Girl on the Ferris Wheel

by Julie Halpern

  “I am? I thought this meant anyone next to me is stupid.” He repositions himself next to me and cracks up.

  Checking my phone again—T-minus five minutes—I turn to Nicky. “I have to go.” He nods and I make my exit with Sumo-George still cackling.

  I head for the festival entrance, wallet in hand, ready to pay Eliana’s admission. I smell my armpits and breath a few times, and all is good there. The cool fall air is helping keep the flop sweats at bay.

  A nice, normal Honda CR-V—it’s a burnt orange kind of color—pulls up, the door opens, and out steps my date. My heart does that thing where it jumps to the right in my chest and then immediately back. It hurts, but in the best kind of way.

  Eliana is wearing black pants and a gray sweater, too; we look at each other and laugh.

  The man driving the car calls out that he’s going to pick her up at ten o’clock and starts to say hello to me. I walk toward the car, extending my hand to meet the person I presume to be her father, when Eliana closes the door behind her and walks past me to the entrance, saying, “Let’s go” as she does.

  I shrug my shoulders and give a small wave to the man in the Honda. He looks at me, smiles—it’s the same smile as Eliana’s, so this must be her dad—and shrugs his shoulders, too, before driving off. I like him.

  Eliana grudgingly lets me pay her entrance fee and is given a wristband, and finally we’re at the festival together. So far the date is going really well.

  Then my parents and grandmother walk up.

  “Dmitri!” my father’s voice booms, even louder than normal, echoing off one of the festival rides. His smile is so wide, and so clearly fake, I wonder if he’s going to need surgery to remove it later.

  “Hi, Dad. Mom, Yia Yia, this is Eliana.” I don’t know if my family or Ellie hear the dread in my voice, though I’m not sure how anyone can miss it.

  Eliana is a perfect lady. She extends her hand and steps forward. “Nice to meet you.”

  My father takes her hand and shakes it so hard I’m worried he’s hurting her.

  “Nice to meet you, too. You are Jew girl, yes?”

  My eyes go wide.

  Eliana’s eyes go wider.

  My grandmother hangs her head and shakes it from side to side.

  My mother smacks my father in the arm, making him yelp. “What?” he squawks. She admonishes him in Greek.

  “Ah…,” he says. “Signomi.” That’s Greek for excuse me. “I mean to say,” he corrects himself loudly and deliberately, “nice to meet you. You are Jewish girl, yes?” He emphasizes the “ish” as if this were his mistake. He and my mother both smile like idiots. I join my grandmother in hanging and shaking my head.

  “Yes,” I hear Eliana say, as if nothing is wrong. This is followed by a silence I can only describe as awkward.

  “Come,” Yia Yia says, taking us each by an elbow and leading us away.

  “What?” I can hear my father’s voice receding in the distance. “What I do?”

  When we’re a safe distance from my parents, Yia Yia, wearing one of her many gray dresses, stops and turns to face us. “You make nice-looking couple. Here.” She presses a twenty-dollar bill into my hand. Yia Yia never gives me money. Until this moment, I wasn’t even sure Yia Yia knew what money was. “You go on Ferris wheel and maybe magic happen, eh?” She winks, turns, and is swallowed by the crowd.

  “Well,” I say, desperate to say something, “that’s my family.” I pretty much want to die.

  “C’mon,” Eliana says, catching me by surprise. “We can’t disappoint Yia Yia.”

  I follow her to the Ferris wheel.

  Eliana

  Dmitri and I walk side by side toward the Ferris wheel, the bright lights of the midway rides and games creating fluorescent blobs as I blink. I stuff my hands into my hoodie pockets, something I often do while I walk, but then regret it since that would deter Dmitri from trying to hold my hand. Or maybe it’s a defense mechanism if Dmitri doesn’t actually want to hold my hand. No matter, we’re about to ride a Ferris wheel and make magic happen.

  She didn’t mean have a baby, right?

  Bad, old hard-rock music blasts from enormous speakers outside the Rotor, which makes it difficult to attempt talk, small or otherwise, with Dmitri. I catch him looking at me and smile inside. When we reach the Ferris wheel, a sign reads “Two Tickets per Rider.”

  “I forgot to get tickets,” Dmitri acknowledges, not like he made a mistake but more like, whoops, no big deal. And it isn’t a big deal, but I’m rather amazed at how he can be so cool about it. I feel like a bumbling fool no matter how insignificant my mistakes may seem to someone else. I start to wonder if it’s possible Dmitri is too cool for me. I drop my hand out of my pocket to try to scratch an anxious itch on my elbow, and Dmitri practically rips my hand off grabbing for it.

  His face reads something I can only assess as admiration, but that feels too presumptuous. He is holding my hand, however, before I have managed to scratch that itch. Since the itch is on my elbow, I kind of need my other hand to scratch it. But I don’t want to let go for fear of Dmitri never holding my hand again. I fix the problem by lifting Dmitri’s hand with mine and using both our hands to scratch away the sensation in my elbow. “Sorry,” I say.

  “Not a problem. Let’s go find those tickets.” His smile is so warm and adorable. He seems in his element. Then I rack my brain to think of which piece of this could possibly be someone’s element. Is it the Greek piece? Is he a carny lover? Is it that his family is nearby, and he feels loved and supported? Or is he a serial dater, and he just knows what he’s doing?

  “Eye of the Tiger” blares through the air, and Dmitri leans in close so that I can hear him say, “Don’t tell anyone, but I kind of love this song.”

  “It will be our little secret.” Did that sound cool? Confident? Creepy? This boy confuses my brain. In a good kind of way.

  The ticket booth line is short, and we wait behind a family with at least five children. I almost revert to big-sister mode when two of the kids run between and around us as though we’re part of the fun house.

  “Cute kids,” Dmitri says genuinely.

  “Meh.” I shrug.

  An older woman in a Greek church baseball cap sits inside a windowed box, taking money for tickets. She is the only one in there, a panic-inducing thought for me. What does she do if there’s a line and she has to go to the bathroom? Does she go in a bucket? Is there a secret basement room underneath? I kind of have to go to the bathroom now.

  Dmitri hands over the twenty-dollar bill from his Yia Yia, and he and the unable-to-pee-when-she-pleases lady exchange some pleasantries in Greek. I assume it’s Greek. It’s not Hebrew or pig Latin, my other two languages, although my Hebrew has become pretty rusty since I had to memorize my Torah portion for my bat mitzvah. I’ll try and brush up on it next time I go to a Jewish carnival. If those exist. I went to Purim carnivals when I was a kid, but those are more throw-a-ping-pong-ball-in-a-goldfish-bowl games than actual midway rides. And we don’t really speak Hebrew to each other.

  Why does the fact that he can speak a different language make me insecure? My face must show some sense of this, because as we walk away from the ticket booth, Dmitri re-holds my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Twenty dollars buys twenty tickets. Back in my day, you could get four tickets for a quarter!” I think that was a joke. I don’t laugh.

  “That was stupid. Do you want to put these in your purse?” Dmitri asks me, holding the string of tickets up like a character in a movie brandishing a string of connected condom packets.

  I did not just think that.

  “I don’t carry a purse,” I answer, hoping I’m not blushing from the condom thought. “But I can put them in my pocket,” I suggest.

  “That’s okay. I can, too. I just thought maybe you had a purse, but I shouldn’t have assumed. That’s cool that you don’t carry a purse. Girls seem so obsessed with their purses, like they conceal secrets that only you are allowed to kno
w.”

  “Maybe those girls have their periods, and they just don’t want you to find their tampons,” I suggest. Periods: always an on-point topic for a date. I quickly change subjects as we walk. “When I was little I went to this summer camp where I didn’t have any friends, and we went on a field trip to a carnival. Which, looking back on it now, seems a bit unnecessary when you’re already going to summer camp. Anyway, because I didn’t have any friends at the camp, I wandered around this carnival all by myself and I came upon a tent with ‘Snake Woman’ written on the flap. I was terrified of this, imagining a woman with a human head and a snake body. I’m guessing now that it was probably just a woman holding a bunch of snakes, but that’s not where my mind went. As scared as I was, I really wanted to peek inside that tent, but I didn’t have any money.”

  Dmitri doesn’t reply but grabs my hand once again. Our hands fit together nicely, comfortably, and it’s cool enough outside with a slight breeze that I’m not worried about sweaty palms.

  Back at the Ferris wheel, Dmitri hands a carny four tickets. The man, in a sleeveless shirt showing off sinewy arms with countless muddied tattoos, holds open the chair’s gate. “Ladies first,” Dmitri says, as he gestures to the seat. I don’t tell him that I find that phrase antiquated and unappealing. Not wanting to hold up the rest of the wheel’s riders, I slide into the chair. Dmitri follows, bumping against me, then scooching away to allow for a little space. The Ferris wheel starts with a lurch, and we’re off, wind in our hair and the fair bustling below. Both of my hands are on the lock bar, because even though we are traveling at probably five miles per hour, it still feels better to hold on to something. I will never be one of those people who raises my hands above my head on a roller coaster. Has anyone ever lost a limb in that situation?

  “So,” I say, my words swallowed in a pocket of air we leave behind, “Yia Yia, huh?”

  Dmitri chuckles and explains, “She’s my mom’s mom. She’s old-school Greek, but for some reason seems to be much more open-minded than my next-gen parents. She must sense something good about you because she never gives me money.”

  “Even though I’m a Jew girl?”

  “I’m really sorry about that. My dad has foot-in-mouth disease sometimes.”

  “No, it’s okay. I am a Jew girl. Is that a bad thing to him?”

  “Not bad technically. But like if we were to, you know, get married or, god forbid, have kids, it might be a big deal.”

  “I’ll be sure not to propose tonight,” I assure Dmitri.

  “I thought that might be a ring box in your pocket.” Dmitri nudges my shoulder with his, and we both laugh. I’m not doing so badly.

  When we reach the bottom of the wheel rotation, and the sleeveless man is about to open our gate, Dmitri suggests, “Want to ride again? I figure we’ll have less of a chance of running into my family if we stay aloft.”

  “Sounds good,” I concur, and Dmitri fishes four more tickets out of his pocket.

  On our second go-round we talk about movies, starting off with ones we remember taking place in part at carnivals (my contributions are Zombieland; Tod Browning’s 1932 black-and-white classic, Freaks; and Supergirl).

  “Supergirl?” he asks incredulously. “Wasn’t that ubercheesy?”

  “Cheesy as a delectable pizza. She was played by Helen Slater, who also played badass film hero Billie Jean in The Legend of Billie Jean.” I flex my movie muscles.

  “Fair enough. Did you know Freaks was made—”

  “Using actual sideshow people? Of course I know that. A movie like that could never be made today. Even if it is a brilliant statement on how we fear what we don’t understand,” I explain.

  “Hmmm,” Dmitri considers. “I always thought it was more of a take on how ugly beautiful people can be.”

  I think for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, that, too. Amazing so much can be said through a black-and-white horror movie.”

  “Now, have you seen Freaked? That’s a whole other freaky ball game.”

  Words pour out of us, and we ride the wheel three times before we decide to get off and head over to play Skee-ball. There we run into Dmitri’s parents once again.

  “Dimmi, Yia Yia not feeling well. Her heartburn acting up. She wait for us in car. We need head home now. Say goodbye you … friend,” Dmitri’s father says.

  “Um…,” Dmitri stutters. “At least let me wait with Eliana until her dad can come get her?” Dmitri sounds unsure around his father, and his dad gives him a solemn nod. I text my dad, who says he’ll be here soon. Dmitri and I walk to the gate with his parents following behind.

  “It’s cool,” I assure him. “I would have kicked your butt in Skee-ball anyway. It would have been humiliating, you never would have asked me out again. Really, it’s better this way.”

  “So you want me to ask you out again?” He grins.

  “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that now you have the opportunity without your pride getting in the way.”

  “I was going to let you win anyway,” he says. “To be chivalrous.”

  “I would have ensured you lost. I don’t need chivalry.”

  “That’s a relief because I kind of suck at Skee-ball. Next time we can find a game I’m good at, so I can impress you with my skills.”

  “Croquet?” I suggest.

  He elbows me gently, and I feel my cheeks warm.

  We arrive at the fair gates, and Dmitri’s parents sidle up directly next to us while I wait for my dad. Kind of a banter-killing moment.

  We pass the time by playing I Spy.

  “I spy something brown.”

  “That guy’s teeth.”

  “You’re good.”

  My dad pulls up a few minutes later, and I hastily say to Dmitri, “See you in school?” before I dive into the passenger seat. Lest my dad actually try to interact with Dmitri’s parents. Me meeting his family was momentous enough, but let’s not pretend my dad is the type of dad who would impress Dmitri’s parents.

  “Did you have a good time?” my dad asks as we drive away.

  “I did.” I nod. But that’s all I say. I don’t want to overthink it, but I may have just had a really decent date. With the definite possibility of another one on the way.

  Dmitri

  Unexpected Turbulence rents a room at Ace Studios for our rehearsals. It’s a cramped fifteen-by-fifteen box with amps, mics, and most of a drum kit. I have to bring my own snare, cymbals, and, of course, sticks. For practice I use a pair of plain wooden sticks; for gigs I use these very cool translucent sticks that glow each time you hit them. They were a Christmas present from Nicky.

  We’re on our second run-through of the set list for the Seventh Street Entry gig and things are going well. I haven’t missed a cue; my stops, starts, and fills have been crisp; and the rest of the band is in the zone. It’s kind of fascinating to me that we can have so much musical chemistry and so little personal chemistry. That’s true of so many bands, I guess, which in some weird way gives me added hope we’re going to make it someday. I mean, how can we not?

  I texted Eliana as soon as I got home from the festival last night. I know, I know … you’re supposed to wait a day so you don’t seem needy or desperate or something. But that’s not me. Doing things for the sake of appearance is just dumb. Plus, she texted back right away, which she sometimes doesn’t, so I don’t think she minded.

  ELIANA: How’s Yia Yia?

  ME: She’s okay. She gets this bad heartburn thing, and last night antacids weren’t really helping. She liked you, by the way.

  ELIANA: How do you know?

  ME: “Dimmi-moo, I like this Eliana girl.” Lol

  ELIANA: Lol, indeed.

  We chatted for a little while more and then I asked her what I’d been dying to ask her. What I’d planned to ask her at the church, but never had the chance because we had to leave early.

  ME: So my band has a really important gig next Saturday night—it’s at the Seventh Street Entry in dow
ntown Minneapolis—maybe you could come?

  ELIANA: Like a date? Or like a groupie?

  I couldn’t tell if she was joking or insulted, which put me back on my heels, but only for a second; I recovered.

  ME: What’s a groupie?

  ELIANA: Ha! Well played. Let me check with my parents. I’m not sure they want me going to clubs downtown. How are you getting there?

  ME: I have to go with the band. Chad uses his parents’ SUV for our equipment, so I would need to meet you there.

  ELIANA: Hmmm … I have to drive myself downtown to be your groupie? This is sounding more and more appealing.

  She threw in an eye roll emoji for good measure.

  ELIANA: I was kind of thinking our next outing might be a movie, you know, since we both are so into movies.

  My heart skipped a beat because I was pretty sure Eliana had just asked me on a third date.

  ME: OMG, I would love that. As soon as this gig is behind us, my time will be more my own. Until then, we have a crap-ton of practices scheduled, like every night this week. And really, it would be awesome if you were there. At the gig, I mean.

  We left it that she would check with her parents, and we would try to go to the movies the weekend after. It wasn’t exactly how I wanted the conversation to go, but Eliana didn’t shut me down, and hey, now I have plans with her for two more weekends. I don’t think it makes her my girlfriend yet, but …

  After we signed off, I was so filled with emotion I did something I like to do, but almost never do well: I wrote a song.

  (Verse 1)

  You glossed over the point of your story,

  The one about the lady with the snakes in the tent

  It’s not about freaks, sideshows and faded glory

  It’s that you didn’t have any friends

  (Bridge)

  But how can that be?

  Don’t they see what I see?

  (Verse 2)

  You’re hiding something, tucked away behind the curtain