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Genevieve to go screw herself. She should tell Genevieve, Screw yourself, you selfish, moody, mean bitch of a big sister.
    Genevieve just wanted to bite someone. God. It was the heat and the cow-­shit funk. The funk of rancid egg-­roll grease and generator exhaust as they walked up Food Alley toward the carnival games. It was—­oh, yeah, by the way—­ no drugs .
    What she would give right now for a single line of pure white snow. Genevieve shivered, just thinking about the ignition, the surge, the world filled suddenly with Tinker Bell sparkle.
    Howard, alleged expert on these matters, had admitted to Genevieve that saying no to drugs and booze didn’t get much easier with practice, not really. The craving never faded. Howard claimed he could still taste the first sip of scotch he’d ever taken.
    â€œNot even a little easier?” Genevieve had asked.
    â€œMaybe a little,” he’d said. Howard, who was always so full of shit. That was the best he could do?
    Julianna, excited, turned onto Carnival Row. Genevieve groaned. She wished now she’d picked up an extra weekend shift at Sonic. Carhopping for crotch change was preferable to this.
    Well, maybe not. But half a dozen of six, or whatever the saying was.
    C’mon, Genevieve. Be reasonable.
    No, drugs! Shut your trap for two seconds, will you?
    The minute Genevieve graduated from high school—­seven months and counting, you better believe it—­she planned to flee Oklahoma City, to fly, to get out of Dodge. She thought she might head to California. Or New York City. Thailand, maybe, where she’d heard that ­people lit paper lanterns that floated up into the night sky. Genevieve was up for anywhere, as long as it was far, far away.
    â€œOooh!” Julianna said.
    â€œOooh!” Genevieve said. “What?”
    â€œLet’s play the balloon game!”
    The balloon game was a race. You used a pistol to squirt water into the mouth of a plastic clown. If your balloon popped first, you won a prize. Stuffed Pink Panthers hung like meat from the rafters of the booth.
    â€œI know what!” Genevieve said.
    â€œWhat?
    â€œLet’s not and say we did.”
    â€œPlease! Please, please, please?”
    â€œGive me a Jolly Rancher,” Genevieve said.
    A goat roper in a big cowboy hat won the first race. So Genevieve forked over two more bucks, and they tried again. Julianna won this time. She squealed and jumped around. The carny who ran the booth produced a Pac-­Man key chain and told Julianna that if she won again, she could trade up to the next level of prize.
    â€œCheater, cheater, pumpkin eater,” Genevieve told the carny. He was a lot older than she was, close to thirty, but sexy in a sort of dirty, long-­haired, hippie way, with a dark, dirty tan and blue eyes and a diamond stud earring. A tattoo of a snake curled round and round one muscular forearm.
    â€œYou’re rubber and I’m glue,” he said, smiling and dangling the key chain from his index finger.
    â€œI think you’ve got that bass-­ackwards, Mr. Pumpkin Eater,” Genevieve said.
    â€œSays you.”
    â€œAnd the horse I rode in on.”
    She reached out and flicked the key chain so that it spun around his finger. He laughed, and Genevieve thought it might be the best feeling ever—­to stop, if just for a second, thinking about drugs.
    Although, God, just imagine the amazing drugs that a sexy, dirty, hippie carny probably had access to. Doy.
    â€œGenni!” Julianna, meanwhile, was bouncing off the walls. “I want to play again!”
    â€œOr you’re gonna pee your pants, presumably?”
    â€œGenni! C’mon! Please?”
    Genevieve turned back to the carny. “If my little sister doesn’t win a Pink Panther, she’s gonna presumably pee her pants right here. You are officially warned.”
    The carny looked Genevieve over. He took his sweet time, very