated as it went taut. We rejoiced as the wrench slid back another good inch. Meanwhile, the float rocked as it bounced from the pavement onto the dusty lookout point.

“You don’t have time!” Trista shouted. Tears stained her cheeks as she pleaded with us to jump off.

“One more try,” Grace cried out as if she hadn’t heard Trista. We were so close—but the bluffs were too. We leaned back again, grunting as the chain cut into our fingers. A clang echoed out and I spilled backward into Grace. I looked down. The wrench was swinging from the end of the dog-tag chain I still clutched in my hands. We’d done it. We’d really done it.

The door crashed open and Trista burst out.

“What the heck are you waiting for?” she shouted, sweeping over us in a giant satiny-blue wave. She grabbed our hands and sprang from the float, tugging us overboard with her. I tumbled hard to the dirt and rolled. Clouds of dust billowed as the wheels of the float thundered by, fire streaming from its back end like flames from one of AmStar’s test rockets.

A second later it sailed over the jagged red bluff. We watched, breathless, as it seemed to hover in the air a moment—a flaming dragon against the bright-blue sky—before plummeting out of sight. A sickening crush of metal and rocks echoed up from below.

We stared at each other, dazed. Trista started to cry for real. Grace shakily rose to her feet and helped us up. Sobbing, Trista wrapped us in a hug so tight I wasn’t sure we’d ever come out of it again. I wasn’t sure I wanted to. My tears came then, too, fast and hot. Trista finally pulled back.

“You know, you’re still rocking that dress,” Grace said, smiling through her own tears.

“Thanks,” Trista said, sniffling. She wiped her cheeks. “Should’ve worn it with the jacket, though.”

I couldn’t tell if we laughed or sobbed then. The strange sound that came out of us was a cross of both. Seconds later, we heard the shouts of police and their boots crunching in the dust. Hordes of faces gathered around us. Red lights spun.

I don’t really know what happened next. All I remember is seeing Rod standing next to me like an angel in a white jumpsuit, carrying a kids’ skateboard that he must’ve used to race back to us. His face was creased with worry as he gazed at me. I can’t even imagine what I looked like, covered in dirt, dress hiked up, my hair a wild mess. I didn’t even care.

A police officer started toward him to clear him away, but Rod grabbed both my hands. “Are you all right, Sophie?” he said, his voice cracking.

I squeezed his hands and nodded back. I wished I could just stay there for a minute, staring into his eyes. “Listen,” I rasped, craning my neck to look back at the stands. Crowds had poured into the streets. “Barb Lund didn’t kill Steptoe.” My words poured out in a rush. “Sparrow did. And she locked Trista in that float.”

Rod’s eyes bulged. “I just saw her!” he cried out excitedly. He wheeled around and pointed up the hill past the throngs of people. “She was by those bleachers.”

Just then Officer Grady pushed his way through the crowd of midnight blue uniforms and over to us.

“You have to find Ms. Sparrow!” Grace shouted at him.

Officer Grady’s brow wrinkled in confusion. He patted Grace on the shoulder. “Listen now,” he said, gently. “You’ve had a shock. Ms. Sparrow is going to be just fine. You are going to be just fine.” He eyed our cuts and bruises then turned to call over some of the paramedics who’d already swarmed around Trista.

I looked at Grace. We didn’t have time to help Grady understand. “Quick,” I cried, grabbing Rod’s arm as I started up the hill. “Let’s go!”

We tore toward the bleachers, ducking through the surprised crowd. Scuffles and shouts rang out behind us as the police and paramedics chased after. My head throbbed as my feet pounded on the pavement. If we could just stay ahead of the police long enough to find Sparrow, we could lead them right to her.

I saw a flash of red in the stands and called out to Grace and Rod, only to realize it was a little boy clutching a stuffed animal. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Mr. Katz, his brown blazer tossed over one shoulder and his sleeves rolled up as he jogged toward us. I ran faster.

“There! On the sidewalk!” Rod hollered, pointing to a figure pushing upstream in the rubbernecking crowd, her coppery hair shining in the sun. It was Lauren Sparrow. It had to be.

She wasn’t gliding with pride. Not even close. Her body jerked and her hair flounced as she pushed past a dad pushing a stroller. She was headed directly for a gap between the stands.

“Split up and surround her!” Grace shouted, waving me to the left. I obeyed, dodging an elderly man with a cane and a middle-aged woman wearing a purple visor.

Lauren Sparrow must have heard Grace. She whirled around, her green eyes bulging as they met ours. Heavy boots pounded and radios blared behind us as we closed in. Sparrow darted panicked glances left and right, then tried to duck past several families clustered on the sidewalk. A kid waving a balloon animal stepped into her path, then a salesman pushed an ice cream cart past, unknowingly blocking her in. She stopped short and slumped in surrender.

She turned to us. Her hair fell over her face as she heaved a sob. The crowd backed away, bewildered as police officers skidded to a stop around us. They followed our eyes to Ms. Sparrow, then shot each other strange looks.

“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on here?” Officer Grady panted, hands on his hips.

“It’s all my fault. All of it,” Ms. Sparrow cried out suddenly, trembling. “I never meant to hurt anyone, ever. You have to believe me!” She held up her hands and stepped forward. Tears streamed down her swollen face and smeared her make-up. I hardly recognized the woman in front of me. She looked as if the winter sun were melting her down like a candle. Rod reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly.

The police officers turned questioningly to Grady, who seemed as baffled as they did. He looked at us, then back to the officers. “Take her in,” he said with a nod.