Read Online Nothing to Lose by Alex Flinn - Free Book Online

nor the Whack-a-Mole girl seemed to mind, but I did. Beating the guy senseless—my first instinct—wasn’t really an option, considering he was twice my size and twice my mean. If there was one thing I’d learned in sixteen years, it was that mean people always won.
    “One more player! One more!”
    “I’ll play,” I said.
    I expected her to look grateful or something, but she didn’t. I nudged Karpe to give her a dollar. She took it.
    She gestured that I should stand by a station that already had a balloon attached. A purple one. She started the game.
    I raised my mallet and began pounding, pounding, pounding. In front of me, it was this little mole, trying to pop out of its mole hole to safety. But in my head it was everything else. Mom, sitting with her hand on the telephone, afraid to pick it up. Boom! People at school, who used to be my friends, but now they crapped on me. Bam! Dutton, holding his fingers up in the shape of an L. Boom, bam! Karpe, pathetically begging me to come here, and my coming. Boom! Boom! Boom! Walker, hitting my mother. Bam! Me, never doing anything about it.
    Pop!
    And I was still pounding, pounding, pounding. And someone touched my wrist.
    “Hey.”
    A few more bashes.
    “Hey!”
    I stopped. I stopped and looked into the eyes of the Whack-a-Mole girl.
    “Hey. You won.”
    Below, the mole had gone into his hole forever.
    “You won,” the girl whispered again.
    And the warmth of her hand, the intensity of her gaze, it startled me.
    Karpe clapped me on the shoulder.
    “Michael-Michael Row the Boat Ashore.” Clap, clap, clap. “You won.”
    But I just saw the girl. “It’s my birthday,” I said.
    Why’d I say that?
    But she seemed to know. One hand, the hand not on my wrist, came up and grazed my cheek. Then she pulled me toward her, my mouth toward her mouth. And, around us, there was nothing. No shards of purple balloon, no spilled beer. No Karpe. No moles. Only her, her face, her lips, the feel and smell, the taste of her.
    “Happy birthday, Michael.” I watched her lips form the words. “Sweet sixteen?”
    I nodded.
    “And been kissed?”
    “Yeah … thank you.”
    And, stupidly, I added, “My name’s Michael.”
    “Kirstie.” Then, “My break’s at six. You could come back then if you wanted.”
    Not really a question. I nodded.
    I let Karpe have the stuffed dog.

THIS YEAR
     
    “Can I speak to Kirstie?”
    “Who?”
    “Kirstie Anderson?” But I already know the answer.
    “Sorry. No one here’s named Kirstie.”
    “Thanks.” I hang up and cross the eighteenth K. Anderson off my list.

LAST YEAR
     
    After Kirstie’s kiss, Karpe and I left the game area. I promised to return at six, Kirstie’s break.
    Six. Two hours still. But I let Karpe lead me to the Tilt-a-Whirl, Das Funhouse, Doppel Looping. We even went into the tent with the one-ring circus. It was trained dogs, like I’d said, French poodles in ball gowns and bullfighter outfits. When they finally finished, the ringmaster announced the next act: “And now … from the jungles at the outer reaches of Mongolia, performing astounding feats of strength and flexibility, please welcome ten-year-old Ni-Jin.”
    She was a tiny thing in a spangled leotard, bending her legs back over her head, standing on one hand, then on a stick held between her teeth. Was she really from Outer Mongolia? Was Outer Mongolia even real anymore? And did it have jungles? Was she a captive, brought to perform for American carnival goers? Or was she just a regular schoolgirl with a really weird hobby? Had she been kidnapped, or did she escape?
    When we left, I looked at my watch. Five fifty-five.
    Karpe saw me look. “Got plans?” he asked.
    “Wouldn’t you?” I laughed. “Do you mind?”
    “I’d do the same thing.” He laughed too. I was starting to like him a little better, maybe even remembered why we’d been friends before.
    “Hey,” I said, “thanks for taking me here.”
    “No biggie.”
    When we reached