Chinese Handcuffs by Chris Crutcher Page A

important except that it tells me something about my roots with her and why she seems so important in my life.
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    She hollers, “Wait up!” from around the corner, just back from the bottle throw. I hear her, recognize her voice, but I can’t see her through the crowd. “Wait!” she yells again, so I stand fast, holding Christy by the back of her coat collar, letting Stacy find me.
    â€œLook!” she yells, and finally I see her, sidestepping all the folks pressed up to the dart throw, dancing through the steady stream of people moving toward the big green canvas tent for the next performance of EPHRAIM, THE ASTOUNDING DOG BOY, THE ONE AND ONLY OF HIS KIND IN THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.
    I wonder if they have an abundance of astounding dog boys in the Eastern Hemisphere.
    â€œDillon,” she hollers again, waving with one hand,pointing at me with the other, this funny-looking, colored straw extension protruding from her index finger, aimed directly at my heart.
    I say, “Hi,” as Christy reaches for the sky like a saloon bartender robbed by the Daltons, and drops to her knees, sliding out of her coat and my grasp. I dive and catch her belt loop an instant before she could have scrambled into the crowd, only to surface at Lost and Found a half hour later stuffed with ice cream and cotton candy to silence her wailing until Mom or I got there. Part of me wants to let her go because though I’m only nine years old, I’m totally, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with Stacy Ryder and I know I could negotiate those mysterious waters better without my pain-in-the-butt sister in the boat. But I am what Mom calls a “trustworthy caretaker,” and besides, Stacy likes you, so I don’t let Christy go. “Nice try, peckerbrains,” I say, lifting her to her feet by the belt and handing her jacket back. “Put this back on. Don’t make me use the leash.”
    Christy’s eyes narrow defiantly, and that impish smile crosses her lips, letting me know that wasn’t her last, or even her best, escape attempt. I don’t know how we were able to keep her in the family, Pres. Seems like she spent her first ten years trying to get away. Maybe she knew something we didn’t.
    â€œStick your finger in here,” Stacy says, and I stare at the long orange-and-brown woven straw barrel extending from the end of her finger like a silencer on a handgun.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œJust stick your finger in.”
    I hesitate, squinting. “Is this a trick?”
    She raises her eyebrows, a move I have long been convinced was designed solely to bring me to my knees. “Of course, it’s a trick,” she says. “This is a carnival.”
    I stick my finger in. “Gotcha,” she says. “You can’t get away.”
    This is Stacy Ryder. I don’t want away, but I pull my hand back anyway. The straw tightens around my knuckle. I pull harder.
    â€œPull as hard as you want,” she says. “It won’t come off.”
    I do pull harder, yank it, but my finger is caught fast. “What is this thing?” I ask, bringing it, along with Stacy’s hand, closer to my face.
    She says, “Chinese handcuffs. Neat, huh?”
    â€œYeah, neat. Do the Chinese use these?”
    â€œI guess. They’re Chinese handcuffs.”
    â€œHow do I get them off?”
    She shrugs. “You don’t. Once you’re in ’em, you’re in ’em for good. Unless you know the secret.”
    â€œSo what’s the secret?” I ask, at the same moment Christy drops out of the bottom of her jacket again. I reach; but Stacy and the Chinese handcuffs hold me back, and Christy stands just out of reach, hands on her buttocks, eyes squinted, chin stuck out a mile, a pose I’m sure you were as familiar with as I.
    â€œYou’re in trouble now,” she says, and vanishes in a forest of legs.
    I say, “Shit. Lemme out of