One of the coolest parts of my job is reuniting lost kids with their parents. It doesn’t happen too often or anything, but when it does, I feel like a superhero—which is why I’m not totally annoyed to be crouched down beside this very concerned little kid, doing little dances and wiggles to make him laugh while park security finds his parent.
“Why are you a hot dog?” he asks, when he stops crying long enough to catch his breath. And I don’t know how to answer that. I want to say something wise and clever, like “Some people choose hot dogs, but some have hot dogs thrust upon them,” but all I get out is “Um” before his dad comes rushing up to us and wraps the boy in a big hug.
I start to walk away—I’ve seen this half mushy/half you’re-in-big-trouble thing play out dozens of times before—but I barely make it ten steps before the little boy is wrapped around my legs with a big smile.
“Thanks, hot dog,” he says, running back to his dad. I give them both a little wave and walk back to the breakroom grinning. Not a bad way to start the day.
I don’t see Seeley until lunchtime. It’s not really a big deal, it’s just that she had a dentist appointment this morning, so she came in late with her mom’s car. But still, things feel a little weird between us, even though she says they aren’t, and I hate it.
She slides into the seat next to me, her tray overflowing with fries. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” I snatch up a fry before she can stop me and shove it into my mouth.
“Did I miss anything this morning?”
“Only the sight of me dressed like a giant hot dog.” I sigh.
“I do love that sight.” She laughs, and I can’t help but smirk as I grab another fry.
Wait. Hang on.
Seeley is a ketchup douser. She literally smothers her fries in it and waits for them to get all cold and soggy before she eats them—like to the point where she says she’s marinating them if anybody teases her about it. But these are different. These are warm and crisp and greasy, and have a tiny cup of ketchup sitting beside them, not even touching. These aren’t for her—these are for me.
“Thanks.” I pop another fry in my mouth, smiling so wide my cheeks hurt.
“Sorry I’ve been kind of a jerk lately.”
“It’s fine. Last night was kind of weird all around.”
“Agreed.” She grabs the little cup of ketchup off her tray and completely upends it over the fry in her hand. “So we’re good?” she asks, echoing my words from yesterday.
“Yeah, we’re great.”
She nods, and takes another bite.
I tap my fingers on the table. “So, I was thinking—”
Seeley sighs. “Maybe you could take a couple days off from scheming. Consider it a mini break to rest your brain.”
“Ha-ha, you’re so funny,” I say. “This isn’t about us. This is about the park.”
“Oh god.” Seeley drops her head back. “What now?”
“I think we should come up with a plan to save it. There has to be a way to convince Mr. P to keep it open.”
“You can’t guilt the poor guy into staying open, Elouise. That’s not how it works.”
“It works on my dad sometimes.” I shrug and lean back in my seat.
“It works on your dad for little stuff. It wouldn’t work on your dad if you were asking him to keep an entire amusement park open for your benefit.”
“It’s not just for my benefit, though. Think about all the people who work here. Think about us! Where are we even supposed to find new jobs around here?”
“Okay, that’s actually a good point,” Seeley says.
I tap my thumb against the table. “What if we got everybody involved. Like started a movement or something.”
“A movement?”
“Yeah, a movement, like a community movement, like save our parks or whatever. Jessa did say they were talking about it on the news.”
“I think that slogan only relates to wildlife parks and stuff, Lou. I don’t think it’d work for getting people to rally around an eyesore like Magic Castle.”
“Don’t talk about our baby like that.” I frown. “But listen, we’ll make a big announcement, get people to rally, and then Mr. P will have no choice but to stay open.”
Seeley raises an eyebrow as she bites into her oversized burger. “Do you really think anybody will care?”
“I’m positive.” I take another bite of my fries, pausing for effect. “We’ll start a petition, get one of those online fund-raisers, host a gala.”
“A gala?” Seeley snorts.
“My dad gets invited to galas like every few months to support whatever random charity he’s doing the books for. I bet they raise a ton of money.”
“We’re in no way equipped to put on a gala, Lou. Are you even listening to yourself?”
I sigh. “Okay, fine. Just the petition, then, and some fund-raisers.”
“How are we even going to do that much by ourselves?”
“We’ll get people to help us.”
Seeley narrows her eyes. “People like who?”
“I don’t know, the people from the news. And like, Nick, maybe.”
Seeley groans.
“Hey, he loves the park too.”
“Right.” Seeley shakes her head. “I’m so sure that’s why you want him to help.”
“Maybe other reasons.”
“Hopeless,” she says, grabbing another fry. “You are hopeless.”