"Like we'd go into some creeper's tent, just like that," Jon said. He whistled as his boots struck the boardwalk. "What a waste!"
They came across a dart-throwing game, and Jon dug quarters out of his pocket. "Let's go home," Zach said. "I'm bored."
"Bored at the carnival." Jon shook his head as he aimed. "Mr. Middle-Manager here. Doesn't want to have any fun. Wants to go home and work."
After he hit nine of ten targets, Christopher shrugged. "Good job. You figured out how to throw something. You won a banana bandana. You're gonna wear it to the prom if you ever ask Michelle out."
"I will! I mean, I won't wear it to the prom, but I'm gonna ask her!" Jon stuffed the bandana into his back pocket
"Not if I ask her first."
"Don't you dare!" Jon shook his fist at Christopher.
"If I ask her before you, you have to wear that bandana!"
"Deal!"
They spat in their hands and shook, then made faces and wiped on their shirts. Marcus pulled cotton candy apart, Zach looked for the prettiest girl, Jon walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Christopher, trying to find the next diversion.
"We need something new," Zach said as they took up a long bench. They passed a package of roasted peanuts back and forth, talking between crunches.
"Seen all the movies," Christopher said.
"No ballgames tonight," Marcus said. He pointed a finger. "One thing we haven't done." He popped a peanut in. "Get our fortunes told."
"Not enough quarters to get me in there." Jon spat a shell. "Not enough banana bandanas."
"Not enough Michelles?"
Jon laughed. "Only one Michelle!"
"What if she wanted you to get your fortune told?"
"If Michelle wanted me to get my fortune read, boy, shuffle the tarots," Christopher said. Marcus and Zach nodded. "Roll them bones. Whatever it takes. As long as my fortune is 'Michelle and Me.'"
"C'mon," Zach said, turning to Jon. "What can it hurt?"
"Because going into dark, hot tents with bearded men who are wearing robes isn't why I come to the carnival."
"Yeah?" Zach looked at Jon as he chewed shells. "Why do you always want to come to the carnival then?" He spat. "We've drained this place dry. But you don't want to go anywhere else, and you don't want to stay at home. You never want to stay at home. You'd rather sit out here in the muggy air and spend our change winning stuffed dolls and laughing at the spooks in the haunted house then stay in and watch a movie or something."
Jon frowned.
"Hell, we could sit around a table a play Monopoly for all I care, but you always want to get into you big boy boots and come stomp around here. And yet, when something new appears, say, a fortune teller decked out like Merlin, you turn up your nose!"
"It's stupid!"
"Why?" Christopher said.
Jon looked from one friend to the next. All three of them were gazing at him like he was a math teacher, with frowns and set mouths.
Christopher spat in his hand. "New deal. You get your fortune told, Michelle's all yours." He jammed his hand forward, waiting.
Jon scoffed. "Doesn't mean nothing."
"Us too," Marcus said, pointing to himself and Zach. "You get first shot."
Jon squinted, eyes darting back and forth. His friends didn't look away.
He curled himself into a ball on the bench--a damp noise emitted from his mouth. He stretched open again, mouth distorting, and he spat onto his palm. Twice. Three times. "Soak 'em."
Marcus and Zach spat, and Jon went down the line, shaking each of their hands. Then, Christopher and Marcus shook, then Christopher and Zach, then Zach and Marcus.
Marcus leapt up, pointing his finger into the dark sky. "To the fortune teller!" He brought his hand down, grimacing as he looked at it. "Napkins first."
"It's like my Aunt Dawn joined the circus, and then someone stole her dress," Zach said. They stood at the perimeter of the carnival, far from the bright lights, hard smells, and pretty girls, in an alley. The fortune teller's tent was circular, small, faded. It rose to a point, topped with a limp banner. Signs around the entrance promised futures, pasts, told for a reasonable fifty-cent fee. The Great Cincinni knew all, spoke all, feared nothing, apparently.
The man himself brushed through the folds of the tent and bowed low, holding one of the folds open. His gray beard tickled the ground, his eyes were shut, his face solemn. Christopher tilted his head up and walked inside; Marcus followed him, then Zach, finally Jon.
The Great Cincinni let the fold drop shut. The tent had little light, emanating from a few bare bulbs placed to create the longest shadows. Heavy scents, from unlit sticks of incense, filled the air. There were four chairs on one side of the small round table, and one chair on the other side. Cincinni lowered himself into the one without a sound. On the other side, the four boys crossed their arms and waited. The crinkled their lips the same way, a mutual habit picked up after a decade of friendship and sarcasm.
The Great Cincinni swept his vision over them. He rested his elbows on the table and tented his fingers, drumming their tips together in a wave. He kept his expression solemn. After a few seconds he pointed a long, thin finger. "I shall read you, first."
Marcus pointed a finger at himself, and Cincinni nodded. "Friends, please, move yourselves back to the edges, so this young man is across from me. Yes, that's right." In a few seconds only Marcus sat across from the bearded one.
"What, no crystal ball?"
"Crystal balls are for charlatans--liars." The Great Cincinni peered over his fingers. "The only tool one needs to know the future is the mind. Your name, young man?"
Marcus grinned, and The Great Cincinni rolled his eyes. He sighed and pushed away from the table. "Oh, the mists of the future, they cloud me," he said in a voice like a droning fan. "Masterful though I am, there are some details too hidden within hearts for me to obtain. So it is with all things."
Stifling himself, Zach nodded. "Call me Marcus; everyone does."
"Of course, of course. Now, young man, I ask you raise your right hand, as if you are to swear an oath."
"That's not how we swear oaths, old man," Marcus said, yet he lifted his hand, palm facing out, next to his face. "Am I gonna get cancer?"
The Great Cincinni kept his eyes on Marcus' hand. "No...but you should probably get to work on your English paper."
Marcus gaped. So did Zach, Christopher, and Jon. "Thoreau seems complicated, but if you just read the first sentence of each paragraph, it gets a lot easier. Tell your teacher you had an epiphany, that the writing makes you want to be a better person, something like that. She'll eat it up; English teachers love stuff like that." The Great Cincinni cleared his throat. "Lower you hand, if you would." He wove his fingers into his beard and stroked, looking at Marcus, whose sneer had disappeared.
He leaned forward. "You broke your father's glasses when you were eight." Marcus leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "And he still teases you about it. Sometimes you think he hates you for it. But that is not the way of a loving father." The Great Cincinni reached his hand forward into the air, then pulled it back, rotating at the wrist and drawing the fingers together. "He simply wants you to be mindful and in control."
Marcus leaned forward again. "The future."
The Great Cincinni looked him up and down, pale eyes, wide. "Oh, how the tree of time twists in the wind! The branches fly with the weight of birds, of berries, of leaves dead and dying! Will it uproot and pass into the night without thought? Will its roots dig down and stay, until it grows huge to cover the sky?" He planted his palms on the table. "Marcus. Child. You ask a difficult thing. Yet I am great."
"That's what the sign says."
Cincinni waved his hand. "Advertising is the greatest lie of them all. However, you are correct, Marcus. I am great. The future is difficult to see. So it is with all things."
"You certainly talked a big game."
"Difficult, but not impossible. What could be better for someone like you, then a life of fine food and happy stomachs? It will be hard work, but you're prepared for that, aren't you? As long as it fits your needs, yes. An empty shop, a few employees, a few recipes, and a hot grill...but you'll have to go to college first. And that means passing your English class, and that means impressing Mrs. Wurmsteimer. Once I am done with your friends, be sure to give Henry David Thoreau a good hard read when you get home. Rise from your seat, and allow the next to sit." The Great Cincinni gestured at Zach.
"How did you know that?" Marcus asked.
The old man put his palms up. "I am great."
Marcus got up so fast the chair rocked back and forth, continuing until Zach sat down. "Your name?"
"Zach."
"Lift your hand, if you would, like your friend Marcus." Zach put his hand up by his face. The Great Cincinni nodded; Zach put it down.
"Firstly, you should just return it now. No harm done. Thought you would pull one over on an old man, did you? I barely even needed to read you to tell." The Great Cincinni put his hand out. Zach shifted, and then pulled an incense stick out of his pocket, placing it in the old man's hand. The Great Cincinni put it on a cabinet behind him. "And second, yes, you will race motorcycles."
"Sweet."
"Maybe skip the Tuskomee Prix."
"Doesn't go well?"
"Doesn't go well at all, young man." He pointed at Christopher.
After Christopher lowered his hand, The Great Cincinni took a few seconds sifting his fingers through his beard. "Well." A few seconds passed. "Well well."
"I'm an open book, oh great one."
"So it would seem."
"You think you can know a person just by, what, gazing into them with your third eye? Seems like a pretty easy way to get a two-dimensional version of a person. You're seeing what's happened, or what might happen, but not why. How. The emotions."
"It is difficult. So it is with all things," The Great Cincinni said. "But not so difficult for you. You like to break things down, you like to understand things. You have entered my domain thinking what I do is foolish or silly, and so you have said. Because you want to know from the very heart of something, how or why it is. A scientist's mind floats behind your face, watching everything, never tiring of accepting new information, building it up, breaking it down. Must I say why you feel this way? I do not think so. You know. I know." He nodded at the other three. "They do not need to know."
"So, what's in my future, great one?"
"Military intelligence." Christopher scowled. "You'll save lives." The scowl disappeared, and Christopher shrugged. "Only one left...and I think I will speak to him alone. Christopher, Marcus, Zach, if you would wait outside the tent."
"What?" Jon stood with his feet wide. "No way am I going to stay in here all by myself!"
"It's important you and I have a chance to speak one-on-one, Jon," The Great Cincinni said. "So there's nothing you feel necessary to leave out because your friends are here with us. It will not be long, ten minutes--no more."
If he could, Jon would be looking straight through the old man. He swallowed, and felt the need to wipe his sweaty hands on his shirt. "How did you know my name."
The other three, who had stood to leave, turned to The Great Cincinni slowly, the last few spoken sentences rattling inside their brains. Their open mouths pointed at the old man still sitting behind at the round table.
He drummed his long fingers, looking from one boy to the next, ending with Jon. "How do you think I knew your name, Jon?"
"We don't have to go, Jon," Marcus said. "He can't make us leave. We'll stay in here if you're scared."
"Scared?" Jon turned to his friend. "I'm not scared, I just want to know how he knows my name!"
"I know a lot about you Jon," The Great Cincinni said. "For instance, I know you're the reason the four of you came back." He watched the boys' eyes widen. "I know about Michelle." Jon's posture began straight and hard. "I know about what's been happening to you."
"You don't know what's happening to me," Jon said between thin lips. "Nobody does."
"I know your future, too. Would you like to know?"
"I have it written here." The Great Cincinni placed the note card face down in front of him. "You may look at it once we're done. Like I said, it won't be long."
Jon sat in the chair on the other side of the table, alone with the old, bearded man. His eyes were narrow, his mouth was thin. His nostrils flared. The Great Cincinni smoothed his hand down his beard.
"Go ahead then," Jon said. "Tell me everything about myself. Tell me why I came back here. Tell me about Michelle. Tell me about what's been happening to me. Tell me about Jon."
"We start at the end," the old man said. "Your parents are getting a divorce."
At first Jon's face drooped, but then he returned it to the scowl. "So what? Lots of people are getting divorces. Let me guess: Next you're going to tell me I think it's my fault."
"No, you know it isn't your fault. However-" The Great Cincinni leaned forward "-you don't seem to have had the chance to tell many people. No one seems to want your opinion on it. No one seems to want to talk to you at all about it, not your parents, not your relatives. You've talked with your friends about it, and they commiserate, but they don't understand, not really. They have happy homes, full families. Their parents share a bed at night, and they don't wake up to the sound of another shouting match.
"Nobody gives their advice, nobody gives their sympathy. Nobody gives you their respect as someone who finds himself adrift and looking for a way to climb out of the ocean. Not teachers, not coaches, certainly not your parents. It could be because your younger siblings need more help, it could be because you think you're strong enough to survive a tumultuous time. Maybe you don't even know you need help. Maybe you don't want it."
Jon stared at the table between them, hands griping his knees. "Getting help is not weakness, Jon." The Great Cincinni's voice was quiet. "If getting help means you survive, it is the opposite of weak."
There was a moment of silence. "I don't need help."
"Let's move on, then, if you're so sure. Your teachers aren't aware of your troubles at home, as are most of the people at school, but there is one who seems to be a help anyway. Michelle."
"Don't..." Jon stopped, mouth half-way open. He shut it.
"Names have power, don't they, Jon? But we have to call her something, don't we. When you're with her in science class, or when you run into each other in the hall, part of you changes, doesn't it? Instead of the Big Man on Campus, unlaced boots clanking with each lazy step, you stand up straight. You look her in the eye. You help her with homework, and you barely realize she's the one helping you most of the time."
"Didn't you ever have a crush, old man?" Jon crossed his arms and looked away. "Or was that back when your parents just found you a wife?"
The Great Cincinni chuckled. "Prom is coming up. Only a month away, isn't it? You want to ask her. You think a line of tall, handsome suitors trail around the block, hoping he's the lucky one she accepts. Why bother? She'll say no. They've all said no."
Jon shot his mouth open, then let his lips slowly come together. He bowed his head. "You think she's going to say no for the same reason all the others have said no. Eve, when you asked her to the homecoming football game. Amber, when you wanted to go to the winter social in middle school." Jon felt shocks travel down his back. He swallowed, and his throat prickled with thirst. "You think she's going to say no because she doesn't want to be around you."
"She wants to be around me!" Jon said, before he could stop himself. "She...she...." He looked at his hands, resting in his lap. "The others didn't want to be around me. Why should I try?"
"The others didn't want to be around you, so your heart becomes hardened. It begins to rebuke. Only constant attempts breaks through. Tell me--how many times has Michelle said hello to you? Told you about something that has happened during the day?"
"A lot."
"When she first began, did you respond?"
"Yeah. Just, you know, conversation."
"And as she continued, did the conversations grow longer?"
"Yeah...."
"You began to talk about yourself, and ask questions of her, not just answer her own questions?"
"Yeah. We've talked for a long time a few times. And we'll sit and do homework in study hall. She helps me pick up on stuff I don't understand."
"So," The Great Cincinni said, as he spread his hands, "all of these things are true, yet you think she doesn't want to be around you?"
Jon's eyes were on his hands, clamped together in front of him, but he didn't see them. "How do I know for sure?" he said. The Great Cincinni leaned forward. "How do I know she isn't just being friendly? How do I know she really cares? What happens if I ask her and she says no?" Jon inhaled. "Because sometimes I think I'm close, so close, to just giving up with other people. Going somewhere quiet. A mountain, just to be by myself. Because there will be no way for someone to turn me away if they don't know where I am."
The teen exhaled and seemed to deflate. "I believe this brings us to our final topic. This carnival."
Jon looked up, his train of thought momentarily bumped off the tracks. "What? What does the carnival have to do with anything?"
"This carnival has to do with everything." The Great Cincinni pointed. "It has do to with you, your friends, your relationships. Tell me, why did you come to the carnival tonight?"
Jon shrugged. "We always come to the carnival."
"And why is that?"
"I dunno, it's something to do. There's people here. Stuff to eat, prizes to win."
"Jon, you have come to the carnival enough times to find your way around with your eyes closed. And it bores you. You've probably played every boardwalk game a dozen times, ridden every attraction a hundred times! This is the very first weekend my humble tent has been open for visit, and here you come with your friends, lords of the carnival, bastions of the boardwalk, kings of the fair. So, Jon, can you tell me, really, why you come here so often?"
Ten seconds passed; Jon's eyes twitched rapidly. "I'm not sure," he said at last. His hands rubbed around each other. "We've done it so much, the four of us. It seems weird to do anything else when the carnival is open."
"What are you afraid will happen if you don't come to the carnival?"
"Afraid? I'm not afraid! I just think...I'm not sure...." Jon stared at one of the tent's folds. "I am afraid. I'm afraid if there isn't something to do, my friends...won't want to spend any time around me. I'm afraid if we aren't walking up and down the rows of booths and vendors here, they'll get bored. They'll get bored and leave me." Jon sniffed. "And then I'll be alone even more than I already am." He covered his eyes. "Sometimes I think nobody ever wants to be around me. I keep trying and trying--my parents, Michelle, my friends. Sometimes I think if I don't reach out, no one will think to even talk to me."
The Great Cincinni sat and waited.
Jon sniffed again. He opened his mouth, but said nothing--his chin was shaking. Blasts of air escaped his nose.
"Sometimes they won't," The Great Cincinni said. "Sometimes they will fall by the wayside. But if you have made an effort to include them, and they still disappear, then there is not much else you can do. But, often, your urge to communicate will come off as sincere, as I think it should. Sincerity is an underappreciated virtue--if you can let others know you truly enjoy spending time with them, there is no end to the lifelong friends you will have."
Jon was wiping his eyes. "So what do I do?"
"It will be difficult--so it is with all things--but tell them. Say 'I'm glad we could spend time together today.' The next time Michelle helps you with homework, thank her. If you get a chance to spend time with one parent or another, tell them you hope the relationship won't end just because one of them may be leaving. Like I say, it won't be easy. Those your age can have trouble opening up in this way, but if you can be sincere with yourself, here, then it's possible to be sincere with others." The Great Cincinni tilted his head toward where the carnival lay. "Out there."
Jon exhaled. "Is that it?"
The Great Cincinni smiled and shook his head. "No, it's a long journey. Too long for my humble tent. But there is one last thing for you to do." He tapped the face-down note card between them. "Take a look."
Jon pulled the card close and flipped it up. He looked over the card at the old man. "You have to make it come true," The Great Cincinni said. "And you can start right now."
Jon folded the card in half, stood, dug two quarters out of his pocket, and placed them on the table, then left the tent. He could hear calliope music, past the bare backs of a few buildings. He could smell salted popcorn, fresh hot dogs. He heard the cries of stall workers. He didn't see his friends. The alley was empty, except for him and a few pools of lamplight. He looked around for a few seconds, then strolled, hands in his pockets, around to the back of the The Great Cincinni's tent. There he found Marcus, Zach, and Christopher with their ears as close to the tent as they could without disturbing the fabric.
After a few seconds, Marcus noticed, and tried to straighten up, bumping into Christopher's leg, who tumbled into Zach, whose foot caught Marcus in the ankle. Jon watched them fall into a pile.
Christopher was the first to rise. "All done?"
Jon looked at him for a second, then at Zach and Marcus. "So who is he?"
"Get your elbow out of my back, Marcus! What do you mean, who is he?" Zach asked. He came to his feet, rubbing a spot on his back.
"I mean, who is he?"
Marcus elbowed Christopher, who cleared his throat. "He's my great uncle. He's a psychiatrist, but moonlights as The Great Cincinni around the country sometimes. He has a little bit of fun, earns some extra cash, and it's a good opportunity to get people to open up."
"And you told him about me?"
The other three shuffled their feet.
"We've been worried about you," Zach said. "Ever since you told us your parents were getting a divorce. We didn't do anything at first, of course, because we knew it was just a bad time, but..."
"It got worse," Marcus said. "Every day you wanted to go somewhere and do something. You had to be active, you had to get away. We all had our theories. You didn't talk to anyone about the divorce, in fact you didn't really like to talk to anyone about much of anything, you just wanted to keep doing."
Christopher nodded. "We came up with this scheme...mostly because we thought you should talk to someone but we knew you wouldn't want to discuss it with any of us, and if we pressured you into it, you would just resist more."
"You guys fed him all that stuff about yourselves? And me?"
"Well, yeah." Christopher lifted his hands. "Sorry. We only did it because we thought it would help."
"Well...I appreciate it," Jon said. "I feel better. Not perfect, but he gave me some good advice. And I know the problems I'm having aren't just going to go away, but at least I know I can start to fix them. It's gonna take a while, though."
Marcus nodded. "So it is with all things, as our friend would say."
"Why's he call himself The Great Cincinni?" Jon asked as they walked toward the main area of the carnival, closer to the sound, the smells, the sights.
"He's from Cincinnati," Christopher said. "What are you going to do next?"
"I guess start thinking about asking Michelle to prom."
"You're gonna do it? Really?"
"I guess so," Jon said, shrugging. He grinned. "You guys are out of the picture, so it makes it that much easier."
"What if she says no?" Zach asked.
Jon halted. They were next to a souvenir stand, across from a balloon-animal salesman. "Then good luck to the three of you, and may the best man win."
Christopher stepped up the souvenir stand. "And may the other three wear banana bandanas," he said, pulling his wallet out and pointing at copies of the item Jon had in his back pocket. The other three spat on their hands.
They came across a dart-throwing game, and Jon dug quarters out of his pocket. "Let's go home," Zach said. "I'm bored."
"Bored at the carnival." Jon shook his head as he aimed. "Mr. Middle-Manager here. Doesn't want to have any fun. Wants to go home and work."
After he hit nine of ten targets, Christopher shrugged. "Good job. You figured out how to throw something. You won a banana bandana. You're gonna wear it to the prom if you ever ask Michelle out."
"I will! I mean, I won't wear it to the prom, but I'm gonna ask her!" Jon stuffed the bandana into his back pocket
"Not if I ask her first."
"Don't you dare!" Jon shook his fist at Christopher.
"If I ask her before you, you have to wear that bandana!"
"Deal!"
They spat in their hands and shook, then made faces and wiped on their shirts. Marcus pulled cotton candy apart, Zach looked for the prettiest girl, Jon walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Christopher, trying to find the next diversion.
"We need something new," Zach said as they took up a long bench. They passed a package of roasted peanuts back and forth, talking between crunches.
"Seen all the movies," Christopher said.
"No ballgames tonight," Marcus said. He pointed a finger. "One thing we haven't done." He popped a peanut in. "Get our fortunes told."
"Not enough quarters to get me in there." Jon spat a shell. "Not enough banana bandanas."
"Not enough Michelles?"
Jon laughed. "Only one Michelle!"
"What if she wanted you to get your fortune told?"
"If Michelle wanted me to get my fortune read, boy, shuffle the tarots," Christopher said. Marcus and Zach nodded. "Roll them bones. Whatever it takes. As long as my fortune is 'Michelle and Me.'"
"C'mon," Zach said, turning to Jon. "What can it hurt?"
"Because going into dark, hot tents with bearded men who are wearing robes isn't why I come to the carnival."
"Yeah?" Zach looked at Jon as he chewed shells. "Why do you always want to come to the carnival then?" He spat. "We've drained this place dry. But you don't want to go anywhere else, and you don't want to stay at home. You never want to stay at home. You'd rather sit out here in the muggy air and spend our change winning stuffed dolls and laughing at the spooks in the haunted house then stay in and watch a movie or something."
Jon frowned.
"Hell, we could sit around a table a play Monopoly for all I care, but you always want to get into you big boy boots and come stomp around here. And yet, when something new appears, say, a fortune teller decked out like Merlin, you turn up your nose!"
"It's stupid!"
"Why?" Christopher said.
Jon looked from one friend to the next. All three of them were gazing at him like he was a math teacher, with frowns and set mouths.
Christopher spat in his hand. "New deal. You get your fortune told, Michelle's all yours." He jammed his hand forward, waiting.
Jon scoffed. "Doesn't mean nothing."
"Us too," Marcus said, pointing to himself and Zach. "You get first shot."
Jon squinted, eyes darting back and forth. His friends didn't look away.
He curled himself into a ball on the bench--a damp noise emitted from his mouth. He stretched open again, mouth distorting, and he spat onto his palm. Twice. Three times. "Soak 'em."
Marcus and Zach spat, and Jon went down the line, shaking each of their hands. Then, Christopher and Marcus shook, then Christopher and Zach, then Zach and Marcus.
Marcus leapt up, pointing his finger into the dark sky. "To the fortune teller!" He brought his hand down, grimacing as he looked at it. "Napkins first."
"It's like my Aunt Dawn joined the circus, and then someone stole her dress," Zach said. They stood at the perimeter of the carnival, far from the bright lights, hard smells, and pretty girls, in an alley. The fortune teller's tent was circular, small, faded. It rose to a point, topped with a limp banner. Signs around the entrance promised futures, pasts, told for a reasonable fifty-cent fee. The Great Cincinni knew all, spoke all, feared nothing, apparently.
The man himself brushed through the folds of the tent and bowed low, holding one of the folds open. His gray beard tickled the ground, his eyes were shut, his face solemn. Christopher tilted his head up and walked inside; Marcus followed him, then Zach, finally Jon.
The Great Cincinni let the fold drop shut. The tent had little light, emanating from a few bare bulbs placed to create the longest shadows. Heavy scents, from unlit sticks of incense, filled the air. There were four chairs on one side of the small round table, and one chair on the other side. Cincinni lowered himself into the one without a sound. On the other side, the four boys crossed their arms and waited. The crinkled their lips the same way, a mutual habit picked up after a decade of friendship and sarcasm.
The Great Cincinni swept his vision over them. He rested his elbows on the table and tented his fingers, drumming their tips together in a wave. He kept his expression solemn. After a few seconds he pointed a long, thin finger. "I shall read you, first."
Marcus pointed a finger at himself, and Cincinni nodded. "Friends, please, move yourselves back to the edges, so this young man is across from me. Yes, that's right." In a few seconds only Marcus sat across from the bearded one.
"What, no crystal ball?"
"Crystal balls are for charlatans--liars." The Great Cincinni peered over his fingers. "The only tool one needs to know the future is the mind. Your name, young man?"
Marcus grinned, and The Great Cincinni rolled his eyes. He sighed and pushed away from the table. "Oh, the mists of the future, they cloud me," he said in a voice like a droning fan. "Masterful though I am, there are some details too hidden within hearts for me to obtain. So it is with all things."
Stifling himself, Zach nodded. "Call me Marcus; everyone does."
"Of course, of course. Now, young man, I ask you raise your right hand, as if you are to swear an oath."
"That's not how we swear oaths, old man," Marcus said, yet he lifted his hand, palm facing out, next to his face. "Am I gonna get cancer?"
The Great Cincinni kept his eyes on Marcus' hand. "No...but you should probably get to work on your English paper."
Marcus gaped. So did Zach, Christopher, and Jon. "Thoreau seems complicated, but if you just read the first sentence of each paragraph, it gets a lot easier. Tell your teacher you had an epiphany, that the writing makes you want to be a better person, something like that. She'll eat it up; English teachers love stuff like that." The Great Cincinni cleared his throat. "Lower you hand, if you would." He wove his fingers into his beard and stroked, looking at Marcus, whose sneer had disappeared.
He leaned forward. "You broke your father's glasses when you were eight." Marcus leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "And he still teases you about it. Sometimes you think he hates you for it. But that is not the way of a loving father." The Great Cincinni reached his hand forward into the air, then pulled it back, rotating at the wrist and drawing the fingers together. "He simply wants you to be mindful and in control."
Marcus leaned forward again. "The future."
The Great Cincinni looked him up and down, pale eyes, wide. "Oh, how the tree of time twists in the wind! The branches fly with the weight of birds, of berries, of leaves dead and dying! Will it uproot and pass into the night without thought? Will its roots dig down and stay, until it grows huge to cover the sky?" He planted his palms on the table. "Marcus. Child. You ask a difficult thing. Yet I am great."
"That's what the sign says."
Cincinni waved his hand. "Advertising is the greatest lie of them all. However, you are correct, Marcus. I am great. The future is difficult to see. So it is with all things."
"You certainly talked a big game."
"Difficult, but not impossible. What could be better for someone like you, then a life of fine food and happy stomachs? It will be hard work, but you're prepared for that, aren't you? As long as it fits your needs, yes. An empty shop, a few employees, a few recipes, and a hot grill...but you'll have to go to college first. And that means passing your English class, and that means impressing Mrs. Wurmsteimer. Once I am done with your friends, be sure to give Henry David Thoreau a good hard read when you get home. Rise from your seat, and allow the next to sit." The Great Cincinni gestured at Zach.
"How did you know that?" Marcus asked.
The old man put his palms up. "I am great."
Marcus got up so fast the chair rocked back and forth, continuing until Zach sat down. "Your name?"
"Zach."
"Lift your hand, if you would, like your friend Marcus." Zach put his hand up by his face. The Great Cincinni nodded; Zach put it down.
"Firstly, you should just return it now. No harm done. Thought you would pull one over on an old man, did you? I barely even needed to read you to tell." The Great Cincinni put his hand out. Zach shifted, and then pulled an incense stick out of his pocket, placing it in the old man's hand. The Great Cincinni put it on a cabinet behind him. "And second, yes, you will race motorcycles."
"Sweet."
"Maybe skip the Tuskomee Prix."
"Doesn't go well?"
"Doesn't go well at all, young man." He pointed at Christopher.
After Christopher lowered his hand, The Great Cincinni took a few seconds sifting his fingers through his beard. "Well." A few seconds passed. "Well well."
"I'm an open book, oh great one."
"So it would seem."
"You think you can know a person just by, what, gazing into them with your third eye? Seems like a pretty easy way to get a two-dimensional version of a person. You're seeing what's happened, or what might happen, but not why. How. The emotions."
"It is difficult. So it is with all things," The Great Cincinni said. "But not so difficult for you. You like to break things down, you like to understand things. You have entered my domain thinking what I do is foolish or silly, and so you have said. Because you want to know from the very heart of something, how or why it is. A scientist's mind floats behind your face, watching everything, never tiring of accepting new information, building it up, breaking it down. Must I say why you feel this way? I do not think so. You know. I know." He nodded at the other three. "They do not need to know."
"So, what's in my future, great one?"
"Military intelligence." Christopher scowled. "You'll save lives." The scowl disappeared, and Christopher shrugged. "Only one left...and I think I will speak to him alone. Christopher, Marcus, Zach, if you would wait outside the tent."
"What?" Jon stood with his feet wide. "No way am I going to stay in here all by myself!"
"It's important you and I have a chance to speak one-on-one, Jon," The Great Cincinni said. "So there's nothing you feel necessary to leave out because your friends are here with us. It will not be long, ten minutes--no more."
If he could, Jon would be looking straight through the old man. He swallowed, and felt the need to wipe his sweaty hands on his shirt. "How did you know my name."
The other three, who had stood to leave, turned to The Great Cincinni slowly, the last few spoken sentences rattling inside their brains. Their open mouths pointed at the old man still sitting behind at the round table.
He drummed his long fingers, looking from one boy to the next, ending with Jon. "How do you think I knew your name, Jon?"
"We don't have to go, Jon," Marcus said. "He can't make us leave. We'll stay in here if you're scared."
"Scared?" Jon turned to his friend. "I'm not scared, I just want to know how he knows my name!"
"I know a lot about you Jon," The Great Cincinni said. "For instance, I know you're the reason the four of you came back." He watched the boys' eyes widen. "I know about Michelle." Jon's posture began straight and hard. "I know about what's been happening to you."
"You don't know what's happening to me," Jon said between thin lips. "Nobody does."
"I know your future, too. Would you like to know?"
"I have it written here." The Great Cincinni placed the note card face down in front of him. "You may look at it once we're done. Like I said, it won't be long."
Jon sat in the chair on the other side of the table, alone with the old, bearded man. His eyes were narrow, his mouth was thin. His nostrils flared. The Great Cincinni smoothed his hand down his beard.
"Go ahead then," Jon said. "Tell me everything about myself. Tell me why I came back here. Tell me about Michelle. Tell me about what's been happening to me. Tell me about Jon."
"We start at the end," the old man said. "Your parents are getting a divorce."
At first Jon's face drooped, but then he returned it to the scowl. "So what? Lots of people are getting divorces. Let me guess: Next you're going to tell me I think it's my fault."
"No, you know it isn't your fault. However-" The Great Cincinni leaned forward "-you don't seem to have had the chance to tell many people. No one seems to want your opinion on it. No one seems to want to talk to you at all about it, not your parents, not your relatives. You've talked with your friends about it, and they commiserate, but they don't understand, not really. They have happy homes, full families. Their parents share a bed at night, and they don't wake up to the sound of another shouting match.
"Nobody gives their advice, nobody gives their sympathy. Nobody gives you their respect as someone who finds himself adrift and looking for a way to climb out of the ocean. Not teachers, not coaches, certainly not your parents. It could be because your younger siblings need more help, it could be because you think you're strong enough to survive a tumultuous time. Maybe you don't even know you need help. Maybe you don't want it."
Jon stared at the table between them, hands griping his knees. "Getting help is not weakness, Jon." The Great Cincinni's voice was quiet. "If getting help means you survive, it is the opposite of weak."
There was a moment of silence. "I don't need help."
"Let's move on, then, if you're so sure. Your teachers aren't aware of your troubles at home, as are most of the people at school, but there is one who seems to be a help anyway. Michelle."
"Don't..." Jon stopped, mouth half-way open. He shut it.
"Names have power, don't they, Jon? But we have to call her something, don't we. When you're with her in science class, or when you run into each other in the hall, part of you changes, doesn't it? Instead of the Big Man on Campus, unlaced boots clanking with each lazy step, you stand up straight. You look her in the eye. You help her with homework, and you barely realize she's the one helping you most of the time."
"Didn't you ever have a crush, old man?" Jon crossed his arms and looked away. "Or was that back when your parents just found you a wife?"
The Great Cincinni chuckled. "Prom is coming up. Only a month away, isn't it? You want to ask her. You think a line of tall, handsome suitors trail around the block, hoping he's the lucky one she accepts. Why bother? She'll say no. They've all said no."
Jon shot his mouth open, then let his lips slowly come together. He bowed his head. "You think she's going to say no for the same reason all the others have said no. Eve, when you asked her to the homecoming football game. Amber, when you wanted to go to the winter social in middle school." Jon felt shocks travel down his back. He swallowed, and his throat prickled with thirst. "You think she's going to say no because she doesn't want to be around you."
"She wants to be around me!" Jon said, before he could stop himself. "She...she...." He looked at his hands, resting in his lap. "The others didn't want to be around me. Why should I try?"
"The others didn't want to be around you, so your heart becomes hardened. It begins to rebuke. Only constant attempts breaks through. Tell me--how many times has Michelle said hello to you? Told you about something that has happened during the day?"
"A lot."
"When she first began, did you respond?"
"Yeah. Just, you know, conversation."
"And as she continued, did the conversations grow longer?"
"Yeah...."
"You began to talk about yourself, and ask questions of her, not just answer her own questions?"
"Yeah. We've talked for a long time a few times. And we'll sit and do homework in study hall. She helps me pick up on stuff I don't understand."
"So," The Great Cincinni said, as he spread his hands, "all of these things are true, yet you think she doesn't want to be around you?"
Jon's eyes were on his hands, clamped together in front of him, but he didn't see them. "How do I know for sure?" he said. The Great Cincinni leaned forward. "How do I know she isn't just being friendly? How do I know she really cares? What happens if I ask her and she says no?" Jon inhaled. "Because sometimes I think I'm close, so close, to just giving up with other people. Going somewhere quiet. A mountain, just to be by myself. Because there will be no way for someone to turn me away if they don't know where I am."
The teen exhaled and seemed to deflate. "I believe this brings us to our final topic. This carnival."
Jon looked up, his train of thought momentarily bumped off the tracks. "What? What does the carnival have to do with anything?"
"This carnival has to do with everything." The Great Cincinni pointed. "It has do to with you, your friends, your relationships. Tell me, why did you come to the carnival tonight?"
Jon shrugged. "We always come to the carnival."
"And why is that?"
"I dunno, it's something to do. There's people here. Stuff to eat, prizes to win."
"Jon, you have come to the carnival enough times to find your way around with your eyes closed. And it bores you. You've probably played every boardwalk game a dozen times, ridden every attraction a hundred times! This is the very first weekend my humble tent has been open for visit, and here you come with your friends, lords of the carnival, bastions of the boardwalk, kings of the fair. So, Jon, can you tell me, really, why you come here so often?"
Ten seconds passed; Jon's eyes twitched rapidly. "I'm not sure," he said at last. His hands rubbed around each other. "We've done it so much, the four of us. It seems weird to do anything else when the carnival is open."
"What are you afraid will happen if you don't come to the carnival?"
"Afraid? I'm not afraid! I just think...I'm not sure...." Jon stared at one of the tent's folds. "I am afraid. I'm afraid if there isn't something to do, my friends...won't want to spend any time around me. I'm afraid if we aren't walking up and down the rows of booths and vendors here, they'll get bored. They'll get bored and leave me." Jon sniffed. "And then I'll be alone even more than I already am." He covered his eyes. "Sometimes I think nobody ever wants to be around me. I keep trying and trying--my parents, Michelle, my friends. Sometimes I think if I don't reach out, no one will think to even talk to me."
The Great Cincinni sat and waited.
Jon sniffed again. He opened his mouth, but said nothing--his chin was shaking. Blasts of air escaped his nose.
"Sometimes they won't," The Great Cincinni said. "Sometimes they will fall by the wayside. But if you have made an effort to include them, and they still disappear, then there is not much else you can do. But, often, your urge to communicate will come off as sincere, as I think it should. Sincerity is an underappreciated virtue--if you can let others know you truly enjoy spending time with them, there is no end to the lifelong friends you will have."
Jon was wiping his eyes. "So what do I do?"
"It will be difficult--so it is with all things--but tell them. Say 'I'm glad we could spend time together today.' The next time Michelle helps you with homework, thank her. If you get a chance to spend time with one parent or another, tell them you hope the relationship won't end just because one of them may be leaving. Like I say, it won't be easy. Those your age can have trouble opening up in this way, but if you can be sincere with yourself, here, then it's possible to be sincere with others." The Great Cincinni tilted his head toward where the carnival lay. "Out there."
Jon exhaled. "Is that it?"
The Great Cincinni smiled and shook his head. "No, it's a long journey. Too long for my humble tent. But there is one last thing for you to do." He tapped the face-down note card between them. "Take a look."
Jon pulled the card close and flipped it up. He looked over the card at the old man. "You have to make it come true," The Great Cincinni said. "And you can start right now."
Jon folded the card in half, stood, dug two quarters out of his pocket, and placed them on the table, then left the tent. He could hear calliope music, past the bare backs of a few buildings. He could smell salted popcorn, fresh hot dogs. He heard the cries of stall workers. He didn't see his friends. The alley was empty, except for him and a few pools of lamplight. He looked around for a few seconds, then strolled, hands in his pockets, around to the back of the The Great Cincinni's tent. There he found Marcus, Zach, and Christopher with their ears as close to the tent as they could without disturbing the fabric.
After a few seconds, Marcus noticed, and tried to straighten up, bumping into Christopher's leg, who tumbled into Zach, whose foot caught Marcus in the ankle. Jon watched them fall into a pile.
Christopher was the first to rise. "All done?"
Jon looked at him for a second, then at Zach and Marcus. "So who is he?"
"Get your elbow out of my back, Marcus! What do you mean, who is he?" Zach asked. He came to his feet, rubbing a spot on his back.
"I mean, who is he?"
Marcus elbowed Christopher, who cleared his throat. "He's my great uncle. He's a psychiatrist, but moonlights as The Great Cincinni around the country sometimes. He has a little bit of fun, earns some extra cash, and it's a good opportunity to get people to open up."
"And you told him about me?"
The other three shuffled their feet.
"We've been worried about you," Zach said. "Ever since you told us your parents were getting a divorce. We didn't do anything at first, of course, because we knew it was just a bad time, but..."
"It got worse," Marcus said. "Every day you wanted to go somewhere and do something. You had to be active, you had to get away. We all had our theories. You didn't talk to anyone about the divorce, in fact you didn't really like to talk to anyone about much of anything, you just wanted to keep doing."
Christopher nodded. "We came up with this scheme...mostly because we thought you should talk to someone but we knew you wouldn't want to discuss it with any of us, and if we pressured you into it, you would just resist more."
"You guys fed him all that stuff about yourselves? And me?"
"Well, yeah." Christopher lifted his hands. "Sorry. We only did it because we thought it would help."
"Well...I appreciate it," Jon said. "I feel better. Not perfect, but he gave me some good advice. And I know the problems I'm having aren't just going to go away, but at least I know I can start to fix them. It's gonna take a while, though."
Marcus nodded. "So it is with all things, as our friend would say."
"Why's he call himself The Great Cincinni?" Jon asked as they walked toward the main area of the carnival, closer to the sound, the smells, the sights.
"He's from Cincinnati," Christopher said. "What are you going to do next?"
"I guess start thinking about asking Michelle to prom."
"You're gonna do it? Really?"
"I guess so," Jon said, shrugging. He grinned. "You guys are out of the picture, so it makes it that much easier."
"What if she says no?" Zach asked.
Jon halted. They were next to a souvenir stand, across from a balloon-animal salesman. "Then good luck to the three of you, and may the best man win."
Christopher stepped up the souvenir stand. "And may the other three wear banana bandanas," he said, pulling his wallet out and pointing at copies of the item Jon had in his back pocket. The other three spat on their hands.