Free All the Broken Things by Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer

slammed it as hard as he could in Max’s face to let him know what he thought of his freak show. The caravan wobbled on its concrete block foundation, and he heard Max inside yelling, “Hey, hey.”
    The feeling of telling Max about Orange—the brazen feeling Bo had got—dissipated the farther he got from the trailer, until his running became a walk, and his breathing calmed to normal.
    Bo queued for a hot dog and had already slathered it with ketchup when he heard Max behind him, apologizing again. He turned to find him sweating through his lovely jacket.
    “I’m so sorry. I have—clearly—offended you. Your sister. You must love her very much.” It was hard to tell whether this man was kind or evil. And in the space of thinking this, Bo heard: “And may I ask?”
    Max crooked his neck and made his eyes soft. “What’s wrong with her? In what way is the poor thing handicapped?”
    Bo plunged the end of the hot dog into his mouth and took a huge bite, stood there glaring up at Max, chewing, chewing. “Bad,” he blurted through the food. Max was shaking his head, as if in sympathy. And then, Bo saw how blue the man’s eyes were. They held such clear intention.
    Max smiled. “I could meet her.”
    Bo wiped his face with his sleeve. He said, “Nothanks.” Rose would never allow it, for one. And second, there was no way he wanted this man seeing Orange.
    “Listen, call me Max, would you?” Max flapped his jacket to air his armpits. “Kid,” he said. “Look, how bad off is she?”
    “This is—” Bo wanted to say “stupid” or “ridiculous” but couldn’t find the word straightaway.
    Orange was bad, Bo thought, really bad if he compared her to the freak show pictures on the walls of Max Jennings’ caravan. “She’s a monster,” he said. “And not for sale.”
    Max looked affronted. “I wasn’t offering to buy her,” he said. “The curiosities have
contracts
, child.” He went thoroughly red in the face. “Well then, what about a photograph? Fifty? Seventy?”
    “No,” said Bo. No photograph.
    “Come on, boy. Everyone has a price.”
    “No.”

    B O PUSHED BACK THROUGH the midway to find Gerry. Once he got to the ring, he saw a huge man clad only in sparkly blue trunks prancing around the ring with his arms aloft, hands fisted, chanting, “Me, me, me,” and another man slumped in the corner covering his face in a cape fashioned out of a Canadian flag androcking in exaggerated lamentation. Watching took Bo’s mind off Max. His eyes followed the ruckus in the ring, but when Bo slowed his thoughts and pulled his gaze to waist level, he saw men opening wallets, men accepting money, nods and shrugs. Green flowed. He did not know exactly what it meant, but he knew that Gerry saw in him a green flow.
    Every so often the sad wrestler lifted his eyes to watch the huge man, then launched into another bout of crying. This the crowd loved. They shook their heads, yelled, “Come off it, get over yourself.” Bo overheard someone say, “He ain’t called the Clown for nothing, eh?” And then the wrestler who had lost the match unwrapped himself to reveal the dregs of face paint melting off his cheeks and a rubber nose hanging around his neck from an elastic band. The Clown.
    The announcer peered from the ring into the audience. “And now it’s your turn, people! Who here is a ninety-eight-pound weakling? Who here has something to prove?” On the other side of the ring, Gerry rubbed Loralei’s neck, latched the chain to her collar.
    Look at her, Bo thought, she’s beautiful.
    The announcer swung the mic around and around, grabbed it and crooned, “Prove your strength with the lovely Loralei! Who’s gonna be the first nutcase?”
    The bear scrambled up the ramp, Gerry restraining her with the leash. Bo thought of those Junction dogs luckyenough to get walked to High Park, dragging their owners. The bear did not seem to know she had a person attached to her. But no, Loralei scented back; her