Girl on the Ferris Wheel

by Julie Halpern

  “I know. I was hoping I could talk to you about Eliana Hoffman. You’re friends with her, right?” If I thought her eyes had gone wide before, I was wrong. Now they were like dinner plates.

  The teacher, Ms. Sullivan, entered. She’s the kind of educator who is overzealous about the subject she teaches, and who seems to really hate children. She’s the same height as Reggie—which is to say, short—and always wears something pink. It could be a sweater, a dress, a pair of pants, a bow in her hair, it doesn’t matter. Every day, something pink. I guess it’s her thing. “Your attention, please,” she said, and we all took our seats.

  I usually sit on the other side of the room, next to Reggie, but today I dropped in the seat next to Janina. “So, hey,” I whispered, “does Eliana have a boyfriend?” Shyness has never been a problem for me.

  Janina shook her head. “No, but she needs one.” Her voice underlined the word “needs,” and her formerly wide eyes narrowed and bored a hole right through my brain, like she was trying to tell me something. Wait, I thought, does Janina want to help me? Fracking. Awesome.

  “What does she like? What’s she into?”

  “Movies.” Perfect! I thought. Janina paused. “And Harry Potter.” Boom! Two for two. I love Harry Potter.

  “Do you think you could put—”

  “Mr. Digrindakis,” Ms. Sullivan said, “why don’t you take your regular seat.” She nodded toward the corner in which I usually camped out, and it was not a question. Reggie covered her mouth to stop from laughing out loud. I had no choice but to gather my things and move across the room, but the intel I gleaned from Janina was enough for me to work with.

  So here I am, one period later, sweaty palms and all, standing in front of the door to the girls’ bathroom.

  The message in every movie about a boy trying to get a girl—every single one—is to do the crazy thing. Steal the microphone from the PA system and dance on the bleachers while you sing a song to your soccer-playing true love on the field below; set up a brothel in your parents’ house while they’re out of town to win the affection of the prostitute with a heart of gold; stand outside the girl’s house with a comically large radio over your head—while inexplicably wearing a Matrix coat—playing a meaningful song. The message is always the same: Take the chance, go for it.

  That all makes a crap-ton of sense when I’m standing outside the door to the girls’ bathroom. It makes a lot less sense once I’m inside, because somehow, without me knowing and without me thinking about it, I have stepped inside.

  My first thought is Where are all the urinals? I mean, I know girls can’t pee standing up, but after a lifetime of seeing public restrooms with urinals, it’s jarring to have them suddenly disappear. It occurs to me that, really, guys don’t need urinals. I’m just as happy to pee in a toilet. And since all the stalls have doors, it doesn’t really matter that I’m in the girls’ bathroom, does it? The part with the sinks is kind of like a waiting room. It’s not like I’m going to see anything I’m not supposed to see. Isn’t the trend in the world toward gender-neutral bathrooms anyway? The point is, it’s totally okay I’m in here.

  Totally.

  Isn’t it?

  What is it about this girl? Is she even that pretty? Actually, yes. But I’m not that shallow, am I? It can’t just be about looks. It must be whatever those things are that animals give off—homophones? pherodrones?—that make them attracted to each other. We learned about them in biology class, but I was writing lyrics in my notebook so I don’t really remember the lesson. The point is, there is something larger at work here. Maybe Yia Yia cast some ancient Greek love spell on me. I wouldn’t put it past her.

  Well, too late for second-guessing now. Here goes nothing.

  “Eliana?”

  Eliana

  I have to pee. I have to pee. I have to pee. This is all I can think as I scuttle to the girls’ room. I slam open a stall door and can’t get my pants down fast enough for my relief. A sink turns on, and I realize I’m not alone but appreciate the tinkle-masking spray from the water. Everybody pees, but I still would rather someone else not hear it. I’m not alone in this. I once read an advice column in a teen magazine where someone wrote in asking what they could do to make the sound of their pee less loud when they were in public bathrooms. The advice-giver, after mocking them mercilessly for caring so much about what others thought of the sound of their urine, suggested if they really couldn’t handle the pee-dropping that they throw some extra toilet paper into the toilet before going. The advice-giver had to add in a dash of extra dig by telling the reader that this would be a waste of paper and destroy billions of trees per year just so no one could hear them peeing. I am still iffy on the matter and am glad when the hand-washer exits the bathroom through the whiny door.

  I’m still midstream when the door squeals open again. But instead of slamming closed, a voice from the doorway bounces off the cinder-block walls. “Eliana?”

  It’s a dude.

  I stop my pee. At this rate, I may be peeing into the new year. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe if I hold my pee long enough, he’ll go away. And I’ll have to go on antibiotics for a urinary tract infection.

  Oh, please, just go away.

  “Eliana?”

  I think it’s Dmitri. Calling my name into the girls’ bathroom. This is not ideal.

  I’m not going to make it much longer, so in order to move this highly awkward situation along, I answer, “Yes?”

  “It’s me. Dmitri. From film class?”

  And PE, I think.

  “Yeah?” So awkward. So awkward.

  “Can I talk to you?” he asks from the doorway.

  My screaming bladder makes me sound a lot less patient than I’d like to, and I blurt out, “In a minute, okay? Outside the bathroom?”

  “Oh yeah. Sure. Sure. I’ll just wait out here.” And the door squeals closed again.

  I breathe out heavily and finish the task at hand, flush, then wash my hands at the sink. I look at myself in the mirror. Why did I wear this t-shirt today? It’s old, and the collar is worn away at parts, but it’s so soft I can’t help but wear it whenever it’s clean. My navy hoodie from eighth grade could probably be culled from my clothing collection, too. The sleeves barely reach my wrists. But again, soft. It’s like my clothes are giving me a snuggle. That’s how other people choose their outfits, right? At least my hair looks good. I have Janina to thank for that. I remind myself to knit her a scarf. When I learn to knit.

  I’m totally stalling. And I’m in a bathroom. Is that why they call it “stalling”?

  If I don’t go out into the hall soon, Dmitri will think I’m pooping in the middle of the day at school. For some reason, that’s mortifying. Does he not poo? But I wasn’t pooping!

  Just go outside, Eliana.

  I pull back the door handle using a paper towel like my mom taught me, and creep out into the hallway. School hallways during classes are so desolate. I wonder if this is what a film set is like: real location but with a surreal feeling.

  Dmitri leans against a locker, thumbs on his phone, and looks up as the bathroom door slams. This is the first time I get a good look at him because I’m supposed to be looking at him. His eyes appear almost black, and I guess he’s one of those guys who had to start shaving in sixth grade. I wonder if boys look at that as a good thing or an annoying thing, like getting armpit hair for girls. I’d considered not shaving mine, but I hate the peppery look of it in my armpits. Not that his face looks like my armpits. Unless my armpits are supercute and have a really strong nose. What? Armpits with a nose? I hope the conversation outside of my head goes a lot better than the one inside.

  “Heeeyyyy,” he drawls, and I catch him doing a quick once-over of me. Does he notice the holes in my t-shirt? The too-small hoodie? The gym shoes that are built mostly out of gummy bear duct tape?

  “Hey?” I give Dmitri my “really?” single eyebrow. “You followed me into the bathroom.”

  “Oh … u
m … er.”

  “You know I could have you arrested. Or expelled.” I don’t know why I emphasized “expelled” second, like that’s worse than being arrested. This boy has me all twisted up. Why am I being so mean again? Oh yeah. Because he walked in on me in the bathroom. “It’s just not cool to come into the girls’ bathroom.”

  He stammers through an explanation about boys doing crazy things to get girls’ attention in movies, which naturally makes my ears perk. “What did you want, Dmitri?” I catch a little glow at the sound of his name.

  For a second I think he might pass out or cry or maybe even drop to one knee and propose, but then he takes a breath and regroups. “I wanted to talk to you, and we never seem to get a chance in class.”

  “What did you want to talk about?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound too defensive. I’m a little afraid he’s going to give me shit for making him fall in gym class. Then I remember, I kind of made a guy fall in gym class, and I stand a little straighter. Which makes my hoodie seem extra small.

  “This might seem a little forward…” Dmitri eyes his phone again, and I wonder if he has a planned speech typed in there. “Do you want to go to the football game with me this weekend?” He looks at me with his dark eyes, such direct eye contact, and I am completely taken aback. The scrunch in my forehead must be the giveaway because he continues, “It’s supposed to be a big game, and I thought maybe you’d want to go together.”

  The only thing I like less than the idea of going to a high school football game is the idea of going to a high school hockey game. Losing a tooth is terrifying. Not that I would know what either game is actually like, seeing as I’ve never actually watched a sports game in my life.

  My natural pause encourages Dmitri to continue selling, “So whaddya think? It’ll be a lot of fun. I promise. We can totally make fun of other people.”

  That gets me.

  “Sure,” I blurt out. “I’ll go. When is it?”

  “Oh yeah, I didn’t tell you that. It’s this Friday. I understand if it’s too short notice.”

  Yeah, I had planned on watching the last Harry Potter films and rereading the final book all weekend, but, “No, it’s good. I’m free. It sounds fun.” I nod and smile. He half smiles, then busts out into full beam. Which then makes me smile more. We must look like a couple of smiling dorks in the hall when the bell rings and billions of people stream from blown-open doorways. The din of the students makes it difficult to hear, but I’m pretty sure Dmitri asks me to put my number into his phone when he hands it over. I see he has already started a contact page for me, spelling my name with two Ls. I correct the spelling and type in my number. When I hand the phone back to him, our hands briefly touch. It’s so stupid, but I feel myself blush like I’m living in Victorian times.

  Dmitri shoves his phone in his front pocket and runs off, yelling down the hall to me, “Friday!” I watch as he crashes into a large senior, spins, and sprints away.

  I’m in a daze when I shove my books into my locker. This is kind of a date. To a football game, no less. A twinge of panic hits me. Do I let him know I loathe football?

  Dmitri

  When Nicky and I were little, we discovered this old Claymation Christmas special on TV called Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. It’s the sort of thing I imagine American parents share with their kids in an “I loved this when I was your age” kind of way. Not my parents. They’d never heard of Rudolph, and when Nicky and I made my dad watch, he was thoroughly confused. “What is with this reindeer’s nose?” he asked, peering over the top of his glasses. Anyway, there’s a scene where Rudolph asks if he can walk the little reindeer doe—reindoe?—home and she says yes. Rudolph is so excited he flies through the air screaming “She said yes, she said yes!” That’s exactly how I feel as I run down the hall after getting Eliana’s phone number. She said yes!

  Of course, the scene where the doe says yes is also the scene where Rudolph’s fake nose falls off, revealing his shiny red honker, and his entire life goes in the crapper. I manage to ignore that part.

  I’m on cloud nine for the rest of the day. Every lesson from every teacher is brilliant, every joke told by every kid in the hallway is hilarious. I have literally never been this happy. Not even at band practice.

  Eliana and I see each other across the gym during PE, and we exchange a knowing smile. This day is a grand slam home run. The only weird moment comes at my locker between sixth and seventh periods.

  “So you’re taking Ms. Wallpaper to the football game, huh?” Damn. Reggie does really know everything that goes on in this school. “You don’t even like football.”

  Reg wears ripped jeans, a Ramones shirt, a black leather choker, and, in what I can only guess to be a show of irony or sarcasm or whatever, a shiny silver tiara with sparkly diamond things in her hair.

  “Nice hat,” I say, nodding at her head. She ignores the comment.

  “Did you really go into the girls’ bathroom?”

  “How can you possibly know—”

  “Super creepy, Digrindakis. You can get arrested for that shit.”

  “That’s what Eliana said.”

  “Maybe she’s not as dumb as I thought.” There’s a pregnant pause before Reggie adds, “You sure you know what you’re doing, Digrindakis? You can do better than this girl, you know.”

  “I have no idea what I’m doing, and I don’t want to do better.” Reggie always makes me get my words twisted around.

  “Oh, young Jedi, what to do with you.”

  “‘Young Jedi’? I’m like four months older than you.”

  “Just be careful. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “Two Star Wars references in one conversation?” I ask, recognizing the quote.

  “Not Star Wars. Your life.” Reggie pivots on her heel and leaves. Somehow, she seems pissed at me. It’s the only blemish on an otherwise perfect day, so I let it go.

  * * *

  The next morning, when I see Eliana in film class, I have a small panic attack because the aura she’s projecting is like the previous day never happened. She shushes me three times when I try to talk to her, and ignores the notes I pass. I’m getting set to drop a pretty potent protest at her feet when the bell rings, but before I can open my mouth, she lays a hand on my forearm.

  “Can we save the talking for Friday night? I don’t like to get in trouble.” She smiles at me and leaves the room.

  The date is still on. Phew! That’s all I need to know.

  Eliana

  Every Thursday I have therapy, thanks to a deal I struck with my parents after the hospital. My therapist is a Jewish woman in her forties. Thirties? I have no idea how to tell the age of adults. She wears high heels and stockings, so she is officially a grown-up. Her brown hair is blow-dried straight, something Janina taught me to spot by the nature of the frizz and something about how the ends of naturally straight hair still have a little “tweak” to them, as she says. I can also tell it’s not natural because some days, usually when it’s cold outside, she comes in with an unwashed ponytail, and the halo around her forehead is screaming to release its natural tethered curl. These are the things I focus on when I have to look at a person for hours of my life.

  My therapist’s name is Sheila Grossman, but I’ve never spoken it aloud to her. It’s written on my calendar but I’ve never been in a situation where I felt compelled to look her square in the eye and frankly begin a sentence with her name. I don’t know if she has ever used my name in a sentence, either, so we’re even. Except for the financial piece. She doesn’t pay me hundreds of dollars a month to regale her with stories of my depressing life.

  Well, mostly depressing.

  Today I’m not really in the mood to talk to Sheila. I feel like it’s a waste of my parents’ money to pay to talk to someone if I’m in a good mood. I can talk to Janina for free.

  I take the city bus to Sheila’s office, since I would never make the four-mile hike in time. The one day I did walk the distance, I was
berated by Sheila for using walking as an escape mechanism (I was forty-five minutes late). That seemed ridiculous to me, seeing as we’re always being told how beneficial exercise is for us and how lazy my generation is. But apparently, good old-fashioned walking just makes me weird. I’ll add it to the list.

  It was this observation that made me first question if Sheila really gets me, but she always has hard butterscotch candies in a dish in her office and I freaking love those. And it’s mostly better than being home in my tiny closet bedroom. Mostly. I essentially do it because it makes my mom worry less about me backsliding into a deep depression and needing hospitalization again.

  Sheila crosses her legs and takes out her laptop. She types the entire time I’m speaking, and I want, just once, for her phone to ring in the middle of one of our sessions so I can wrench open her laptop and catch her in the act of sending emails to a secret lover. Or playing solitaire. Or ordering pantyhose. Why can’t she just listen to me? Why does she have to type everything I say? She can’t possibly do both. And now there’s this record on her computer of everything that she thinks I say as she types. As though that couldn’t be used against me someday. Not that I’m running for president or anything, but you never know. People are overly harsh on female candidates.

  Her typing, in addition to her attitude toward walking and pantyhose, is why I barely tell her anything real. Sometimes I even make stuff up. Sheila still thinks I hang out with Daisy King. If I told her the truth, that Daisy thought I was too complicated to have as a friend and most of our other friends followed suit, then we’d have to look deeply into why and examine things and snoooooozzzzzeee. So I try to keep it light and impersonal, or I talk about my parents, which therapists love to hear. Yes, Sheila, I know it is not my fault that my dad has no job and my mom keeps the family afloat and I have to be more responsible for too many siblings than I’d like to. I appease her with the look of revelation, as though what she said is meaningful and powerful and has changed the course of my existence. Therapists love that look.