Senior Kiran Damodaran ’17 earned his 2nd Scholastic Art & Writing Silver Medal in two years, last year for Poetry and this year for his short story, “Carnival Games.” Kiran’s fiction and poetry have been published in Crashtest Magazine, YARN Magazine, Canvas Literary Journal, the Louisville Review, the Edison Literary Review, the Claremont Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine and The Writer’s Slate. He was one of six semi-finalists for the 2016 Scholastic National Student Poet program. Kiran is founder and editor-in-chief of Amber Literary Magazine. About the following short story, he says, “The following piece attempts to tackle the difficult issues surrounding school shootings, including the way in which the shooters are portrayed in the news. The story focuses on the family and friends of the shooter and the lasting impression they are left with.”
“Carnival Games” by Kiran Damodaran
“James, you’ve spent more on this game than they spent on all these stuffed animals combined!” I pleaded, half-annoyed, half-amazed by his perseverance.
“Just one more game! Please baby, trust me I’ve got this.”
“That’s what you said the last eight times!” I snapped back.
“It’s rigged. You’re not going to—”
“Winner!” the speaker next to me boomed.
“What was that?” he teased, a smile creeping across his mouth.
I tried to look angry, but broke into laughter. He embraced me in a bear hug, his jacket zipper scratching against my ears and his chin resting on my head.
“So which one do you want?” the man behind the table interrupted.
James grinned, looking over at me.
“Which do you want?”
“The panda,” I replied, hugging him.
“The panda,” he repeated to the man behind the table while he pulled me into him.
As I sit in my room hugging that cheap panda (we named it Paul), it’s hard to remember the James from then – the one that held my clammy hand in 90-degree heat and wrapped me in his arms, cocooning my friends’ broken promises. That was the James I loved and knew.
The James I didn’t recognize was the one that marched into school one day with a blank expression, pulled an AK-47 out of his jacket, and opened fire on the friends we had known for years. When somebody becomes labeled a “School Shooter,” everything else about them is lost. They become a faceless monster with mental issues and a gun in their hands. To be honest, by the end of his life James probably fit that image pretty well. He wasn’t always as angry at the world as he came to be. About six months before the shooting, he was a happy, normal teenager – the “model student.”
Then, his sister died in a car crash. The effect on James was devastating. For about two months, we barely saw him. His family decided they needed some time away from home so they took a vacation to Hawaii. When he returned, he wasn’t the same. The smile that had always permeated his lips was replaced with a stone cold expression, the dimples that had always sat just beneath his eyes were replaced with bags from lost dreams, and the good in the world he had always been able to see was replaced with evil. I like to think that he left his real self on those beaches in Hawaii and that he’s still out there somewhere. I need to think that. The Not-So-James that came home soon lost all of his old friends. I was the last one to give up.
We were sitting in his basement on a frigid November afternoon when I finally said it.
“You’re not you any more,” I told him, bracing myself for his response.
When he didn’t reply, I continued a little louder.
“James, you’ve changed. I miss the old you.”
Without looking up, he responded, “I know.”
“Please James I’m trying. I really am. I love you and I know that everything going on around you has been really tough but I also know that you’re still in there! This isn’t what your sister would have wanted for you,” I said, begging him to give me something.
When he didn’t react again, I knew I had to. “I can’t do this anymore,” I announced softly.
He nodded his head like a machine, his empty eyes staring across the room at an old Beatles poster on the wall. It was hers.
“Do you even care?” I asked quietly, my voice trembling in the beginning of an earthquake.
“Of course I care! You’re all I have left you’re all that matters to me anymore and you think I don’t care? If it weren’t for you I’d already be happily six feet under and I’m sorry if I’m not being the best fucking boyfriend in the world Julia, I really am, but I thought you of all people would understand,” he exploded.
“James, I’ve trie–”
“Don’t tell me that you’ve tried!” he cut me off, his voice cracking.
“James just hear me out please–”
“Just get out! I’m sick of this!” he screamed, tears beginning to swell in his eyes.
I left silently, turning back one last time to see him shaking violently, his back facing me.
It’s hard to defend someone who killed eight people in cold blood. But for a while after the shooting I tried. And failed. But at least I tried. And that’s more than most of his “friends” can say. Nobody at school talked about the devastating effect the loss of his sister had on him or his father, who turned to booze, hoping for some message at the bottom of that bottle other than another bad hangover. All anybody focused on was the shooting and so James transformed into something less than human in their eyes. He became defined by his last actions.
So now you know why I don’t like to talk about the shooting. Yes, it was James but at the same time it wasn’t. It could have been just about any fucked up teenager in this world. It’s the same blurred silhouette no matter what.
I want to tell you about the carnival instead. It was mid-June, a slight breeze making it the perfect summer night. As we approached the gates of the entrance, James pulled the crumpled tickets out of his jean pocket. The carnival’s flashing lights lit up our small dark town like an out-of-place Christmas tree, building cotton candy smiles across sugar-stained faces. Every time I walk through a carnival, I think back to the first one my dad ever brought me too.
When I was about six years old, he took me with him to our church’s annual carnival. The rides were small and broken down, the games were rigged, and the food was old and overpriced, but to me it was heaven. My dad bought me a small vanilla ice cream cone with rainbow sprinkles, which I then smeared all over my face (saving it for later as my mom would say). We went around to each ride and game, the large roll of tickets we had purchased quickly vanishing. When I asked if we could get more tickets he hugged me happily and pulled a crumpled group of one-dollar bills out of his pocket to give to the man at the stand.
The same way my dad gave the carnival meaning to me back then, James was able to give it new significance that summer. Like when my dad took me, halfway through the carnival my face was smeared with vanilla ice cream once again. James and I walked around the grounds surveying each game and making up stories for each person running the stand. They were stupid and pointless but we loved them because it was the other person who was telling them. We laughed so hard our bellies hurt. Finally about an hour or two before the carnival ended, James declared possibly the most absurd thing I had ever heard:
“I have never tasted a funnel cake,” he admitted, laughing.
“You shouldn’t be laughing about this. That is a sick joke!” I said, poking him in the ribs playfully.
“Today is the day you taste your first funnel cake.”
“Fine but only if you help me eat it,” he retorted.
“Deal.”
While we were eating the funnel cake, a clown in a jumpsuit walked past us carrying his pet dog, ready to make balloon animals or spend the day at the gym. James and I burst out laughing at the exact same time, causing powder to fly everywhere.
“Well, I’ve only ever had one funnel cake, but I’ve gotta say, I already like them,” he joked.
As I began to respond, he put his finger to my lips, his attention drawn to a game across the grounds.
“Jules, I’m gonna say something crazy here but I need you to follow me on this one,” he started.
“That game over there is the bane of my existence.”
“That game over there is the bane of your existence,” I repeated back to him.
“It has ruled me since the first time I ever attended a carnival, but that ends tonight,” he continued.
“Let’s do it,” I said, feigning determination.
“Let’s do it,” he echoed, his eyes focused on the prize.
As we approached the table, he pulled a group of loose dollar bills out of his pocket and handed one to the man behind the table. The man handed him three lightweight balls and began to explain the rules to him. I couldn’t help but snicker at the look of concentration on his face. The minutes passed quickly and the stack of dollar bills began to disappear. The concentration turned into frustration and the night continued to stretch on. Finally, I spoke up.
“James you’ve spent more on this game than they spent on all these stuffed animals combined!” I pleaded, half-annoyed, half-amazed by his perseverance.
“Just one more game! Please baby, trust me I’ve got this.” he begged.
“That’s what you said the last eight times!” I snapped back at him.
“It’s rigged you’re not going to-”
“Winner!” the speaker next to me boomed.
“What was that?” he teased, a smile creeping across his mouth.
I tried to look angry, but my attempts to keep a straight face failed as I broke into laughter. He embraced me in a bear hug, his jacket zipper scratching against my ears and his chin resting on my head.
“So which one do you want?” the man behind the table interrupted.
James grinned, looking over at me.
“Which do you want?”
“The panda,” I replied, hugging him.
“The panda,” he repeated to the man behind the table while he pulled me into him.
As I sit in my room hugging that cheap panda (we named it Paul), it’s hard to remember the James from then.
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