Girl on the Ferris Wheel

by Julie Halpern

  Dad, who is at the table tonight, has to be the worst poker player ever. He only enters the pot when he has cards, and even when he does, you can bluff him off just about any hand. It’s kind of nice (and kind of sad) he thinks the rest of us are so honest that we’re never bluffing.

  Yia Yia, on the other hand, is a shark.

  “Call,” Nicky says, sliding his chips forward. The chips and cards we’re using are part of a poker set he and I gave Yia Yia for Christmas.

  “Call!” my father blusters. He must be sitting on a high pair.

  I glance at my cards again—nine, ten suited. I usually like to gamble with this kind of hand. I can make a straight or a flush, and no one will see it coming. But I’m still sour from rehearsal today, and still reeling over Eliana’s complete and total dismissal of me.

  “Fold,” I half mutter, half grunt.

  “What the matter, Dimmi-moo?” Yia Yia asks as she scoops the bets and my discarded hand to the center of the table. Yia Yia is always the dealer.

  “Nothing,” I answer, slumping a little more into my seat.

  “Not nothing,” she says. “Trouble with girlfriend, nαι?”

  When I don’t respond, Nicky answers for me. “Good read, Yia Yia.”

  “Burn and turn,” Yia Yia says with relish, taking the top card from the deck, putting it facedown, and then turning the three community cards faceup in what is known as the flop. There’s an ace of clubs, a nine of diamonds, and a six of clubs. I think Yia Yia loves all the trappings of poker as much as she loves the game itself. It makes her feel like a badass. Not that Yia Yia needs any help to be an actual badass. “You should call girl and say you sorry,” she says.

  “He’s tried,” Nicky says, “but apparently she’s pretty angry.”

  I give my brother a dirty look and grunt again.

  “Then you find other way to tell her sorry.”

  “He’s tried that, too.” This time I stare daggers at Nicky, letting him know he’s about to cross a line. I showed him the song I wrote for Eliana, and he has to know that’s private.

  “You should date nice Greek girl anyway,” my father chimes in.

  “Hush, Basil,” my grandmother admonishes.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say.

  “Of course it matter,” Yia Yia answers. “Eliana is good girl, and she love you.”

  “She is good, but she doesn’t love me,” I answer.

  “What you know about girls? I know,” Yia Yia insists. “She love you.”

  “They too young to be in love,” my father interjects.

  “No one too young to be in love.”

  This time my father grunts.

  My grandmother looks him in the eye and smiles. “Five hundred,” she says, pushing a purple chip in front of her. I’m pretty sure Yia Yia knows my father has a good hand and is trying to scare him off it.

  “Fold,” Nicky says without hesitation, pushing his cards forward.

  “και ποτέ δεν είναι πολύ μεγάλος για να παίξει πόκερ,” Dad mutters under his breath. And never too old to play poker. This gets a laugh from Yia Yia. She really does love this game.

  He looks at his cards no fewer than five times, the sign of a weak poker player. In Texas Hold’em you don’t play your hand, you play the other people at the table. When Yia Yia deals, she watches each of us react to our cards before looking at her own. I taught her that.

  I think about what Yia Yia said, that Ellie does love me. I think about poker and how you play the person, not the cards. And I think about everything I’ve done wrong. I now know what I have to do.

  “Fold,” my father says with disgust, turning over his pair of jacks. I take some small measure of satisfaction knowing I read him correctly.

  Yia Yia cackles with delight, scooping up the chips.

  “What you have?” my father asks.

  “You want to know, next time you pay the five hundred dollar.” She looks her son-in-law in the eye and smiles again. “But tonight I feel, what is word … filánthropos.”

  “Charitable,” Nicky says.

  “Yes, charitable,” Yia Yia says, sounding out each syllable. She turns over a five and six of different suits. A garbage hand.

  “Σκατά!” my father exclaims. A full-on Greek curse.

  For the first time in days, I’m actually smiling.

  Eliana

  I can’t stop thinking, which would be great if it were all good, flowery, happy thoughts. I can’t imagine what that must be like. I hate my brain. Why doesn’t it have a shutoff valve?

  Meg. Ugh. Dmitri. Ugh. Meg and Dmitri. Ugh and ugh.

  But it’s more than that. More than them. They’re just the obvious choice to avoid the reality of my malfunctioning mind.

  Why don’t things just feel good like they once did? Because they did once.

  Flashback to date number four. Dmitri declared that we needed an “activity date.” The choices he offered: skydiving, axe throwing, or bowling. We knocked out choice one because it was too expensive and choice two because we weren’t old enough. Which left us with bowling. Except that I sort of have an aversion to bowling because it was my dad’s thing. He was even in a league, once upon a time, and had his own monogrammed ball. I have too many memories of being cooped up in the creepy bowling alley childcare room, trying to keep Isaac and Samara safe from the other, less civilized bowling progeny. Maybe my memories are clouded, but I could swear there were kids smoking in that childcare room.

  “What about Chuck E. Cheese?” I suggested. As ridiculous as it sounds, I had never been to Chuck E. Cheese, but I had seen so many commercials that, even as a teenager, I was enchanted. Games! Prizes! Pizza! Basically heaven, right? Dmitri wasn’t as easily convinced.

  “You know, I have been there, and it’s not all tickets hanging from trees and hugs from giant mice. I mean, there is a giant mouse. But who knows how many boogers have been rubbed into that fake fur?”

  “Boogers and fake fur?” I enthused. I was not to be deterred. “It sounds awesome.”

  “It really isn’t,” Dmitri pronounced.

  “What do you have against Chuck E. Cheese? Did something traumatic happen to you in a ball pit?” I asked.

  “No. And they don’t have those anymore. Unsanitary. It’s just that … never mind. It’s stupid. Forget I said anything. Let’s go be kids being kids.”

  “You can’t throw a ‘never mind’ at me and think you’ll get away with it. What is it?”

  “Promise not to laugh.”

  “I promise nothing,” I said.

  “Fine. I always had this vision of what a perfect date was, and I pictured it taking place in a bowling alley,” Dmitri admitted.

  “That is so cute.” I pinched Dmitri’s cheek playfully. He pulled away, embarrassed. “Can we compromise? How about we go to Chuck E. Cheese this time, and we go to your fantasy bowling alley the next date? And voilà! We already have two more dates set up. We’re practically engaged.” I couldn’t believe I said that, and quickly backed out of it with a joke. “Chuck E. can be the officiant at our wedding. The theme can be ‘booger fur chic.’”

  Chuck E. Cheese totally delivered on all of my ridiculous expectations. It was so bright and colorful and loud. The pizza was even good. Dimmi and I played games for over two hours. It was like the montage scene I always dreamed of: Dimmi standing behind me, arms around my middle, as I threw Skee-balls into the gutter. A cheerily competitive Whac-A-Mole game (I won, naturally). Me jumping up and down in excitement as tickets spilled out of a game that Dmitri bested. Brain freeze from drinking slushees too quickly. And, the pièce de résistance, Dmitri combining all his tickets with mine to purchase the large and hideous Mr. Munch stuffed animal.

  As we laughed our way to the parking lot, where we waited for his mom to pick us up, Dmitri and I stole kisses and each held one of Mr. Munch’s hands. It was, as I predicted, a perfect date.

  So what changed? Why is he looking at other girls
? Why am I switching classes? Why am I dreading having his locker next to mine? Where did all the happy go?

  I look at Mr. Munch, mostly hidden under a pile of laundry in the corner of my room-hole. What if there is some sort of magical power to Mr. Munch, and if I uncover him, the joy and love I felt will instantly return?

  I lean off my futon and yank Mr. Munch out of the laundry stank. He looks at me. I look at him. Then I throw him out my closet door.

  I feel even worse.

  Dmitri

  The first day back from winter break, I’m at my new school locker early, waiting for Eliana. I’m wearing black jeans and a Hufflepuff t-shirt. (Ellie made me do the Sorting Hat thing online and my house came out as Hufflepuff. My Patronus was a rabbit. She laughed. At the time I thought it was funny. Now I wonder if it’s one more thing she hates about me.)

  Both my hands are clutching a laminated sheet of paper. On it, emblazoned in Sharpie, is the song I wrote. I need to corner Ellie, to make her understand how much I love her, how sorry I am.

  The hallway starts to fill with other kids, but there’s no sign of Ellie.

  With only two minutes to the bell, Joe Loskywitz, the kid who sold me the locker, strides up. Joe plays guitar in another band called State of Adventure, and while we’re not exactly friends, we’re friendly.

  “Hey man, wrong locker.” I force a smile. “Remember, you sold this one to me?”

  “I know, but then the weirdest thing happened over the weekend. You know that tall girl, Janina?”

  Oh. Shit. “Yeah?”

  “She texted me that the weird girl who used to have this locker wanted to trade with me. I made another fifty bucks. I don’t know what’s going on, but I totally need the cash, so cool.” I kind of want to punch him for calling Eliana a weird girl.

  Joe takes a book out of his backpack, tosses the bag into what is now his locker, and shuts it. “Oh, and hey, great show at the Entry.” He spins the lock and disappears down the hall.

  I feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack Truck.

  No.

  I wish I had been hit by a Mack Truck.

  Eliana

  I can’t do it. I can’t get out of bed. My covers will not move from off my chest. The time on my phone reads 7:30, and I know I need to leave for school in fifteen minutes in order to be on time. It’s the first day back after winter break. It’s six degrees outside. The start of a new semester.

  None of these are reasons why I can’t get out of bed.

  I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to see anybody today. I don’t want to shower and get dressed and put two shoes on in order to get somewhere where I will have to interact with other humans.

  Why would anyone want to talk to me anyway, especially Dmitri? Obviously, I am a pathetic, jealous loser who isn’t “that kind of girl.” What exactly does that mean? It seems so trite. So cliché. I thought Dmitri was better than that. I thought I was better than this.

  Janina finally came back from the ends of the earth, bronzed beyond her already perpetually bronzed state. She visited me in my room-hole yesterday, and although I was able to extract myself from the covers, I wasn’t really up for leaving my space.

  Janina knocked on my closet door around noon. I wanted her over earlier, because early mornings can be my worst time of day.

  Who am I kidding? Every time of day feels like the worst lately.

  “I can’t get used to this time difference.” Janina yawned and stretched. She had on one of my favorite tops, a fuzzy cream-colored sweater with a rainbow running over her chest.

  “Yes, it must be so difficult to adjust after days in paradise, away from the person who constantly harasses you for help because she has no idea how to handle anything by herself.”

  “Uh…”

  “Sorry,” I offered weakly. “I have no idea what I’m doing, and this is all too familiar. I feel like I’m an alien on the wrong planet.”

  “What planet are you on? And also, what planet are you from?”

  “Shitty metaphor. Forgive me. I mean that this planet, Earth, is filled with beautiful people and not beautiful people, and that’s all that seems to matter. Like, it doesn’t matter how smart you are or how capable you are of walking long distances or how committed you are to watching and reading a series for the rest of your life. Nooooooo. All that matters is that you giggle and pander and blink your eyes seductively. It’s such bullshit.” It was then that I began to burrow my way back under my blankets.

  “El. You have to get out of that mindset. People do not think as black and white as that. Or if they do, they probably live in their parents’ basement and the only actual human contact they make is with their own hand.”

  “Ew.” I pulled the blankets up to my chin.

  “Yes. Ew. And you don’t want those guys. You want the nice ones. Dmitri seems like he’s pretty nice.”

  “Janina, you didn’t see him. He was ogling this girl. Ogling. He didn’t even care that I had to go to the bathroom by myself.”

  “Does he usually help you with that?”

  “Well, no. But there was much ogling. Did I mention the ogling?”

  “A bit.” Janina nodded. “Are you sure he was ogling and not just making eye contact with the wrong pair of eyes?”

  “Did you just refer to boobs as ‘the wrong pair of eyes’? There is nothing right about that.”

  “I’m just trying to give him the benefit of the doubt before things happen that you might regret. I’m guessing you’ve been avoiding him.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because that is your go-to deal. I’ll also guess that he’s sending you texts trying to get you to talk to him?”

  “Only about seven hundred thousand.”

  “That’s good! He’s groveling. That’s better than ogling, right?”

  “He’s groveling because of the ogling, Nina. Look at this one text:

  DMITRI: 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!

  “And then this one:

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

  Janina finally got it. She shook her head and said, “‘That kind of girl’? How about the kind of guy who talks to his girlfriend about the development of another girl’s body?”

  Then she looked at the ceiling. “Dmitri, you dumbass. Why are guys so stupid? Seriously. They could stop being this way. If girls didn’t keep going out with them, evolution wouldn’t keep perpetuating this complete idiocy. Okay, here’s what we’re going to do…”

  That’s when Janina came up with the brilliant idea to switch my locker away from Dmitri’s newly acquired locker. This way I can at least avoid the inevitable awkwardness for a tiny bit longer. Also, less human interaction is really my preferable state right now.

  If I ever leave my room.

  Because not having a locker next to Dmitri doesn’t mean that I’m not going to have to see him at some point. It doesn’t mean that I’m not going to have to face the fact that I am not “that kind of girl.” And he obviously wants that kind of girl. And he, unfortunately, must be that type of guy. Am I overthinking it? Am I focusing too much on Meg in order to cover up the reality of my returning depression? What are we paying a therapist for anyway?

  Nope. I can’t get out of bed today.

  Dmitri

  BOOM!

  I’m body slammed against a row of lockers, my arm wrenched behind me in what I imagine martial artists call the Killing Twist, or the Spiral Grip of Death, or something like that.

  Like most institutions of higher learning, Walter Mondale Preparatory High School has an obligatory alpha-male bully; ours is named Ignatius Blatt, better known as Iggy Blatt. (Kind of easy to understand how a person named Iggy Blatt winds up as the school bully. I mean, what were his parents thinking?) He’s a big kid, maybe six foot two, and while he’d be a shoo-in for the football team, he doesn’t play any school sports. I think
he models himself after the Judd Nelson character in that movie The Breakfast Club, which, if you’ve never seen it, is one of the many reasons I’m glad I’m not in tenth grade in the 1980s. Most of my friends’ parents love that movie. All of my friends hate it. (My parents love Zorba the Greek with Anthony Quinn. Yay, me.)

  Anyway, I’m expecting Iggy Blatt to lean in and tell me which heinous crime against humanity (and bullies) I’ve committed, but instead, it’s a girl’s voice in my ear, and it sounds pissed.

  “You are a complete jerk, you know that?”

  Janina.

  Damn, she’s strong. I’m trying to move my arm, to turn around, but I’m completely immobilized. And it hurts.

  “I told you. I made it very, very clear. You were not to hurt Eliana. But what did you do?” She’s on a roll so I don’t answer. “That’s not a rhetorical question, dipshit. What did you do?”

  “Iin nah reawy shaw.” With my face eating the metal of some random kid’s locker, my words come out funny, so Janina loosens her grip. I stretch my jaw to make sure it still works. “I’m not really sure.”

  “Who’s Meg?”

  Crap. “Janina, it was a total misunderstanding.”

  “Were you ogling? I’ve been told there was ogling.”

  “Only because she looked so different from the last time I saw her!” I protest. “I mean, her underwear was blue!” Yep. I say that. Out loud. To Eliana’s best friend. The same friend who’s pinning me to a locker like she’s John Cena. I am exactly this stupid.

  Janina relaxes her grip for a second and I think she’s going to let me go. Instead, she slams my face against the locker again, harder this time.

  In the background I hear someone say, “Hey, Dmitri’s getting beat up by a girl!”

  “Janina,” I stammer, a line of drool snaking its way from my lower lip down toward the combination lock. “Can you just turn me around so we can actually talk?”

  There’s one of those pauses where time seems to stop; Janina must be weighing her options. Not wanting to actually kill me, she lets go. My first instinct is to run, but I don’t. When I turn around, Janina is standing there, arms crossed tight over her chest, her eyes red. She cranes her neck around to look at the crowd of kids gathered behind her, spits “Piss off” through gritted teeth, and waits a second while the assembled mass disperses. Now it’s just the two of us.