That was definitely a scream. Even through my earphones, I heard that. Not the thrilled squeals of all those losers outside, paying to be tipped upside down and pummeled into the wind. A proper, hairs have gone up on my arms, scream. Like the ones in zombie movies, from shrieking soft-skinned girls forced to fend off filthy mouths reeking of rotten flesh and poor oral hygiene. My guess is that scream’s only a few yards away. But hey, I’m sure it’s nothing. Just excited kids. Surely, I’d smell the blood and guts if a zombie cut loose in the House of Mirrors? I have an excellent sense of smell.

The problem is, I’ve lost Jason and ended up circling this stupid kids’ maze for hell knows how long. Well, he can bloody find me. It was his idea anyway.

“Let’s do the mirror maze for a laugh.”

And, as so often happens with a ‘Jason’ idea, this is not such a laugh, after all. I squat down against one of the purple-lit mirrors, fossick in my backpack for the rest of my Diet Coke, adjust my earphones and…shit! Something sharp pricks my finger. It’s the open pin of my stupid school badge that mom made me get. She thinks it shows school pride, and apparently, I need that to make up for my pathetic grades. I’d forgotten I’d thrown it in there when I yanked it off my denim jacket this morning. I had that thing attached for about ten minutes, searching for Jason this morning, before he saw me, pointed, and screamed.

“Ahh! Evidence of the hellhole! Take it off! Take it off!”

 So, now I crank up the volume, suck on my sore finger, and close my eyes. Pretending I’m the star of some freaky Gaga clip; swinging on a trapeze in hot pants, triangle shoulder pads, pink hair, and painted face. Surrounded by hot guys with cool moves. But ordinary non-celebrity me opens my eyes to a much pudgier, insipid reality. I’ve already decided to never wear these leggings again. The stupid mirrors offer way too many purple perspectives of my fat arse. I figure Jason must be lost too. Probably fanning fingers at his zitty face, trying to attract the attention of some muscled-up dude who’ll think he’s adorable. Yeah, cause all the muscle dudes hang about in kids’ funfair mazes. After about ten minutes, I’ve had enough music and moping, so I haul myself up from the floorboards. Taking out an earphone, I yell.

 “Jason, you still here? Come and find me.” No reply. He probably thinks this is such a cool prank but it’s starting to really piss me off. His pranks, like his ‘fun’ ideas, can be pretty lame. Actually, I can’t hear anybody else either. No more pounding footsteps, cackles, and mock horror shrieks. Not a sound.

“Jason? Stop being a tool.”

Still nothing.

Oh, come on. Standing completely still, I’m surrounded by mirrors. Forced to face the sight of my broad backside, jagged mess of what’s meant to be a cool undercut at the back of my head, and the slimy shine of my forehead. All my selves mirroring back at me. Brilliant. So, in what reality would all the people in this maze be huddled into a corner, hiding from me, convinced by Jason to pull off the world’s greatest prank on his best friend? I’ve watched way too many zombie flicks, so I’m starting to hope that’s exactly what’s happening. Nothing. Not even footsteps.

“Jason, I’m gonna kill you. This is not funny, you moron.”

Still nothing. 

“Bloody answer me!”

Silence.

“Anyone?”

Ok, now I’m officially losing it. 

My heart is hammering. Running through the mirrored pathways, screaming, all I see is me. Me, with my mouth agape. Me, with my boobs flopping up and down in my sister’s borrowed bra (because at least hers is black and not the ugly skin tone ones mom bought me). Me, with mottled pink rash creeping up my throat. Where is the bloody exit? Ok, I admit I’m a bit geographically challenged, but now I’m just spinning out. Lights, mirrors, me, and walls. Is this how it all ends? Sixteen years of nothing in particular, but rap music, too many cheeseburgers, mind-numbing assignments on the Industrial Revolution, a perpetually disappointed mother, reluctant virginity, and hatred of my thighs. I’m really not looking forward to being torn apart by some stinking undead. Oh God, what if it’s Jason? What if the last thing I see is his zombified blue eyes as he sinks his braces into my neck?

My heart stops. Literally, my breath is sucked back into my lungs and I may never breathe again. Then, a foot in front of me. Above stands a large white-face painted man in polka dot overalls, red curly wig, and a plastic nose.

“What the hell? What are you doing in here?” he scowls at me. “Didn’t you hear the announcement? This is shut. Get the hell outta here.”

“What? What do you mean? Where’s Jason?”

“Sweetheart, Jason’s not my problem. You are.”

I just stare at him.

“Look,” he sighs, “Some little girl crashed into one of the entrance mirrors and was hurt pretty bad. They closed off the whole bloody maze. That’s all I know. Then I walk by and hear you in here, screaming like a banshee.”

 I’m a bit embarrassed now.

“Ah, right,” I mutter and follow him out.

The entrance is a mess of broken glass and blood, blockaded by witches’ hats and hazard tape. Poor kid. Probably thought a zombie was chasing her and freaked out. Daylight hurts. I spot Jason waving frantically at me, outside the Coney Island gates. I’m going to kill him.

“Have no idea how you got yourself lost in a little kids’ maze,” the man says, adjusting his wig. “I wouldn’t enter any orienteering competitions in the future if I were you,” he sniggers and walks off. Bloody clown. 

END