Girl on the Ferris Wheel

by Julie Halpern

  A secret so deep and dark it might break you

  You may be an enigma, but of this I’m certain

  I’m not giving up until I break on through

  (Bridge)

  How can it be,

  That they don’t see what I see?

  (Chorus)

  Our fate is sealed

  With the things you make me feel

  Girl

  Girl on the Ferris wheel

  There’s another verse I don’t like as much, but really, I’m proud of this song. I want to share it with the band, though that has never gone well in the past. (Chad. Ugh.) Still, if Eliana is ever going to hear it, the song is going to need music and I don’t have the chops for that.

  We finish the second run-through of the set list, including an encore—Chad insists we keep an encore in our hip pocket, and while it kind of seems like a jinx, I guess it make sense—then it’s on to new material.

  We always end rehearsals with new material and today is no different. Chad has a fast, angry song called “Build the Wall.” It’s this anti-immigration screed about a Mexican drug smuggler. He wrote a rudimentary guitar part for it, too, and plays it for us on Kyle’s Strat.

  Chad is super conservative, like even more than my dad. I’m not at all political, but since I don’t really like what Chad or what my dad have to say most of the time, I figure that makes me a liberal. (Maybe there’s something wrong with people whose name ends with an “ad” sound. Mental note to avoid guys named Brad.)

  When Chad is done, the three of us just stare at him in silence. Drew gives voice to what I’m thinking:

  “No. Fucking. Way.”

  “What? Why not?” Chad is pissed.

  “First,” Drew responds, “it’s too political. And I for one don’t agree with what it has to say.”

  “Me neither,” Kyle adds. I keep my mouth shut.

  “Illegal immigrants are taking—”

  “Second,” Drew continues, steamrolling right over Chad, “the song sucks.”

  Chad opens his mouth to argue, but really, there is no comeback for “the song sucks.” And really, the song sucks.

  “Fine,” he says after a moment. “We need to focus on the set list anyway.”

  Kyle takes his guitar back from Chad and is starting to put it away when someone says, “I have a song.” What’s really surprising is that the someone is me.

  “Oh brother,” Chad mumbles.

  Kyle stops what he’s doing and looks at me. “Okay,” he says, “let’s see it.” I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I take a folded piece of paper out of my back pocket and hand it over.

  My mouth goes completely dry, like Sahara Desert dry, while Kyle is reading it. Chad, his mouth a sharp line across his face, sticks his hand out for the paper when it’s apparent Kyle has finished, but Kyle hands it to Drew. “Hey, Dimmi, this is pretty good. Who’s the girl?”

  Drew reads it and nods and then hands it to Chad, who, predictably, laughs out loud. “This?” he says before he’s even had time to read it. “You guys wanna do this? I’m not singing it.” He drops the paper, letting it float down to my mounted tom as he struts out of the room.

  Drew shrugs and starts to put his bass away.

  “You really like it?” I ask Kyle.

  “Yeah. It’s got some nice imagery.”

  “Can you help write music for it?”

  Kyle raises one eyebrow—I must be the only person in the entire world who cannot raise just one eyebrow—as he thinks for a minute. “Yeah, why not. But I’m not sure we can ever get Chad to sing it.”

  Chad is not the person I’m thinking about right now. I hand Kyle the paper and smile at the thought of having a song, a real song, to give my almost girlfriend. Is there any better gift in the world than writing a song for someone? This has been like the best weekend, ever.

  “Her name is Eliana,” I say to Kyle. “The girl’s name is Eliana.”

  Eliana

  I spend the majority of the weekend in my room-hole watching movies and reliving moments from the festival. The Ferris wheel seemed like the ideal spot for a kiss and to solidify Friday night as a quote, unquote date, but at the same time, “It’s kind of uncomfortable to kiss someone you are sitting next to while tethered in with a metal seat belt,” I explain to Janina over Facetime.

  “Yeah, I get that. Ferris wheels have romantic intentions, but the practicality of it all is highly suspect.”

  “Have you ever kissed anyone on a Ferris wheel?” I ask.

  “No. I have kissed someone on a Tilt-a-Whirl, but that didn’t end up so hot.”

  “I can imagine. Was that when you had to replace your tooth?”

  “Maybe,” she answers coyly. “I still think it can be construed as a date if you didn’t kiss. You held hands, right? That’s practically considered married in some cultures.”

  “I missed that in our World Cultures class last year,” I say.

  “That’s because you were too busy mourning the death of Cedric Diggory.”

  “It was Fred Weasley, and Ms. Leff never talked about holding hands. I got an A in that class, by the way,” I note.

  “Who are you going to believe? A teacher who wears brown shoes every day, or a person your age who has held many a hand in her day?”

  “You make yourself sound like an old lady, you know.”

  “Wise, my friend, it’s called wise.” Janina lowers a fake pair of glasses onto her nose.

  “Keep telling yourself that, Nina.” I work my way back to the real question. “So was it a date or not?”

  Janina looks at me through the screen with incredulous eyes. “Obviously, El. He asked you out. You went to a freaking festival. You rode a Ferris wheel three times. And there was purposeful touching. Hell, you met his parents. I can’t say that for most guys I’ve dated.”

  “He was just kind of sketchy when I tried to be all cool and ask him to hang out again. He made it sound like we weren’t going to hang out again for weeks because of his ‘band’”—I throw an air quote—“and that the next time we’d actually get together would be me getting myself to their show. Along with, you know, all the other people that he probably invited to see them.”

  “Why did you air quote ‘band’? He is in a band. You and me saw them last year when I was going out with the guitar player from that shitty group, Monkey Stick. It was right before…”

  “Oh yeah. Right before the hospital. I guess I forgot. Did I look horrible back then? Do you think Dmitri remembers?”

  “You had much longer hair. And it was after I tried to bleach it, and it was all growing out and you had those grunge roots. I thought it looked cool. But if you don’t remember and you were in the audience, I’m guessing he doesn’t remember from his stage vantage point. Or maybe he’s been pining for you this whole time, and it’s taken him this long to ask you out! Wouldn’t that be cute? You hand-holding darlings.” Janina places her hand over her heart sentimentally.

  “I swear you had to be my grandma in a past life. Or in my current one.”

  “Your superhot grandma, right? Like Helen Mirren?”

  “Sure.” I nod dramatically.

  “How about this: I’ll go see his band with you, get you all gorgeous, and I’ll read his cues. It’s not like you aren’t going to see him every day at school for the next couple weeks, right? I’m sure he’ll drop some scorching remarks about your butt, and everything will be crystal clear.”

  “Why is it always my butt?”

  “Indeed,” is all Janina says before she hangs up.

  I lie back on my futon and shove my headphones over my ears. With eyes closed, I listen to Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince as it plays on my computer. When I feel like it, I answer some math problems on my homework. When it’s time to eat, I go downstairs and soak in the din of my family. I want to ask them what they think, but I also don’t really want to know. The more I talk about it, the bigger deal it will be when I figure out he has no interest in me ot
her than as a partner on a series of Ferris wheel rides and as his newest groupie. Am I going to have to pay to get in? Or will there be a list? And what does it mean if I’m on it? Or not on it? Life is so much clearer under my covers.

  Dmitri

  The next six days pass in a blur of school, homework, and drumming. Not only is our rehearsal schedule relentless, I have three papers due, two tests, and a crap-ton of reading. (If you say it right, you can make “crap-ton” sound like a French word—craptonne.) If someone were to ask me what happened during the week, I probably couldn’t recount any details … except for three VERY notable events.

  NOTABLE EVENT #1: Eliana tells me she’s coming to the gig. The Art and Craft of Cinema is normally a no-contact zone (Eliana is a very focused student, which I respect and admire), so I’m really surprised when a folded piece of paper lands on my desk. I look around to see who might have tossed it. Everyone has their eyes trained on the front of the room, so I shrug and unfold the note.

  Okay, I’m in. Janina and I are coming to your gig on Saturday night. Your band better be good.

  I sneak a peek at Eliana, but she doesn’t look in my direction. It doesn’t matter. I write “awesome” with eleven exclamation points on the note (eleven is my lucky number), wait until Mr. Tannis has his back to the class, and toss it on Eliana’s desk. She scoops it up and tucks it into her notebook without reading it. This girl is a riddle wrapped in a mystery. Damn, I love that.

  I’m so happy I worry I’m going to start cackling like a lunatic, so I ask Mr. Tannis for a pass to the bathroom. I secretly hope Eliana will follow me, but she doesn’t. She also bolts class when the bell rings, before I get a chance to talk to her about her note, but that’s okay. She’s coming to the gig.

  She’s coming to the gig!

  NOTABLE EVENT #2: At band practice on Wednesday, after we’ve gone through the set twice—and man oh man are we tight—and it’s time for new material, Kyle says he has a song.

  Kyle writes about half our lyrics and almost all the music. Chad is a loudmouth who likes to think he’s the leader of the band, but really, it’s Kyle. We learned about Teddy Roosevelt in history this year: “Walk softly and carry a big stick.” That’s Kyle to a T.

  Anyway, Chad and Drew look at him with anticipation. A new Kyle song is always a big deal at our practices. Kyle takes a second to retune his guitar; as he does, he turns his back on the room and faces the drum kit. Then he winks at me. Huh?

  He turns back around and launches into this slow, chunky, and completely infectious riff. It’s got a bluesy feel with what I’ve learned over the years are seventh chords and minor chords. I can already hear the drum part I’m going to put to this in my head. Simple, straightforward, hi-hat and snare, three-four time.

  Drew and Chad are both nodding along with the guitar, both smiling, when Kyle starts to sing.

  “You glossed over the point of your story,

  The one about the lady with the snakes in the tent”

  My first thought is wow, good lyrics, but they’re kind of familiar. Duh. It takes a second to realize this is my song. MY SONG!

  Kyle’s voice is better suited to background vocals, but he’s doing my words justice. The melody is lonely, expansive, filled with longing, and a perfect fit for the lyrics and music behind it. I’m so moved I have to sniff a few times to stop from crying. It’s the truth.

  I look to Chad and Drew to see if either one realizes what Kyle is up to, that’s he’s snuck my song into the room. Drew shoots me a glance and smirks. Yep. He knows. But Chad—nodding, swaying, and smiling along with the music—just watches Kyle, proof he never read my lyrics in the first place.

  Kyle strums the last chord, letting it ring and fade. Chad, Drew, and I all clap, and Chad even whoops. “Damn,” he says, “we have to get that into the set for this weekend.”

  “Really?” I say. I’m so surprised I can’t help myself.

  “Yeah,” Chad says. “We’ve been practicing the set so much I’m worried about it being over-rehearsed. I was going to suggest we take Friday off just so we come at the gig fresh on Saturday. But adding a new song will keep us on our toes. Can you give me the lyrics?”

  Kyle smiles and hands Chad what I recognize as the piece of paper I gave him a couple days ago. Chad looks at it, looks up at me, and then looks at Kyle. “Wait, is this…?”

  “The song Dimmi wrote? Yeah, you fucking tool. If you’d read it the first time you would’ve seen how good it is.”

  Chad is about to protest, but realizes he’s been played and has lost. And I have to give him credit because the next thing he says is “Okay, let’s work it up right now. Drew, can you add a bass part?” As much of a dick as he can be, Chad really is committed to the success of the band.

  “Already have,” Drew says. He was in on this, too? I put my hand in front of my mouth to stop from laughing out loud.

  Chad turns to me with a “well, what about you?” look on his face.

  “I had no idea this was going on,” I protest, “but I love what Kyle has done with it and I think I already have a good drum part for it.” Chad nods.

  Kyle runs through the song a few times, teaching Chad the melody, refining Drew’s bass part, and helping me tweak the drums. Twenty minutes later, “Girl on the Ferris Wheel” is officially added to the set list for Unexpected Turbulence’s upcoming gig. It sounds amazing.

  NOTABLE EVENT #3: Janina corners me in the hallway between third and fourth period on Friday, the day before the gig. Eliana is absent for the second straight day. I texted and she said it was a stomach thing but didn’t say anything else and wouldn’t really talk. I’ve been worried, so I’m glad to see her friend.

  “How’s Eliana?” I ask before Janina can say a word.

  “She’ll be fine,” she answers. “But listen—” She pokes me in the chest. She actually pokes me. “Don’t fuck around with her.”

  “Huh?” Does she mean sex? We haven’t even kissed yet!

  “I mean don’t fuck around with her feelings, okay?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You seem like a nice boy, Dmitri, so I’m trusting you to not hurt her.”

  “Hurt her?” This is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had. “Why would I hurt her? I want her to be my girlfriend.”

  Janina smiles at that. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. But still, sometimes people hurt other people without meaning to or even knowing they’re doing it. Just treat Eliana right. She’s my best friend and she’s the best person I know.”

  I kind of feel like I’m having a conversation with one of her parents and it freaks me out. At the same time, I’m really happy to know someone else sees in Eliana what I see, and feels strongly enough to want to protect her like this.

  “I promise,” I say, holding up three fingers in a Boy Scout salute, “I am not going to hurt your friend. Just the opposite … if she lets me.”

  “Good boy,” Janina says, and pats my shoulder like I’m a family pet. Then she turns and walks away. Standing right behind her, lost in the shadow of Janina’s tall frame, is Reggie. Her sudden appearance startles me.

  “You are such a tool, Digrindakis,” she says. “Such a tool.”

  I’m so taken aback that I have no idea how to respond, so I blurt out the first thing that pops into my head. “Are you coming to the gig?”

  Reggie—who is wearing her black leather jacket, a short blue skirt with a black stripe down the side, ripped tights, combat boots, and something I’ve never seen before, makeup—hangs her head and mumbles, “Of course I am.” Then she turns and goes, too. The whole encounter leaves me unsettled.

  And then, it’s Saturday.

  Gig day.

  Eliana

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

  That’s not true. I just hate that there is something wrong with me.

  All through film class Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, I could barely keep my focus. I kept wondering: Is Dmitri looking at me? I
f he is, how is he looking at me? Like a friend? Like more than a friend? Like a fangirl member of his entourage who is one of many he has invited to a gig?

  “Gig” is such a stupid word. Like, who does he think he is?

  I can tell I’m depressed because I’m getting mean. It’s my defense mechanism. One of many. Some people eat a lot. Some people cry. I get mean and lock myself in my bedroom-hole and watch movies until my eyes bleed. Well, almost until they bleed. I’m assuming that’s the next step anyway.

  Why am I depressed, though? I had a really nice time at the festival. Grades are still aces. My brothers and sisters are neither more nor less annoying than usual. My dad remains unemployed and mostly in his basement. My mom is rad but never around. Nothing all that new. But I’m not myself. For starters, being myself has never involved a guy liking me. It’s so confusing. I feel like an idiot saying that a guy likes me, because it seems so presumptuous. How does one know concretely if anyone likes them? At least with my female friends, they are straight-up awesome or straight-up awful. With Dmitri, it’s like I’m supposed to be able to read all of his cryptic boy code. Was he holding my hand because he wants to, or am I living the plot of Carrie and it’s all some big ruse that will culminate in a bath of pig’s blood at the gig? Bloody gig.

  I’m so worked up in confusion on Thursday that I stay home from school with a stomachache. And I do actually have a stomachache. But I’m not sick. Sick of my brain, maybe. Was that kind of funny? I can’t tell today.

  At breakfast my mom presses her lips to my forehead, her way of gauging my temperature without a thermometer.

  “You don’t have a fever. But your stomach hurts?” I nod vigorously, and she looks at me dubiously. Her brow crinkles, and I know what’s coming next. “We’re not starting this again, are we, Eliana?”

  My stomach really begins to crush in on itself. I know what she means. Over a year ago, I started getting stomachaches. And bouts of insomnia. And long periods where I wouldn’t leave my room-hole. Eventually I acquiesced and went into an inpatient program for teenagers. It was a few weeks of my life I will never get back, and everything changed dramatically in that short time span. I lost friends, started my long walks, went into outpatient therapy, and began my drug regimen, which continues today. I had hoped the drugs and mandatory office visits would quell any future outbreaks of depression, like Proactiv does for acne, but the pain in my stomach and doubt in my brain make me think otherwise. Which makes me feel even more depressed. The spiral begins …