The Amazement Park opened in 1953.
Get lost in the fun! posters advertised, and ti was true; Crowds surged through the gates in the morning and didn’t stumble out again until the sun had set, and spotlights at the exit guided them free. The maps were useless, the You Are Here guides impossible to find. It was a park designed to swallow. Trees loomed over lush grounds. Signature topiary lined every walled and wandering path, adding to the sense of wonder. Roller coasters, swings, carousels, games, houses of love and fun and terror – though the house at the very center was always closed for refurbishment.
“Hon. Morgan is missing.”
That’s how Dad put it when he called. I’d been in the passenger seat, trying to recover from my airplane nerves, wishing my mom would drive a little faster, when my phone buzzed in the cup holder.
Good thing I wasn’t driving. Mom and I were both tired after the early-morning flight back to New Hampshire. I had offered to drive home from the airport, but we both knew I was still to rattled to be operating a car.
“Missing… like missing missing?” I asked. I tend not to be very eloquent when I’m anxious. And Dad has a way of overdramatizing things, so I wanted to clarify.
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Everybody seems to think the summer after your senior year is the stuff of legends. That it’s two months of pure teenage bliss or something. It’s almost as if there’s this big conspiracy surrounding it, like, sure, kid, throw your cap in the air, cue up that hit pop song you will definitely hate by fall, and then you, too, will be guaranteed the most epic summer of your life. I mean, we all know that’s not how it actually goes down, right?