Impish

CHAPTER 12: ARRIVAL

The mid-morning sun shines on my pink-ish skin. For a moment, I can fool myself into thinking that I'm just some sunburned tourist with weird body mods and that everything is fine and normal. I toss the keys to Roux, then adjust the headband that I am using to disguise my horns and hold my bangs away from my forehead. I clamber out of the driver's seat like a dog through a cat door.

When I turn back to the vehicle, Roux gives me that white person grimace-smile that I can instantly understand as meaning Stay safe; I wish it didn't have to be this way. I give them a thumbs-up (meaning, I'll definitely try, please don't get killed, I love you so much) and, in one clunky motion, grab my wallet and purse from the middle console, and kick the door closed with the thick black sole of my boot.

I think I look good today. I'm not exactly dressed for a trip to the 1950s. The black tank top, pink-and-yellow buffalo-check skirt, my yellow boots: they convey the main message and idea that I don't belong here. To be fair, Doug is in the same boat. His long hair touches the tops of his black denim jacket. His jeans are tight-- as in, way too tight, tight enough to cut off circulation.

Doug stretches with his hands locked and above his head, a mild groan, a tired grin. His tight red shirt slides back down his body. He grins lazily and rests his head on top of the car. "Are you ready to head in?"

"Yeah." I adjust the strap of my bag over my torso and move it closer to my hip. "How much are the tickets going to be?"

"Oh, we don't need to pay. Demons get in free." He drums on the top of the car as he pushes himself off of it.

"You could have told me that earlier."

"I thought I did."

"No, you definitely didn't."

Doug shrugs. "Whatever. You know we demons love rubbing our dirty little hands all over American nostalgia. Let's get going, then. You do not want to be here after dark."

We walk up to the ticket counter and Doug leads the way.

As we walk, I want to ask what he meant by that. The thought occurs to me, though, that I don't want to know. I don't want to be informed on what will happen to me if I don't toe the line here.

Instead, I ask," Who's the person we're here to see, anyway?"

"Old friend of mine. He's a master of illusion-- you'll like him. He's like a deceiver or something."

"A what?"

"I don't know the proper terms! Those are words your people use. We just call each other demons."

We walk up to the gray cement ticket booth and stand in front of its glass teller window, under the mint-teal awning and its generous shadow. My skin is still crawling and my mind is still trying to find some explanation for what Doug said. I try to put it behind me while we stand there, waiting.

It takes a while, but the teller finally looks up from what she was typing with tired, drooping eyes. She looks young, with bright dyed-red hair slicked and teased like she stepped out of a late-1950s surfer girl pin-up. The shaved leopard pattern underneath her helmet of hair is still visible, though. The ticket seller seems to be trying to fit into the aesthetics of this park and failing in some minor, completely obvious ways.

She doesn't say anything for a second, but she makes a gesture Doug seems to understand. He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. When prompted, he says, "Two tickets. And uh..." He drops his voice to a low whisper, licks his lips, and continues, "The demon discount, please."

"Excuse me?" the ticket seller says, seeming thoroughly bewildered. Doug raises an eyebrow. "Do you guys not have that anymore?"

"Are you a demon? The answer depends."