Girl on the Ferris Wheel

by Julie Halpern

  “Makes you feel powerful, doesn’t it?” Janina nods knowingly.

  “What? I don’t want to feel powerful. It makes me feel sad, really. I kind of miss the guy.”

  “The guy or the smoochies?”

  “The smoochies were nice, for sure, but too many other things come along with smoochies. When I think about him in that way, I remember weird things. Like this nose hair that would sometimes appear, and I was always too afraid to say anything because I didn’t want him to feel self-conscious.”

  “So you just stared at it for hours hoping to disintegrate it with your mind.”

  “Exactly. And the deodorant he used. Initially I really liked the smell, but then it made my stomach turn. There was something tangy about it.”

  “Please don’t start telling underwear stories. I feel like that might be where you’re headed.”

  “Ha and no. It’s just … those are the kind of thoughts I don’t want to have again.”

  “What kind of thoughts do you want to have again?”

  “Dmitri and I used to do this thing where we’d flip through old yearbooks in the library at school. People looked so dated and embarrassing. We would be laughing so hard we could barely stand up. I miss that. And when he’d play new music for me and look at my face for a reaction. I liked the way he seemed like a little kid in those moments. And I know this is stupid because it got to a point where it set off all kinds of panic attacks, but I sort of miss his texts.”

  “You’re kidding. You used to text me all the time about his texts, and then it would become some bizarre meta-texting bitch session.”

  “But it would be different if we were just friends, wouldn’t it? Like me and you, except with different smells and less jogging.”

  “I would not mind passing the jogging baton to Dmitri, truth be told.”

  “I’m keeping you in shape! You love jogging with me!”

  “I love drinking Slurpees and doing something that makes you feel good,” Janina admits.

  “Wow. You really are a good friend.”

  “I don’t sweat like this for just anyone.”

  I lean over to hug Janina. “Have some of my sweat, too.”

  “Ewwww,” she complains, but hugs me back. “I think you should text him.”

  “Really?” I ask, my face muffled in her sticky shoulder.

  “Sure. What could go wrong?”

  “You had to say that, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” she laughs.

  When I get home, hair damp and clothes ripe, I close myself into my room-hole. My phone, replete with shiny new phone number, beckons me. I consider showering first, but it’s not like Dmitri can smell my texts.

  I decide not to overthink it. I’m just an old friend, reaching out and saying hi. Ain’t no thang.

  ME: Hey, Dmitri. It’s Eliana. New number. Thought I’d check in and say hello. Hit me back if you want.

  [SEND]

  Dmitri

  Our new band is called the Frozen Weirdos, because, well, we’re kind of weird and we live in Minnesota. And if Minnesota is nothing else, it’s frozen.

  We tried lots of different names before settling on FW. The list of finalists included Husker Don’t (for obvious reasons); Spitter (it was meant to poke fun at Twitter but was too obtuse—Reggie’s word, not mine); and Duh (because really, duh). The instant reject list included American Standard (like the name printed on toilets); the Noyarc (crayon spelled backward); and Woofing Cookies (really?).

  The day after Reggie and I met in her basement, she introduced me to the rest of our band: First was this half-Persian, half-Greek eleventh grader named Davoud (everyone just calls him Dave) who plays bass. He’s way more Persian than Greek, so while he and I don’t bond over a shared heritage, we do bond over being something other than Americans of northern European ancestry. Seriously, there has to be more blond hair and blue eyes in the Twin Cities than in Stockholm.

  Second was a freshman girl named Missy who plays keyboard and sings. When Reggie introduced us—in the halls between periods three and four at school—I asked Missy if her name was short for something. She stared at me for a minute and then just walked away. I didn’t ask again. Missy is all attitude, but she can play, and she can sing, and she’s way better to look at than Chad. She has this kind of in-your-face sexuality that scares the crap out of me, but I guess that’s the point.

  Reggie, Missy, and Dave are familiar with each other in a way that makes me wonder if Reggie had the band members already lined up and was just waiting for me to come around. I decide not to ask about it. Either way, Reggie really is a good friend.

  We practice in Reg’s basement, which saves money on a rehearsal space, and feels more relaxed. Her mother hates it—“Will you kids please keep that racket down!”—but then Mrs. Reynolds hates everything. Her default facial expression is a snarl. The apple, it seems, didn’t fall far from the tree. God, I hope that doesn’t mean I’m like my father.

  In the three weeks the Weirdos have been playing, our set list has expanded to seven songs (including two written by me). My favorite is a kick-ass, punked-up cover of this old Patsy Cline song called “Walkin’ After Midnight.” Missy half sings, half screeches it, à la Kate Nash. It kills.

  Since I’m the only one in the band with experience gigging, Reggie, Dave, and Missy look at me as a kind of leader, which is pretty funny when you think about it. Unexpected Turbulence is still playing out a lot, and is still getting a ton of attention. I do miss it sometimes, but really, I’m way happier as a Frozen Weirdo. I like my bandmates, and I like our music. That’s all that really matters.

  We’re on a water break during one of our practices—we jam almost every day—when I see I have a text. I don’t recognize the number.

  ELIANA: Hey, Dmitri. It’s Eliana. New number. Thought I’d check in and say hello. Hit me back if you want.

  Wait.

  What?

  I look again to make sure it’s real.

  It is.

  Then I look again.

  Other than awkward and painful encounters in the hall at school—I’m counting down the days to summer break so I won’t have to endure those encounters for at least a couple of months—Ellie and I haven’t talked in forever. And we definitely haven’t texted. Texting was one of her chief complaints against me. Hell, she even changed her phone number to get away from me.

  What.

  The.

  Fuck?

  After my stomach is done doing somersaults, I look at the message again. (Full disclosure: My stomach is not done doing somersaults and isn’t going to be anytime soon.)

  Check in?

  Say hello?

  Hit me back?

  If you want?

  Okay, yeah, I’m freaking out. I must be hyperventilating or something because Reggie is staring at me.

  “You okay, Digrindakis?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, “it’s nothing.” But Reggie keeps staring at me. She knows me too well.

  The time stamp on the text is from ten minutes ago. It must’ve come through while we were playing “Girl on the Ferris Wheel.” Does that mean something? It has to mean something. Doesn’t it? Am I supposed to answer this? Do I answer now? Later? Tomorrow? Do I even want to answer this?

  “Let’s play another song,” Reggie says, still staring at me. I nod and grab my sticks in one hand, still clutching my phone in the other.

  I take my seat behind the drums, eager to get into a new groove, when the phone buzzes. At first I think it’s another text and every muscle in my body clenches. But the buzzing continues. It’s not a text; it’s a phone call.

  Holy shit! Is Eliana calling me??

  I look at the phone and see it’s not Ellie; it’s Nicky.

  Nicky never calls me. Never. He texts sometimes, but not that often. He’s just not a guy who likes his phone.

  Completely freaked out and off-balance, I push the accept icon and hold the phone to my ear.

  “Hello?”

/>   There’s heavy breathing like Nicky is in some kind of trouble, and all thoughts of Eliana—well, most thoughts of Eliana—go right out of my mind.

  “Nick?”

  He clears his throat before he speaks. “It’s Yia Yia.”

  Eliana

  “Does this look okay?” I straighten the black skirt I borrowed from Samara. It’s actually from a production of Oliver! where she played a street kid, but it was the only black skirt I could find in our room. She said it would be fine if I snipped open the elastic at the waist to make it fit, and it’s undetectable as long as my black t-shirt doesn’t ride up. The cardigan, borrowed from my mom, is also black, with scalloped edges and floral buttons. “I feel like I’m going to a job interview,” I admit.

  My mom adjusts the shoulders on the cardigan and tucks my hair behind my ear. “You look nice. Don’t worry. No one is going to be thinking about your clothes.”

  “That makes it sound like I don’t look nice.” I slouch.

  “No no. I only meant that when you go to a wake, people aren’t thinking about those things. They will be happy you are paying your respects.”

  “But what if they’re not happy? What if Dmitri’s family yells at me to get out because they think I’m some kind of traitorous skag? What if Dmitri won’t even talk to me?”

  “You’re sure you don’t want any of us to come, honey?” Mom asks.

  “No. That seems weird. You didn’t really know them, and I kind of just want to deliver this card, show my face, and go.”

  “That’s very nice of you, El. Whatever went on between you and Dmitri, I’m sure he will appreciate this.”

  “I really liked Yia Yia. I feel like she was the only one in his family who really got me. Maybe even more than Dmitri.”

  “Women are pretty insightful. Men … not always so much. Don’t tell Isaac and Asher I said that,” she asides.

  “Too late. I’m inscribing it on your tombstone.”

  “Eliana!” my mom scolds.

  “I’m just kidding. Sorry. I’m nervous.”

  “Well, take these, and offer our condolences as well.” Mom hands me a tray of puffy peanut butter cookies with Hershey’s Kisses in the center. “Don’t worry about getting the tray back.”

  “I wasn’t worried about that.” I half smile.

  Mom and I load ourselves and the cookies into the car. I click from radio station to radio station, but there is nothing on. I’m too anxious to fumble with the aux cord to my phone. I settle on a benign oldies channel. Cars line the street two blocks out from Dmitri’s house. I imagine hundreds of people filling every crevice of every room, weeping loudly and exclaiming sadness in Greek. “Drop me off on the corner, please. And then don’t leave?” I request.

  “You’re sure you don’t want me to come in?” Mom asks again.

  “I’m sure, but stay close. Park on a side street and be ready to burn rubber to the house if I need a quick escape.”

  “Do people really still say ‘burn rubber’?”

  “I just did. You’re welcome. And thank you.”

  Deep breath, cookies grabbed, and I’m out the door and walking down the street toward the Digrindakises’ house.

  I’m so nervous about ringing the doorbell, scared at who might answer. But the door is already wide open, people walking in and out. A few faces look vaguely familiar from the big Digrindakis Christmas extravaganza, but I was too nervous then to commit their names to memory. They don’t seem to notice me anyway. I have to remind myself that no one is focused on my presence here. This day is about Yia Yia, and I want to be here to pay my respects. But where do I put the cookies?

  From across the room I see Nicky. He’s in a black suit, and I’ve never seen his hair so combed. A smile of relief melts onto my face, but I rein it in quickly for fear of looking too happy at a wake. Nicky walks toward me, a welcoming smile on his face, and I relax my shoulders, which, I now realize, were practically hitting my earlobes.

  “Hey,” he says. “It’s good to see you.” Nicky attempts to lean in for a hug, but the cookie tray blocks him.

  “I brought cookies. My mom made them.” I present the tray to Nicky and feel like I should curtsy.

  “Awesome. Peanut butter? Dmitri loves these.” I suppose in the back of my mind I knew that when I told my mom these were the best cookies to make.

  “Is he around?” I ask. “Of course he is. Stupid question.” I roll my eyes, super self-conscious that I’m here, that I haven’t been here in so long, and I have no idea how to act.

  “Yeah, he’s just upstairs. Want me to get him, or you could just go up there?”

  “Is he alone?” I ask, because I don’t want to interrupt anything. I ask because it is possible Meg is here consoling him. And that would be okay. I just don’t need to walk in on it.

  “I think so. He said he wanted some air but knew going outside would mean running into more people,” Nicky says.

  “Do you think he would mind if I went up there? I don’t know if he’d want to see me.”

  “I don’t think he’d ever not want to see you, Ellie.”

  I hope my cheeks are smart enough not to show how warm they feel at this moment.

  I wiggle my way through the crowd of mourners, many of them speaking Greek, most of them holding plates heaped with food. I hope my mom’s peanut butter Kisses cookies aren’t silly-looking.

  Too late to worry about that now. Instead, I worry about knocking on Dmitri’s closed bedroom door.

  First I listen. I consider putting my ear directly on the door, or finding a glass to hold up like in a wacky sitcom, but both options seem weird. I opt for the straight knock. Rap rap.

  “Yeah?” Dmitri calls from inside. His voice sounds weak.

  “Dmitri? It’s me. Eliana.”

  I hope there’s not a secret trapdoor hidden under my feet and that Dmitri isn’t about to pull the lever to send me to a watery pit filled with alligators.

  Shockingly, there is not, and Dmitri opens the door.

  He is also in a suit, black like his brother’s but with a light striped pattern. Underneath is a white shirt and purple checkered tie, hanging around his neck. His dark eyes feel darker, the circles exaggerated. When he looks at me, his eyes well up. “Hey, El,” he says.

  Then he hugs me. A deep, tight, sad hug. I feel his body jerk from crying. I’ve never seen Dmitri cry. I don’t know that we’ve ever been in a situation together that would have warranted crying from him. Maybe he’s not much of a crier, except when necessary. Like now.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say as I pat his back. He eases his hold on me and quickly turns away to wipe his eyes on a balled-up tissue in his fist. He then uses the same tissue to blow his nose in that honking fashion I’ve never been able to achieve.

  Cleaned up, Dmitri plunks down on his bed and asks, “Want to sit?”

  I could take the chair in the corner out from under the desk and sit there, but it feels rude. Distant. I sit next to him on the bed.

  “How’d you know about Yia Yia?” he asks. He looks at me so intensely, I remember what I didn’t like about that feeling. And what I did.

  “My mom read about her in the newspaper obituaries. She reads them every week. Was Yia Yia sick long?”

  “She was sick, but it wasn’t like she was dying sick. It wasn’t expected when it happened.”

  “That’s hard,” I acknowledge.

  “You will like this: She died while watching a Harry Potter marathon on TV.”

  I chuckle and then gasp, “Am I allowed to like that? Am I allowed to laugh?”

  “Of course. Yia Yia loved to laugh. And she loved Harry Potter, too, you know. When you and me broke up she told me it was probably because we were from different houses.”

  “You’re kidding,” I say.

  Dmitri pauses. “Yeah. I am.”

  I smack him on the arm. “You’re not supposed to joke about Yia Yia! We’re supposed to be somber.”

  “I’ve had days’ worth o
f somber. I was hoping you came by to cheer me up?”

  I worry there’s a tinge of innuendo in that hope.

  “I didn’t know I could still do that for you,” I admit. “I came by because I liked your Yia Yia, and I hadn’t seen you in a while and I wanted you to know I was thinking about you.”

  “You were?” More hope.

  “Yes. I miss my friend, Dmitri. You know, the idiot who jokes about his recently deceased Yia Yia?”

  “Yeah. That guy’s a tool.”

  “Sometimes,” I agree. “But sometimes he’s pretty cool, too.”

  “You look good,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  For the next hour and a half we sit on his bed and talk. About Yia Yia. About his new band. About running. Eventually I text my mom and tell her she can drive home. She answers back that she left right after she dropped me off.

  Dmitri

  As Greek Orthodox people go—or maybe I should say as Greek Orthodoxy goes—Yia Yia was kind of a rebel, the original punk rock grandmother.

  “I no want wake. Burn body to ash, simple church service, you have party at house.” My mom told this to me, Nicky, and Dad the night Yia Yia died, as we sat around the kitchen table and told stories about the woman we all loved so much.

  With an almost spooky kind of prescience, Yia Yia had given detailed instructions on how to treat her passing only a week ago, in private, to my mother. When my mom asked Yia Yia why she was talking about it, Yia Yia didn’t answer; she just smiled that Mona Lisa smile of hers. Mom didn’t think anything about it, so hadn’t mentioned it to the rest of us until it was too late.

  “Óχι,” my father said. “No. It not right. Body moost be buried. Body moost be anointed.”

  My father was right; Greek Orthodox tradition was pretty clear on this point. When you die, you have a wake in a funeral home, your body is anointed by the priest while your family watches, you’re buried in the ground, and then everyone has lunch. Cremation wasn’t even legal in Greece until a couple of years ago.