Girl on the Ferris Wheel

by Julie Halpern

  “Hey,” I say. “Need anything?” I ask this out of habit, out of guilty obligation for my mom and pity for my dad.

  “Nah.” Isaac shrugs. Samara doesn’t even bother with words, just a lazy dismissive wave. My cue to grab my backpack and escape to my room.

  The original parental plan was to give me, the eldest and wisest of the spawn, the basement when I turned into a “woman” post bat mitzvah. Thanks to my dad’s career choice and the world moving on without him, the basement was handed over to 4,723 inanimate objects. The only option to claim any space of my own in our three-bedroom house was to move into the meager walk-in closet attached to the Sisters Room (what we call the girls’ bedroom in the house, even though it has a somewhat terrifying polygamist-sounding title). I fit in a single futon mattress plus a compact IKEA bookshelf. Lucky for me there is a small, octagonal window in the closet, so I can tell what time of day it is as well as estimate the weather without a paper plate.

  It’s not as bad as I’m making it sound. Except on those days when I just want to be alone. Which is pretty much most days. I feel like my medication should take care of that more than it does.

  I struggle past my sisters’ bunk bed with my backpack and heave it onto my futon mattress, pulling my door closed. Solitude. I click on the overhead bulb and the string of Jack Skellington lights I bought at Walgreens for ambience. The small and high window provides little actual light. I have often imagined whether I could escape through the eight-sided hole if there were ever a fire or a home intruder.

  I position the futon so it becomes a makeshift couch and breeze through my homework. With physics out of the way, school should be relatively easy this year. At least the classes will be. Living through each day in that building, surrounded by people who either remember who I was or have no idea I exist, is another matter. My close friends all but abandoned me while I languished in a mental hospital last year, and the rest of the student body didn’t even know I was gone.

  This is one of those moments my therapist says I should call a friend or journal to escape my dark thoughts. Dark thoughts, however, pretty much smother all motivation to do anything but watch movies.

  I pull out my laptop and stuff on my headphones, click on Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and settle into my usual position until someone forces me to go downstairs for dinner. This is my favorite Harry Potter movie because, aside from (or because of?) the death, it is kind of romantic. Everyone is preparing for the Yule Ball, and you can practically smell the hormones wafting off the screen. Plus I really like all the shaggy hair. When I watch movies, I am able to leave my head for a spell. Go somewhere instead of here. Be someone instead of me. But sometimes a crappy thought can still sneak in. Would I be the depressed weirdo at Hogwarts, too?

  Dmitri

  Art and Craft of Cinema is third period, and I’m already in a pretty good mood.

  First, Tuesdays are exponentially better than Mondays. This is a scientifically proven fact. Second, I was kind of bummed yesterday that not one person in school mentioned the Unexpected Turbulence show from over the weekend. We definitely killed, and I’ll admit, I had walked into school—okay, strutted into school—thinking I would be the happy recipient of praise and adoration.

  Nada.

  This is partly because I’m a drummer. We’re kind of invisible, shrouded and shielded by our drum kits. Singers and guitar players get way more attention. I’m sure Chad basked in the warm glow of his fans yesterday. I can picture his self-satisfied swagger and it makes me sick.

  I’ll put it out there right now: I don’t like Chad. He is a pretty good singer and a solid front man for UT, but I’ve been in the band since I was thirteen and Chad has never taken me seriously. The one time I tried to introduce a song to our set, I got this “you’re a drummer, Dimmi; drummers don’t write songs” crap. Chad can be a douche when he wants to. (“Hey, Dmitri, what happened when the bass player locked his keys in the car? It took him half an hour to get the drummer out.” Ha. Ha. Chad.) It doesn’t help that the other guys in the band are all seniors and I’m a sophomore. They never really let me forget that.

  So today, when Jimmy Roach (yes, that’s his real name) gave me a high five and raved about the gig, well, I felt redeemed. It was a solid gig, and it’s good to be acknowledged for it.

  Mr. Tannis, our film teacher, wears his hair long and has a thick black moustache. He looks like something out of a movie from the 1970s or 1980s. I guess that makes sense. He was probably a film student back then. He smiles at me as I take my seat and open my notebook. We don’t have a textbook for this course; Mr. Tannis told us on the first day that our learning would all be done on screen. I love this class.

  When we’re settled into our seats and Mr. Tannis has started writing on the board, the door opens just wide enough for a new girl to slink in. And I mean slink. Her shoulders are hunched and her eyes are down. She kind of shuffles to Mr. Tannis and hands him a slip of paper. He reads it, looks up, and smiles. “Welcome to the class”—he looks down again—“Eliana. Find yourself a seat.”

  Eliana stops and scans the room like she really wants a desk up front, but the only empty seat is next to me, in the back. She shrinks into herself a little more—I’m not sure how that’s possible—and makes her way toward camp Dmitri.

  She’s about five three, has a nose that turns up at the end, hazel eyes, and straight and shiny brown hair that hangs down over half her face. She’s wearing all dark clothes and this pair of Chucks that look like they’re being held together by sheer force of will. For some reason, when she takes her seat, I notice that she smells good. Like, really good. I can’t tell if it’s perfume or shampoo or just her, but it’s distracting the hell out of me.

  “So how many of you watched North by Northwest?” Mr. Tannis asks.

  I raise my hand, trying to keep my gaze on the new girl. I think I’ve seen her around but can’t be sure. She didn’t go to my middle school or elementary school, and with more than four hundred kids in my grade alone, it’s hard to know everyone. Her eyes are forward, but I can tell she knows I’m staring at her and she doesn’t like it. I figure I should break the ice.

  “Hi,” I whisper.

  She doesn’t even flinch. She’s still looking at Mr. Tannis. “Who wants to share,” he’s saying, “some impressions of the movie?” Margaret’s hand shoots up. She’s in the front row and her hand is always the first one up. In every single class. “Margaret?” Mr. Tannis asks, a note of exasperation or resignation or some other-ation in his voice.

  Margaret starts a soliloquy about the crop duster scene—um, yeah, pretty obvious, Margaret—but I’m not really listening. I kind of feel like the new girl has thrown down a gauntlet, daring me to break through her tough exterior. Challenge accepted.

  “Hi,” I whisper again. “I’m Dmitri.”

  She side-eyes me, and I’m pretty sure I see a tiny smirk before her eyes dart back to the front of the class.

  “I’m the drummer for Unexpected Turbulence.”

  She places her index finger against her lips.

  “What’s your na—”

  “Shhh!” Her smackdown is loud enough that Margaret stops talking and everyone else cranes their necks to look in our direction.

  “Everything okay back there?” Mr. Tannis asks.

  Neither one of us say anything, but we both nod.

  Margaret doesn’t miss a beat, launching once again into her description of the plane chasing Cary Grant through the cornfield. It’s like a play-by-play of the action in the movie, but misses what I think must be the larger point about how Hitchcock used the absence of dialogue, sound editing, and unusual camera angles to build tension.

  Eliana—I think that’s what Mr. Tannis called her—tucks her hair behind her ear, and for some reason my heart beats a little faster. “Have you seen the movie?” I whisper.

  I detect the slightest nod.

  Honestly, I don’t know why I’m so transfixed by this girl. Maybe it is
just the challenge of trying to get her to pay attention to me, maybe it’s a bit of ego from playing in a band, or maybe it’s Yia Yia’s voice in my head, talking about girlfriends and love.

  My phone vibrates, jolting me back to the moment. I sneak a peek—something totally forbidden during class, but something every kid with a phone (so every kid) does. It’s from Chad.

  CHAD: Rehearsal today after school.

  Another Chadism—everything’s a demand, nothing’s a question. Whatever.

  ME: K. See you then.

  Eliana’s shoulders have relaxed a little now that my attention is off her, and I decide it’s best to leave her alone.

  For now.

  Eliana

  Mr. Tannis (how I am not going to constantly refer to him as “Mr. Tennis,” I do not know) looks like the cover of one of my dad’s seventies videotapes. I don’t think I’ll ever find a moustache an acceptable form of facial hair. Really, I find most forms of facial hair off-putting: Goatees are clearly cover-ups for problem chin areas, sideburns are never symmetrical and are, therefore, meant to distract from some other sinister personality flaw, and topping it off are moustaches, which repulse me to my core. Why would anyone want to grow several layers of hair above their lip? How can that feel good? Do they really think it looks attractive? It’s like standard poodles, which I find terribly disturbing. As my mom says, “There’s nothing standard about them.”

  How am I supposed to learn anything in a class run by a man with a moustache?

  And, frankly, how is anyone supposed to teach me anything about films when my dad has been schooling me on them since before I could talk? I want to say something about North by Northwest being too obvious a choice of Hitchcock films. Why not go with something more obscure, like Marnie? Who wouldn’t want to talk about a movie where a woman can’t handle seeing the colors red and white together? That’s a brilliantly random plot point there. I consider raising my hand to bring this up, but Mr. Tennis Moustache is already engaged in a conversation-for-one with a girl in the front row. Plus, this guy sitting next to me is trying to talk to me.

  I caught a glimpse of him before I sat down: dark hair, dark eyes, straight teeth. I am fascinated by braces-straightened teeth. My parents gave me the choice in middle school: braces or Disney World. I was somewhat of a late bloomer when it came to caring about my appearance, so of course I chose Disney World. I do not regret the decision, but it does mean that my teeth aren’t Hollywood-worthy. They’re not horrible or snaggly or even that noticeable unless I smile. Even then, there’s nothing wrong with them. They’re just not perfect. Forgive me, world, for not being perfect.

  I look ahead, trying to listen to the moustachioed man, but I can feel the eyes of this guy next to me searing into my skull. What does he want? Does he need a pencil? A cough drop? The Heimlich?

  My bangs are not sufficiently covering my view of Staring Boy, as much as I try. He keeps whispering something to me, but I can’t hear him over the music from the girl’s poorly hidden earbuds on my other side. Is he really trying to get my name? Why would he want that? He’s far too cute to want it for any good reason.

  I can’t take it anymore, so I full-on librarian “Shhh” him. I know it’s a cliché to say that librarians shush people, but it’s one I quite like. I dream of the day I’m in a powerful enough position in life to officially tell people to be quiet.

  He continues talking, undeterred by my shushery. Maybe he hasn’t heard of the patented librarian shush. Maybe he doesn’t speak English. Does one need to speak English to understand a shhh?

  By the grace of modern technology, the guy’s cell phone buzzes and he loses interest in whatever it was he was interested in. Was he interested in me? Nah. I probably have a giant booger hanging from my nose, and he was trying to give me a boog report. I casually nudge my nose with my knuckle, but it feels clean.

  Three minutes later, the bell rings and I scuttle out of the classroom before I have to engage with anyone. My best friend (and pretty much my only friend at this point), Janina, waits for me at my locker, long, dark hair effortlessly coiffed in a messy bun. She towers over me, obscuring the fluorescent hallway light. Ironically, Janina has been the only light for me in these hallways for the last year or so. Friends are hard to keep around when you aren’t pleasant and easygoing. Never mind the fact that I have zero control over the chemical imbalance altering my brain. My dad tried to feed me the “real friends stay with you through thick and thin” BS. My mom, with her standard-poodle-loathing wisdom, put it better: “People can be assholes. You don’t want those people.” Still, it would be nice to have more than one person to eat lunch with. Sucky for me, that one person isn’t even in my lunch period.

  “How was the film class? Do you just sit around and watch movies?” Janina is in the career program at our school, so she goes to regular high school in the morning and buses to a different campus for cosmetology classes in the afternoons. If not for Janina, I would still have the crooked bob I cut myself in junior high. I thought it looked edgy. Janina thought it made me look “like Vanessa Hudgens playing a runaway teen.”

  “Too early to tell. I spent most of the class not talking to a guy next to me who very possibly wanted to learn my name. It was confusing. I just want an A after my grade crash last year.” I slam my locker and spin the dial. This year my locker dial is particularly fluid, which I appreciate much more than last year’s sticky spinner. It is far more satisfying to watch the numbers fly by than to have them stop shy of my combination

  “That sounds promising. Was he cute?” Janina, having blossomed as she has, is light years ahead of me in the boy department. While she goes out and does sexy things with actual people, I find I’m more comfortable having fake dates in my head with Bill Weasley.

  “Maybe? I barely got a look at him. I mostly heard his voice. His appealingly deep voice.”

  “I prefer talkers to the silent types. We’re supposed to think there’s something mysterious when a guy doesn’t talk, but I think it just means he’s a dumbass.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I file this away in the “Things I Will Never Need to Know Because I Will Never Be Asked on a Date Anyway” drawer. “I better get going,” I tell Janina. “I can’t be late for gym again this week. I tried to get Mr. Person to let me drop it, but he gave me some statewide mandate bullshit.”

  “Catch you later.” Janina floats off, and I hit the gym locker room precisely as the bell rings. “I’m here!” I scream to Ms. Conway, my beleaguered gym teacher.

  “You’re lucky!” Ms. Conway replies from her office.

  I quickly shrug off my clothes and dress in my gym uniform: rough green shorts and a worn green t-shirt. Inside my locker is a travel-sized deodorant stick, and I rub on an extra layer. Today is running day, my favorite gym day of the week, because all I have to do is shuffle my way around the track while the conglomerate of gym teachers blasts “motivational” running music. It beats the volleyball unit, where Megan Thickpenny’s main goal is to hit me in the head with her serve just because I did that to her one time. And it’s not like I meant to (on a conscious level).

  Before I start my run on the track, I lean against the cinder-block wall and stretch my calves. If I were a serious runner, I would probably change into shoes without tape holding parts of them together. But in my opinion, serious running isn’t something one should aspire to in PE.

  Ridiculously loud bass pumps through ancient, crackling speakers while the gym teachers ignore their students and pretend they are in da club. I wouldn’t be surprised if that wasn’t Gatorade in their sports bottles.

  I keep to the slow lane, jogging behind two speed walkers.

  And then I notice him. It’s that guy from my film class. At least I think it’s him. Sometimes it’s hard to recognize people in this sea of green polyester. He’s one lane over, the lane that says, “I’m not trying, but I’m kind of fit,” jogging with a friend. I slow down so as not to pass him, which I shouldn’t be do
ing anyway by lane protocol. He speeds away, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m still wary about why he would even want to know my name. I find my jogging groove, and as I run I pretend I’m on the Hogwarts track, prepping for my role in the Triwizard Tournament. (In this scenario, I am the Hufflepuff representative, and I do not die.) I’m feeling good, endorphins kicking in, fantasy in full effect, when I see the guy from film class pass me in the next lane. He turns around to look at me, and I’m certain it’s him. That’s when he trips over his friend and slams into the track. So much for my Triwizard Cup.

  Dmitri

  When I was eleven, my parents took Nicky and me to the Valleyfair theme park in Shakopee. They’ve got roller coasters and log flumes and these pretty cool animatronic dinosaurs. Nicky hated roller coasters back then—actually, he still hates them—so my parents left me alone on the line at the Excalibur, an old-style wooden coaster, while they took him to some tamer rides. The real thrill of the Excalibur wasn’t the twists and turns, it was not knowing if the whole thing’s imminent collapse was going to happen while you were on it.

  When the ride finished (still intact), I didn’t see my parents anywhere. So, on my mother’s very strict instructions, which were more or less yelled at me—“We not here, you go straight from roller coaster to bumpy car ride. No talking strangers!”—I walked to the “bumpy” cars. On the way, I couldn’t help but notice this gaggle of girls about my age sitting on benches and looking at their phones.

  This was sixth grade, which meant that all of a sudden there were girls in the world. I mean, I noticed there were girls before the sixth grade, but not noticed noticed. (Girls had started noticing boys in the second grade. Go figure.)

  Anyway, there was this gaggle of girls in short shorts and bikini tops—a lot of Valleyfair is a water park—and one of them looked up from her phone and stared at me. I’m not the best-looking boy, but I’m not the worst, either. This girl and I held each other’s gaze, and, not knowing what else to do, I gave a small wave of my hand. Only I hadn’t stopped moving while this was going on, and I walked directly into a light post.