American Subversive by David Goodwillie

Author:David Goodwillie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2010-09-10T04:00:00+00:00

AIDAN

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

I knew who it was before I even turned around. Her voice was calm but forceful, just as I’d have imagined it.

“I said, ‘What do you want?’ ” She tightened her grip on my arm, and I didn’t try to shake her off. I was frozen in place beside her. We were packed in a tight semicircle in front of the basketball booth, kids squealing, shouting, pleading with parents. I opened my mouth.

“I . . .”

I tried to collect myself, but my face was turning crimson. Most of hers, meanwhile, was hidden behind large aviators, as it had been in the photograph. She’d cut her hair and was wearing very different clothes, but it had to be her. The fantasy come to life.

It hit me then: what this meant. The danger I might be in. How long had she been following me? And were there others? I wanted to look around, but couldn’t take my eyes off her for fear that . . . what? She’d disappear? Suddenly, I couldn’t remember why I’d come looking for her in the first place. Or what I’d do if I found her.

“I . . .”

What had she asked me? I was losing my grip on the progression of events. I wondered again if this might be a gag, the joke to end all jokes, a new reality show meant to test the boundaries of my sanity—

“Fucking say something,” she said, still gripping my arm.

“Are you Paige Roderick?”

“Who are you?”

“Aidan Cole.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk to you.”

Paige looked around quickly. People were everywhere.

“Are you alone?” she asked.

“Yes. Are you?” It was all I could manage. Rote dialogue. Words she expected.

“We can’t stay here. Follow me, but at a distance.”

With that, she let go of my arm, kind of discarded it, and started walking quickly through the crowd. I almost lost her right away and had to jog a few steps to catch sight of her again. She was taller than I’d imagined and was wearing a plain V-neck T-shirt and cords. Brown cords. In August. Why was I thinking about fashion? Because I couldn’t think about anything else. Bumper cars. Pirate ships. A creaking Tilt-A-Whirl. We ducked off the midway and entered the livestock area, rows of clapboard barns housing goats and pigs and giant horses. A cow-milking exhibition. A sheep-shearing contest. The State Bucksawing Championship was getting under way at the Woodman’s Center, and a crowd of large men dressed in Carhartt milled around outside. We kept walking—past the Alpaca Farm, the Dairy Tent, and finally the jam-packed Ox-Pulling Pavilion—until we found ourselves alone beside a split-rail fence that marked the edge of the property. Beyond us lay a patchy meadow overrun with tents and trucks and trailers. The fair’s ugly underbelly.

“So talk,” she said.

“I’m not sure where to begin.”

“Let me help you. Who do you work for? How did you find me? And what the fuck do you want?” She was leaning against the fence, her right foot propped

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