DRESSED IN HER dancing clothes and running her troupe through a scene, June only heard her cell phone ring because there was a break in the music.
“Trouble at the Silver Streak,” Evie said. “Can you run over and see what’s going on?”
“I’m in rehearsals. This show opens in seven days.”
“Sorry. Jack and I are interviewing candidates for the open accounting and finance position. The Silver Streak is right behind your theater so I hoped you could run over and see what the big deal is.”
June sighed. “I’ll pin on my name tag and go see.”
Two Starlight Point police officers got there ahead of June and the first-aid staff. One of the officers, Don Murray, had been there since before June could remember. Large and stoic, he was a mountain in uniform at the entrance gate of the Silver Streak. He gave June a meaningful look and nodded toward the turnstiles behind him. The dual system of turnstiles counted guests who entered the queue lines on the midway and those who made it all the way through the line to the loading platform. Maybe comparing the numbers was interesting for someone like Evie. If she did compare them, the numbers were not going to match up today.
The first-aid scooter, obnoxious horn beeping, pulled up behind June and one of the firefighters got out, shouldering a first-responder bag. The tall firefighter, Martin, nodded at June and spoke in a low voice, “Dispatch said there’s a leg stuck in the turnstile. No idea how something like that happens.”
“Is it bad?” she asked.
“We’ll see,” the other firefighter, Curt, said. “We called Maintenance as soon as we got here. Probably need help taking apart the turnstile.”
A boy who appeared to be fifteen years old raised his head when June and the two firefighters walked up the steps to the loading platform. Lanky and blond, the kid wore the summer uniform of basketball shorts and a Pistons T-shirt.
The Silver Streak was silent, summer workers standing around watching the spectacle. The boy whose leg was trapped grimaced in pain while two ride operators held him in the air above the three-pronged silver arms of the turnstile. His leg was twisted at a terrible angle.
June’s knee hurt just looking at the kid’s leg. There’s no pain like knee pain. Before she could ask the boy what happened, the rear entrance of the Silver Streak opened and Mel strode through. His long legs flashed and he carried a huge tool bag slung over his shoulder. He made brief eye contact with June and the two firefighters and drilled in on the mechanical problem.
“Did you try to jump over it?” Mel asked the kid, a reassuring smile on his face.
“Uh-huh,” the boy replied.
“Looks like you almost made it, but I don’t recommend trying it again.”
Why on earth would someone try to jump over a turnstile? Boys. The kid was paying for his stupidity now, though. And how did he get stuck like that? Apparently, his foot didn’t clear the arms of the silver turnstile as he tried to jump it. His shoe hooked, the arms locked, and he was trapped.
“My knee is broken,” the boy whined.
“You can’t really break your knee,” Martin said. “But that’s gotta hurt.”
Martin slid an arm under the skinny teen and held him up. Both ride operators scooted back, obviously happy to be relieved of the sweaty and miserable victim of the turnstile.
“I’ll hold him up if you can slide the leg out,” Martin told his partner.
“Can’t. The arm locked a notch back and the angle...” He didn’t finish the sentence, but June knew what he meant. This was going to be a painful lesson for the kid, and he would never want to look at a turnstile again, much less jump over one to impress his friends.
Mel knelt and examined the boy’s leg and the mechanical operation of the machine. He wiped sweat from his brow. June imagined him racing to get here in the maintenance scooter, which was probably parked under the platform. Starlight Point was surrounded by a road informally called the outer loop which offered multiple gates into the park. These gates were always locked and used only by maintenance and security, but they provided quick access when necessary without driving vehicles on the park’s midways. Only the onsite fire department drove on the midways during park operating hours, and only if it was really necessary.
“I think we can get his leg out if we take it apart,” Mel said. “I brought a bunch of tools.”
“You can’t take my leg apart,” the kid cried.
“No,” Mel assured him. “We’re taking the machine apart. I don’t cut up legs. Not in my job description.”
June glanced around, hoping no one was taking cell phone video or pictures of this. Ride closed, line empty, upset friends and armed security standing by. Two girls and one boy, probably friends of the kid locked in the turnstile, stood on the platform talking to one of the ride operators and watching anxiously. At least they don’t have their cell phones out.
“What’s your name?” Mel asked the boy as he knelt underneath him and started to remove the weathered blue metal shields on the turnstile.
“Jason.”
“First time at Starlight Point?”
The boy shook his head. “We live in Bayside and come all the time.”
“First time jumping over a turnstile?”
Jason shook his head and lowered his eyes. His flushed face got even more red.
“First time not making it over?” Mel asked.
Jason nodded and made eye contact, a tiny smile breaking through the pain on his face.
“Thought so. Were you trying to impress one of those girls over there?”
The kid looked down. “I feel stupid.”
“Don’t,” Mel said. He pointed to a scar above his eyebrow. “See this? I got it trying to impress a girl. I don’t even want to tell you how.”
“Did it work?”
“She didn’t even know I was alive. Story of my life,” Mel said.
June stood silently listening to their conversation, impressed by Mel’s ability to put the boy at ease. He must be a wonderful father.
“We’ll get you out of here,” Mel continued, “but you’ll have to trust me and work with me.”
“Have you ever done this before?” Jason asked.
“Not exactly, but I did get a Matchbox car out of the garbage disposal at my house. My son thought he’d never drive that car again, but it turned out fine. Just a few scratches on the fender.”
The kid didn’t respond, just hung there miserably while Mel used a wrench to remove more bolts from the turnstile. With the shields off, June could see the guts of the machine. A series of gears and levers. She was glad Mel knew what he was doing.
“We all have a few scratches on our fenders,” Mel continued, smiling at the boy. “Gives us character.”
June was sweating. The boy was sweating. Mel appeared perfectly calm.
One of the firefighters held an ice pack on Jason’s knee.
“It’ll cool us both off,” he said. “And make it easier to slide you out of here.”
This is my family’s park, June thought. I should know what to do. But she didn’t. She leaned close and spoke in Mel’s ear. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Not at the moment. You can do the paperwork later.” He raised one eyebrow at her. She was so close she could see the