Free We'll Always Have Paris by Jennifer Coburn Page A

that ride alone again, not even when I was thirty. “You could’ve been killed jumping out of that cart,” he explained.
    “Um, you know, I was never going to jump out of the cart,” I said meekly.
    “You weren’t?”
    I shook my head. My father pondered this for a moment and lit a cigarette. “Listen, I risked my life with that stunt, so do me a favor and let me think it was for a good reason.”
    When I returned home that evening, I told my mother about my father’s heroics at the Spook-a-Rama. She knit her brow, unimpressed. “That was rather dramatic, don’t you think?” I looked at her sitting at the kitchen table with papers sprawled in front of her, likely paying bills or filling out school forms. “Why didn’t Shelly just tell someone to turn off the ride instead of making such a production?”
    “He was scared,” I explained.
    “More like impulsive,” she said returning to her papers. “People get themselves killed doing foolish things when there’s usually a simple solution if they’d just think with a clear head.”
    “I was going to jump out of that cart,” I lied. “I would’ve died of electrocution if he hadn’t saved me. He saved my life.”
    ***
    A half hour into the tour of London Dungeon, Katie and I looked at each other in disgust. This was no fake monster ride. It was a historically accurate, excruciatingly graphic glorification of brutality. “I want to get out of here,” I said.
    “Me too,” Katie replied in a hurry.
    I tapped a woman in costume who moments earlier had been barking threats at us and told her we needed to leave. “Right then, loves,” she said sweetly. “Let’s get you out.” She took Katie by the hand and led us away from the group. When we were out of earshot, she said to Katie, “Everything is a show in the Dungeon.” We walked down a dark hallway and she continued. “We’re all actors and students having some laughs, nothing to be afraid of.” With that, she opened a door as the three of us flinched at the daylight. The woman extended a bloody arm, pointing the way out, and cheerfully wished us a good day in London.
    Katie and I headed to a tea shop in Notting Hill with white eyelet curtains and small tables made from pinewood. I half expected Goldilocks to come walking through the door at any moment. We ate scones and leafed through the ample selection of children’s books until we were ready to walk about and look at charming brick buildings with brightly painted doors and weathered shutters.
    The next day, Molly took us to Oxford despite the fact that there had been a minor bombing days earlier. I was impressed that Katie was so interested in visiting the university until I found out that she only wanted to see the locations where Harry Potter was filmed. Wherever we traveled, we saw others with the book. Potter fans would give each other a knowing nod, then compare how far along they were in the tome.
    As Thandie suggested, we saw Mary Poppins and took in a few other shows in the West End. In my mind, I’d mixed up the harmlessly campy musical Guys and Dolls with the dodgy sexed-up Chicago and purchased tickets. I couldn’t wait to see Brooke Shields play Adelaide and sing about how a person could develop a cold. Katie’s eyes lit up as the curtain rose and prison women in fishnet stockings and bustiers sang about how their murder victims had it comin’. At intermission, I asked Katie what she thought. I could hear a few fellow theatergoers quiet their companions because they too wanted to hear this child’s take. “I totally fancy this show!” Katie said, borrowing another expression from Megan. “I just have one question.”
    “Hush, love, I must hear this,” a woman behind us whispered to her husband.
    “What the heck is it about?” Katie asked.
    The woman laughed. “Precious,” she said. “Has no idea what it’s about, but loves it. I do long to be a child again.”
    I turned around and smiled at the woman.
    She returned