stopped; someone has to fix this. Now.
Dad slams his hand against the metal guard over the motor. My eyes widen. Then Beatrice runs out, grabbing Dad’s wrist.
“Basford! He’s up there!” She looks wild, as if she’s transformed into some kind of crazy animal. “Get him down! GET HIM DOWN!”
I hear Beatrice say Basford’s name, but it’s as if it runs through my ear canal slowly, tangled, and it takes me seconds to understand that Basford, my new friend, is up on the ride. When I look up, the platform sways and another thundering creak slashes through the air.
“It’s the roots,” Dad tells Beatrice. “I can’t pull it out.”
Beatrice leans down, helpless. She looks over at Chico, her face broken. “Help,” she begs.
And then it just comes out of my mouth, like a breath. “I think I can try.” An image of Spark spelling the word against the sky flashes through my mind.
Dad snaps, “No. Absolutely not.”
Chico looks quickly over at Dad, but Beatrice just stares at me. She doesn’t say not to go. I push through them, wiping the raindrops from my face, and look inside the casing. There is one big string of root that is clogging the gear.
“Polly, don’t you dare—” Dad shouts, but it is too late. I stick my right hand inside the gearshift.
“Dios mío,” Chico mutters. “Policita—”
I stare straight ahead, not blinking, ignoring Chico and Dad. Instead, I move my hand closer to the motor and try to think clearly. I need to pull out that one string, that one piece of root, and the motor should churn easily again. Right now the motor seems to be coughing, working one second and then stopping the next.
“POLLY!” Mom shouts from behind me. I don’t turn around. “Get your hand out of there right this second!”
I can feel the heat of the motor close to my hand. My heart is beating so fast, it feels like a jackhammer.
“Stop that motor right now!” Mom screams.
“He can’t,” Dad says anxiously. “If we shut it off, we may not be able to get it down.”
A shoe falls off someone’s foot, landing near us.
Chico kneels down next to me. More screams, more cries from up above.
“Tú puedes,” he whispers. “Polly, tú puedes .”
You can do this.
Slowly I open my eyes and look at the single root, white and thick like a braid of hair. My right hand wavers—I’m trembling—and I see how close the cutting rotor of the motor is to the root. I don’t feel the rain at all.
My shoulders tense, and my hand trembles harder. I want to make a fist, but I can’t unless I want my hand chopped in half.
This is a mistake. This is a very big mistake.
“Polly.” Aunt Edith is here now too. “Remember Emerson. Trust thyself.” She speaks slowly, calmly. “You don’t have to do this. But it would be a good thing if you can.” I can feel her put her hand gently on my shoulder. “Try.”
Try.
I turn back to the motor, ignoring the screams from the ride and the sound of sirens drawing closer. I forget about everyone and concentrate.
Try.
I reach in and touch the end of the root, which is still about six inches away from the motor. I tug, gently, and then, gripping the root more strongly, I pull harder. I do my best to ignore the running motor, but it’s like looking at the bottom of a vacuum cleaner that keeps rolling and rolling, just waiting for its chance to suck up a finger. I grasp the root then, as hard as I can, and yank! It comes out. I snatch out my hand and fall backward, about one inch away from amputation.
I’m still holding the wayward root when I hear the people on the platform cheer. About one hundred sets of eyes are looking down at me in a circle, including those of some firemen. Beatrice and Patricia and Freddy have all run up to the controls.
Mom jumps in and pulls me up by my armpits. “My baby, my baby,” she whispers, and I can feel her body shake underneath her thin shirt. She hugs me so hard that my head is pressed deeply into her shoulder. When
Dad slams his hand against the metal guard over the motor. My eyes widen. Then Beatrice runs out, grabbing Dad’s wrist.
“Basford! He’s up there!” She looks wild, as if she’s transformed into some kind of crazy animal. “Get him down! GET HIM DOWN!”
I hear Beatrice say Basford’s name, but it’s as if it runs through my ear canal slowly, tangled, and it takes me seconds to understand that Basford, my new friend, is up on the ride. When I look up, the platform sways and another thundering creak slashes through the air.
“It’s the roots,” Dad tells Beatrice. “I can’t pull it out.”
Beatrice leans down, helpless. She looks over at Chico, her face broken. “Help,” she begs.
And then it just comes out of my mouth, like a breath. “I think I can try.” An image of Spark spelling the word against the sky flashes through my mind.
Dad snaps, “No. Absolutely not.”
Chico looks quickly over at Dad, but Beatrice just stares at me. She doesn’t say not to go. I push through them, wiping the raindrops from my face, and look inside the casing. There is one big string of root that is clogging the gear.
“Polly, don’t you dare—” Dad shouts, but it is too late. I stick my right hand inside the gearshift.
“Dios mío,” Chico mutters. “Policita—”
I stare straight ahead, not blinking, ignoring Chico and Dad. Instead, I move my hand closer to the motor and try to think clearly. I need to pull out that one string, that one piece of root, and the motor should churn easily again. Right now the motor seems to be coughing, working one second and then stopping the next.
“POLLY!” Mom shouts from behind me. I don’t turn around. “Get your hand out of there right this second!”
I can feel the heat of the motor close to my hand. My heart is beating so fast, it feels like a jackhammer.
“Stop that motor right now!” Mom screams.
“He can’t,” Dad says anxiously. “If we shut it off, we may not be able to get it down.”
A shoe falls off someone’s foot, landing near us.
Chico kneels down next to me. More screams, more cries from up above.
“Tú puedes,” he whispers. “Polly, tú puedes .”
You can do this.
Slowly I open my eyes and look at the single root, white and thick like a braid of hair. My right hand wavers—I’m trembling—and I see how close the cutting rotor of the motor is to the root. I don’t feel the rain at all.
My shoulders tense, and my hand trembles harder. I want to make a fist, but I can’t unless I want my hand chopped in half.
This is a mistake. This is a very big mistake.
“Polly.” Aunt Edith is here now too. “Remember Emerson. Trust thyself.” She speaks slowly, calmly. “You don’t have to do this. But it would be a good thing if you can.” I can feel her put her hand gently on my shoulder. “Try.”
Try.
I turn back to the motor, ignoring the screams from the ride and the sound of sirens drawing closer. I forget about everyone and concentrate.
Try.
I reach in and touch the end of the root, which is still about six inches away from the motor. I tug, gently, and then, gripping the root more strongly, I pull harder. I do my best to ignore the running motor, but it’s like looking at the bottom of a vacuum cleaner that keeps rolling and rolling, just waiting for its chance to suck up a finger. I grasp the root then, as hard as I can, and yank! It comes out. I snatch out my hand and fall backward, about one inch away from amputation.
I’m still holding the wayward root when I hear the people on the platform cheer. About one hundred sets of eyes are looking down at me in a circle, including those of some firemen. Beatrice and Patricia and Freddy have all run up to the controls.
Mom jumps in and pulls me up by my armpits. “My baby, my baby,” she whispers, and I can feel her body shake underneath her thin shirt. She hugs me so hard that my head is pressed deeply into her shoulder. When
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