It’s nine o’clock Saturday night and a TV news van—Channel 8—is parked next door. The reporter holds a microphone to Fire-Eating Charlie’s mouth.
“I’m glad it’s gone,” he says. “That elephant could have killed somebody.”
“No,” I whisper. “Queenie Grace wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
Mary the Bearded Lady comes outside, and the microphone moves to her.
“I liked that elephant,” she says. “And I’m sorry that she’s gone. You should interview little Lily over there. . . .”
She points at me.
“She’s related to the elephant,” Mary says. “Queenie Grace has been with Lily’s grandfather for a long time.”
The reporter, a snazzy slick woman in a business suit and heels, bustles briskly across the yard. A guy hoisting a TV camera follows. The reporter comes up to me, shoves the microphone in my face.
“What’s your name?” she asks. Her lipstick gleams bright red.
“Lily,” I say. “Lily Rose Pruitt.”
“How old are you?” the lady asks.
“Twelve.” I blink. The lights are blinding me.
“Do you live here?
“No, I’m just visiting. I live in West Virginia. I came for my grandpa’s . . . funeral.”
“And what do you think of the elephant?”
“I love her,” I say.
“Do you wish you could get her back?” asks the lady.
I just nod. I can’t say much, because I’m swallowing tears. There’s no way I want to cry on TV.
“Are you glad you came? Do you like it here, in Gibtown?”
I just shrug.
In a way, I’m glad I came. I learned to love an elephant, and I made a new best friend who’s really cool. I got to spend some time with my grandma, and I figured out that Trullia will never change. But in a bigger way, I’m all weighted down with guilt.
I never should have come here. I never should have come. I should have just stayed home where I belong, and none of this ever would have happened.