This is not entirely selfless. I want to hear it again. I heard it twice yesterday. Once at the axe throw and once on the Ferris wheel when I said something about the carnival operator’s ongoing feud with a seagull named Harry. Both times it arrived like something unexpected even to her, like she’d been ambushed by her ownenjoyment. Both times she shut it down within a second.
I want the version that she doesn’t shut down.
I want to see what Lola looks like when she’s not controlling herself.
Ryan would say this is attachment getting ahead of wisdom. Archer would say it’s irresponsible given what we don’t know. Tristan would make something delicious and let me work it out.
They’re all partially right and I’m doing it anyway.
I find her at the stall at eight in the morning, which is earlier than her scheduled start. Which means she came early because she wanted to be doing something. I’ve noticed this about her, stillness is not her resting state. She needs to be in motion, needs a task, needs her hands occupied and her brain forward-facing.
Tristan’s not in yet. The stall is unlocked because Tristan trusts the town. Archer has opinions about that but it has never once been a problem because this is Sweetwater Valley. Also because anyone who tries to rob Tristan’s stall would have to answer to roughly sixty percent of the town population and the prospect is not appealing.
She’s doing prep work. Unauthorized prep, given she’s not technically on until tomorrow, but it’s organized and correct and she clearly knows where everything goes now.
“You’re here early,” I say.
She doesn’t startle. She doesn’t even turn around,just adjusts the container she’s moving to account for my presence in the space. “You’re also early.”
“I’m always early. I’m a morning person.”
“That’s a character flaw.”
“Agreed, but here we are.” I lean on the counter. “You don’t have to be here until tomorrow.”
“I know. I had nothing else to do.”
“That’s the saddest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
She turns around. She’s wearing the apron—Tristan’s spare, the one that’s slightly too big for her—and her hair is up in the way it goes when she’s going to work. “What are you doing here?”
“There’s a problem,” I say, “with the ring toss.”
Her eyes sharpen. She cannot help herself when there’s an issue. “What kind of problem?”
“Structural. Come look.”
“I’m in the middle of—”
“It’ll take ten minutes.”
She unties the apron. I love that she unties the apron.
The ring toss problem is, in the technical sense, a real problem. The far anchor for the banner has worked loose overnight and the whole sign is listing left so it will look wrong when the carnival opens at noon. I need someone to hold the tension on one side while I reattach the anchor, and I could get any of the setup crew to do it, but I went and found Lola instead.
This is the difference between a real problem and a useful problem.
She holds the tension with both hands, standing onthe platform step, and she’s doing it right. She found the right point immediately, the spot where the hold actually redistributes the load rather than creating a new stress point. This tells me she’s got some structural instinct in her past that I’m adding to my ongoing catalogue of things-about-Lola-I-don’t-know-yet.
“Pull left a fraction,” I say, from the anchor point.
She pulls left a fraction.
“There.” I get the anchor reset in about ninety seconds. “Perfect.”
She releases the tension, steps down, looks up at the now-level banner with an assessing eye. “It’ll hold?”
“Until tomorrow at least. I’ll do a proper reattach tonight.”
