The only person who didn’t laugh was Dutch, the carousel operator. Dutch had a missing thumb and a quiet way of looking at people like they were more than their worst parts. One night, after a particularly cruel heckler called her a “broken toy,” Stella sat on the steps of the carousel, hugging her knees.
“For the road,” he said.
A local reporter caught wind of her. The headline read: Former Carnival Performer Brings Magic to Library Story Hour . No mention of her height. No mention of “midget.” Just Stella. midget stella
“Neither do we,” Dutch said. “But we still turn.”
The girl smiled. Not at her. With her.
She packed her acorn cap into a cardboard box. Dutch watched from the fence. He didn’t say goodbye. He just handed her a small wooden horse he’d carved himself—imperfect, lopsided, one ear chipped.
The owner, a man named Coney with cigar ash on his vest, fired her on the spot. “You don’t break the fourth wall, Stella. You’re not an artist. You’re a midget.” The only person who didn’t laugh was Dutch,
Stella looked at the painted horses, their eyes wild and vacant. “They don’t go anywhere.”