Girl on the Ferris Wheel

by Julie Halpern

  “What should I do?”

  “How should I know? I’ve never even had a girlfriend.” Nicky flips over a queen of hearts and places it on one of his piles. I take that as a sign, grab my phone, and compose a text to Ellie.

  ME: Hey, El. I miss you. Thanks so much for coming over today. I hope you had a nice time.

  I can’t jump right into the matter at hand. I have to ease into this to find out what Ellie is really thinking. She’s like a cat; if you approach her from the wrong direction, you can get scratched.

  While I wait for a response, I lie back down on my bed and replay more of the day: Aunt Maxine’s awful greeting; Aunt Stella’s normal greeting; the courtroom cross-examination on the subject of circumcision; the basement; that strange—and now that I think about it, meaningful—hug from Yia Yia; Meg; Meg’s underwear; Meg’s royal-blue underwear.

  Nicky falls asleep on the cards after a few minutes—he looks so much younger when he’s asleep—and I’m just starting to doze off, too, when my phone vibrates me back to full consciousness.

  Ellie.

  REGGIE: Merry Christmas, Dmitri.

  My head flops back on the pillow. Reggie. I don’t know if I can handle Reggie right now.

  ME: Hey. Merry Christmas.

  REGGIE: So how’d it go?

  I had told Reggie about Eliana coming to meet the Digrindaki. The Digrindaki. That makes it sound like my family is some kind of mythical creature from ancient Greece that spits fire and eats goats whole. Not really far from the truth when you think about it.

  Anyway, Reggie has a tradition of stopping by on Christmas night, after her own family’s celebration is over. She joins me, Nicky, Meg, and Alex for board games or whatever it is we’re doing. Reg, for whatever reason, is totally at ease around my family. Though she did once pinch Aunt Stella’s cheek in some kind of weird retribution. There was a tense moment before Stella burst out laughing. Then we all laughed and she hugged Reggie. Go figure.

  When I told Reggie about having invited Eliana this year, she deflated for a second. I could see it. She paused for a long minute, waiting, I think, for me to ask her to join us. I didn’t. This would be the first time in a few years, and I’m guessing it threw a wrench into Reggie’s plans for the day.

  I know. I’m a jerk.

  ME: I don’t know.

  REGGIE: You don’t know how it went?

  While the text is incapable of expressing the smirk buried in Reggie’s question, I see it for what it is. The trailing “dumbass” is implied.

  ME: It’s just been a long day, okay?

  There’s a strained pause before Reggie responds.

  REGGIE: You all right, Digrindakis?

  I think for a minute before answering honestly.

  ME: I don’t know.

  REGGIE: Did you do something stupid? No, wait. Don’t answer that. Of course you did.

  I can see exactly how this conversation is going to unfold, and honestly, I’m not up for it. Reggie will tease and badger me until I tell her every sordid detail, and in the end, I’ll not only realize everything I’ve ever done—in my entire life—is wrong, but I’ll feel even worse.

  I see the little dancing dots letting me know Reg is typing more. I cut her off.

  ME: I think I need to go to sleep. Talk to you tomorrow, okay?

  The dots stop and start again.

  REGGIE: K. Good night.

  Reggie’s texts are usually full of exclamation points and swear words, so I can tell she’s pissed or hurt or something. Whatever.

  I rest the phone on my chest. I’m not anywhere close to sleep when it buzzes again.

  Finally, Ellie.

  MEG:

  I turn my phone off without answering and lie there for a long time, unable to sleep.

  The only thing I see when I close my eyes are splotches of royal blue.

  Eliana

  I want to die. No, I want to barf. I want to die barfing. Barf dying? Ugh. I just don’t want to feel this way is what I really want.

  After the Greek Christmas Where My Boyfriend Decided Hot Greek Girls Are Better Than Complicated Jewish Girls, I am glad to have a week and a half left of winter break to curl up in my closet and lock the door. The outside world = bad. Harry Potter fanfiction = good.

  I scroll through all of the Bill Weasley stories I have already read 10 million times. Why aren’t there more of them? I need escapism. Now. Am I being greedy?

  Greedy.

  Like, say, having a girlfriend but thinking you can look—leer might be a better word—at other girls and it doesn’t mean anything unless you act on it. But it does mean something. I know guys are helpless when it comes to their utterly basic need for eyeball stimulation, but Dmitri could try to be more subtle about it. Or he could at least not do it while I’m there. Like the last time I saw his band, it took him three songs to find me in the crowd. He was too busy staring at this girl in the front row with a very sparkly tube top on. Who wears tube tops? And a sparkly one at that. He’s like a freakin’ crow. “Ooh! Shiny!” Maybe I should roll around in glitter to get his attention.

  Do I even want it?

  Is that what this is even about?

  Maybe all of the time I have spent carefully crafting the art of subtly sneaking away from Dmitri is manifesting itself in his interest in other girls.

  Is it my fault?

  Am I not attentive enough to his needs? Do I not laugh enough at his jokes? Swoon enough over his song lyrics? Take off enough clothing for his liking?

  Do I not sparkle enough for Dmitri?

  I slam my laptop lid closed. I don’t want to cry over something that could be nothing. I don’t want to start the tears that I know could last for days. Weeks. The tears that stain my eyes red and swell the dark circles underneath.

  My phone buzzes. Another message from Dmitri.

  DMITRI: Where are you? I miss you.

  He feels guilty. That means he has done something wrong.

  But has he actually done something? Like, actually something more than used his eyes as weapons against my soul?

  Stop being so dramatic, El. You were the one who wanted to switch classes. You were the one who didn’t want to hold hands every time they swung close enough to touch. You were the one who denied him a kiss in front of his brother when it felt too showy. Again.

  Maybe it is your fault.

  You push him away. You don’t give him enough of what he needs. You are grumpy. You wear ripped black t-shirts. You barely crack a smile.

  It is you.

  I throw open my laptop screen in order to drown myself in a Harry Potter marathon, but my screen freezes.

  Even my computer hates me.

  I attempt to text Janina in Hawaii, but she has been practically MIA since she left. I don’t blame her. But I kind of hate her at the moment.

  I shove my phone to the side and flop onto my stomach. Soon enough my face is slick from crying. My pillow darkens with my pathetic tears.

  I don’t want to be this person again. I want to be the happy girl with the cool boyfriend who adores her and writes her songs and wants to touch her constantly. I want to be that girl who will bask in the glow of his admiration and kiss him passionately and spontaneously, who wears quirky dresses and glasses and makes him proud to be seen with her.

  I want to be someone else. Somewhere else.

  Anywhere but on this tear-soaked futon mattress in a closet.

  Dmitri

  “I’m not gonna get up

  I’m gonna stay on my back

  I’m not gonna get up

  Unless you take me back

  There’s nothing that’s worth doing

  Since you said goodbye

  Until you forgive me

  I’m gonna lie here until I die.”

  Chad reads the lyrics to my latest masterpiece out loud; it’s called “Apology to El.” He delivers each line with extra flair, like he’s Norma Desmond from that movie we watched in film class. Jerk.

 
We’re in the rehearsal space at Ace Studios on the last afternoon of our holiday break. We have to be back at school tomorrow morning, and I wanted to get this song written for Eliana before I saw her.

  “Really?” Chad’s voice is dripping with sarcasm. It’s clear how much he hates it. My cheeks must be on fire they’re burning so hot. All I want to do is crawl in a hole and die from embarrassment. But I try to put up a good front.

  “What?”

  “It sucks is what.”

  Okay, maybe it’s not going to win a Grammy—though who the hell would actually want to win a Grammy anyway?—but it doesn’t suck. It’s a plain-spoken, from-the-heart apology. Screw Chad. I’m proud of it.

  Truth is, I don’t care if this song winds up on the Unexpected Turbulence set list. I just want it for Ellie, who finally, three days ago, after a week of me trying, texted me back.

  ELIANA: I’m OK. Don’t worry about me. How about we just give each other some space? See you at school.

  I was so excited to hear from her I glossed right over her request for “some space” and fired a barrage of texts at her … like a madman:

  ME: OMG! El, it’s soooooo good to hear from you. So. Good!

  No response.

  ME: Is this about Meg? It was just weird how much she’d changed from the last time I saw her, that was all. Ask Nicky. She looked totally different!

  No response.

  ME: I don’t even like that kind of girl!

  No response.

  ME: I like YOU! I LOVE you!

  Yes. That was how I first told Eliana I loved her. In a frantic, desperate text. True story.

  And, of course, no response.

  But I didn’t stop there.

  It went on.

  And on.

  And on.

  For fifteen more texts. Good God, fifteen.

  No response to any of them.

  “It doesn’t suck.” Kyle comes to the defense of my song. Sort of. “But these feel more like country lyrics. I don’t think it fits our vibe.”

  I shoot a glance at Drew, who is completely disengaged. He’s in his own world, just randomly fingering his bass with the volume down.

  “Oh” is the only response I can manage.

  Chad clucks like a chicken. Like a freaking chicken. It’s supposed to be some kind of victory laugh, I guess. Then he crumples the piece of paper and throws it back at me. He actually does that. Crumples up the goddam piece of goddam paper and goddam throws it back at me!

  It bounces off my mounted tom, rolls off my snare drum, and winds up on the floor next to my bass drum pedal.

  “Dick,” I mutter. I can’t help myself. He is a dick. He deserves to be called a dick. But as the syllable is rolling over my lips and out into the world, I know I’m going to regret it.

  “What did you say?” Chad’s eyes are slits.

  I should just grow a pair and repeat it. Dick, I should tell him. You’re a dick and everyone in this room, and everyone who has ever spent more than two minutes with you, including both of your parents, knows it. You’re a colossal, monstrous, ginormous dick.

  “Nothing” is what I say instead.

  “Look, Dmitri.” He gives me this look that’s all serious, like he’s a father talking to his rambunctious son. I hate, hate, HATE it. “You want to be the third drummer in this band, or the former drummer in this band?”

  Chad is making a point that I’m not a founding member of UT and I’m expendable. And he’s right, I am the third drummer. But the first drummer didn’t even have his own kit, so he lasted less than a day; and the second drummer quit after a month because he couldn’t stand Chad. I’ve been the drummer for twenty-four of the twenty-five months of the history of Unexpected Turbulence, and Chad has never let me forget there was one whole month of a Dmitri-free band. God, I hate him. So. Much.

  “Back off, Chad.”

  I also hate that Kyle feels the need to protect me all the time. And I kind of hate that he thought my song was a country song. How can anyone even tell if it’s country or anything else until there’s music put to it?

  Gah. Let’s face it. Right now, I kind of hate everyone and everything.

  Eliana

  “El?” My mom raps on my door. “It’s five o’clock. Time to leave for Aunt Essie’s house. Last one there gets the worst white elephant gift.”

  My mom’s younger sister hosts a Hanukkah party every year. It rarely happens during actual Hanukkah because people can’t come into town for various reasons. This year we’re over two weeks late.

  “Isn’t that the point of a white elephant? That the gift is going to suck anyway?” I ask through the door.

  “Aunt Ricky told me she wrapped up a free makeup kit from the Clinique counter. She used comics from the Sunday paper as wrapping so I can ID it. I want that makeup, El.”

  My mom is playful, excited to see her family and kibitz with relatives she sees barely once a year. I can’t seem to find the energy to peel the covers back from my chin.

  “Mom, would it be okay if I stay home this year? I’m really tired, and you know they’re going to force me to police the cousins in the basement. Brady always turns on the treadmill … I can’t stand it.”

  “Ellie, everyone will wonder where you are.” Mom worries about the gossipy aspect of our extended family. She probably worries they’ll think I’m crazy again.

  She’s probably right all around.

  “Why don’t you tell them I ate at a Chinese buffet on New Year’s, and I have diarrhea. They’ll totally believe you, and no one wants to say the word ‘diarrhea’ more than once, anyway. It pains me now to say it twice.”

  Quiet reflection from the other side of the door.

  “I don’t want you pouting all night,” Mom decides. “So this is your one free pass. Next year you have to go. Or else…” I wait for Mom’s threat. “Oh, I don’t know, Eliana, but this is it. One time. Everyone is waiting downstairs. Call if you need anything.”

  “Love you, Mommy.” I throw out the “Mommy” only at times when I know I’ve won but probably shouldn’t have.

  “Love you too, El.”

  I wait for the numerous creaks and slams of the door leading into our garage, followed by the grind of the garage door opening, then closing.

  They’re gone.

  I’m alone.

  Truly, officially alone.

  I sigh a grand sigh, a dramatic gesture for the audience that isn’t here. With all of the energy I couldn’t muster merely seconds ago, I bound out of bed and throw open my room-hole door.

  The silence is intoxicating.

  Then, like it knows I am by myself, my phone buzzes.

  I look at the text.

  Dmitri.

  Of course.

  I close the window, but another text comes through.

  I don’t care what it says.

  I don’t want to be contacted.

  I don’t want to be connected right now.

  I want to be completely and utterly alone.

  I shut my phone off and toss it onto my bed.

  Now I am truly free.

  I feel weightless.

  Hungry.

  Giddy.

  Energetic.

  I can run around the house however I want, slide across the kitchen floor in my socks and underwear, and suck whipped cream from the can. It is glorious.

  There is no one to berate me. No one to ask me to help them. No one to ask if I need help.

  If I am okay.

  I want to feel like this every day. Every second.

  I feel good.

  Better, at least.

  I feel okay.

  Dmitri

  “Raise,” Yia Yia says, looking at Nicky with an honest-to-goodness twinkle in her eye. She pushes two one-hundred-dollar chips into the middle of our kitchen table.

  Nicky studies her, looking for some sort of tell. He won’t find any.

  Two years ago, I got kind of obsessed with poker. This kid at school named Jason
Caldwell came in talking about a movie called Rounders. Jason was flat-out cool—he wore old eighties concert t-shirts; his hair was unruly and spiky; and he somehow knew how to talk to girls—so his recommendations carried weight. They didn’t always work (the film adaptation of Ender’s Game is a glaring example), but he was spot-on with Rounders.

  Not only was the film rated R, which when you’re thirteen is like the holy grail of movie experiences, but, like Jason, it oozed cool. Matt Damon plays this good guy law student/poker player who gets into trouble with the Russian mob on account of his degenerate friend. The best parts are the poker scenes; they’re filled with tension and drama and I defy you to watch them without wanting to learn the game.

  The day after I saw the movie—it was on HBO one night after my parents had gone to bed—I got some poker books out of the library and started watching the World Series of Poker on ESPN. (I’m not sure why the tournament is on a sports network, but I guess the Game Show Network would be even worse.)

  Anyway, Yia Yia sat down on the couch next to me while I was watching the WSOP. She didn’t say a word, but her eyes were glued to the screen. After half an hour, she started to ask questions.

  “Why those men put chips out before cards dealed?”

  “They’re called the blinds,” I explained.

  “Why that man betting so much money when his card so bad?”

  “It’s called bluffing.”

  I went on to explain the game to Yia Yia in as much detail as I could, talking about tournaments, and pot odds, and drawing to an inside straight, all things I’d been learning from those books. Yia Yia’s face was inscrutable as she took it all in.

  That same night, she made Nicky and me play with her, and I could see she was hooked.

  After a few months my interest in poker faded, but not Yia Yia’s. She would do whatever she could to get Nicky and me to play with her, sometimes roping our father in.