Girl on the Ferris Wheel

by Julie Halpern

  But the way my mother told it, Yia Yia had fallen in love with the idea of having her body cremated and the ashes spread in the vegetable garden she cultivated in our backyard. She wanted her remains to mix with the soil, the carbon nurturing the tomatoes, carrots, bell peppers, and cucumbers she grew. Even without Yia Yia’s ashes, those cucumbers were the largest anyone had ever seen. I could only imagine what they would be like when infused with Yia Yia’s essence.

  The thought of that garden, and how it would wither and die without my grandmother to love it—the way she loved all of us—made me well up. It made me wonder how we would survive. The hole left in the world by Yia Yia was a palpable thing. Especially at that kitchen table.

  “See?” my father blustered at seeing me start to cry. “This make Dmitri sad! We moost honor tradition.” He practically harrumphed. If he’d been wearing suspenders, which he sometimes does, he’d have hooked his thumbs through them in triumph.

  “No, Dad,” I answered, composing myself. “Just the opposite. That Yia Yia marched to the beat of her own drum is why I—it’s why we all—love her”—I choked up and corrected myself—“loved her so much.”

  “But no wake? People come here with food? It so, so … Jewish.”

  I rolled my eyes. Nicky patted Dad on the arm and offered, “It’s fine, Dad. It’s what Yia Yia wanted and her wishes should supersede tradition.” Sometimes I think my brother is the Buddha.

  The church service, two days later, was surreal.

  I’ve gone to Sunday school and church every weekend as long as I’ve been alive. Rain, shine, healthy, sick, the Digrindakis family is like the postal service; we always make our rounds. I’ve stood, knelt, prayed, accepted communion, and studied (the Greek Orthodox interpretation of) the Bible with diligence, and here’s the thing: None of it has ever felt right to me.

  I believe in God, or at least I think I do, but not their version of God. When I pray, my prayers are full of hope and promise. When the church has me pray, it’s full of fear and intimidation. Case in point, a few small snippets from the Greek Orthodox funeral service:

  O God, you who of old created me out of nothing in your divine image, and returned me back to dust, from which I had been made, for my disobedience; to your own likeness again restore, and the ancient beauty, I pray return to me.

  And …

  I am an icon of your ineffable glory, even though the marks of sin are on me; take pity, Lord, on your own creation, and cleanse me in your compassion …

  And …

  For you are the resurrection, the life and the repose of your servant (Name) who has fallen asleep …

  I’ve heard the term “fat-shaming,” about how skinny people make heavy people feel bad about their bodies. This is a kind of life-shaming. Like the dead are making the living feel bad for all the fun we’re having. I call bullshit.

  And yes, in the little funeral service booklet they hand out so you can follow along, as if it were a program handed out to theatergoers at a play, it does actually say “your servant (Name)” throughout, like a form you have to fill out at the department of motor vehicles.

  By the time we get back to our house and the “party” Yia Yia had wanted, I’m too lost in my own head for company. I kiss my aunts, uncles, and cousins, say a weak hello to Meg and Alex, and slink off to my room alone. I put Roxy Music’s Avalon on the turntable and keep the volume low so no one will hear. I love the dreamy, romantic feel of this record. The sounds of the assembled family downstairs—Greeks are loud, like the Who loud—mixes with the music, making a rolling wave of white noise. I’m just starting to drift off when there’s a knock on the door. Before I can even think about who it might be, a familiar voice says, “Dmitri? It’s me. Eliana.”

  I didn’t expect Ellie to come today, but at the same time, I’m not surprised she’s here. And I’m glad. I open the door, and the next thing I know, I’m crying in her arms. It’s the only time I’ve really cried since that first night after Yia Yia died; it doesn’t last long.

  Ellie and I talk about Yia Yia for a bit before our conversation drifts to everything else that’s been going on in our lives. El and I sat in this very spot so many times and made out that I’m afraid reflex will take over and make me try to lean in, but I don’t. It’s not that I don’t want to kiss Eliana ever again, I just don’t want to right now.

  We wind up talking and listening to music for hours, only getting interrupted by relatives a few times. It’s nice.

  When the party starts to break up and it’s time for Ellie to leave, she and I hug again, and make a promise to stay in touch and see each other soon; to be friends. But even as the words are spoken, I recognize them as the empty kind of promise people make when things are ending. It’s a load of bull crap people invent to protect each other from future hurt.

  But who knows, maybe this will be different.

  Maybe.

  When I wake up the next morning, I throw on my dirtiest pair of jeans and rattiest t-shirt, and go out back to till the soil in Yia Yia’s garden. I let the sun bake the back of my neck as the dirt gets lodged under my fingernails. The only other time I feel this good is playing the drums. I stay in the garden for hours.

  Summer

  Eliana

  I can’t stop staring at Mr. Person’s legs. It’s not often one gets a view of the pasty white stems of a guidance counselor. I must look away. I can’t look away. So much hair.

  Mr. Person looks up from his computer, where he has been clicking to finalize my files for the year. My eyes dart from his legs to a snow globe above his desk. Funny to think that the ground was covered with the stuff just a few months ago. Now it’s eighty degrees outside, and I’m planning on attempting a seven-mile run when the final school bell rings.

  “A few hiccups, but it looks like you’ve had a pretty good year,” Mr. Person declares.

  “A few hiccups?” I ask.

  “Doesn’t matter how many hiccups you had as long as someone shouts ‘Boo!’ and scares them out of you, right?”

  “That’s kind of a terrible analogy, Mr. Person.”

  “Give me a break. The bell is going to ring in a minute. Pretend like I said something meaningful.”

  “No, you did, Mr. Person. I appreciate your help. Or at least the solace of your cave-like office.”

  “Get excited for my window next year. You’ll hardly recognize me.”

  “Yes. You in natural lighting may scare me off.”

  “Then I should have moved to a room with a window months ago.”

  “Ha ha, Mr. Person.”

  The bell rings, and the voice of the principal vibrates over the PA. “School’s out for summer! Be safe out there!” Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out” blares metallically over the speakers, unpleasant enough that anyone with solid hearing will want to leave the building in a hasty fashion. A clever way to clear out the school so the custodians can start their massive end-of-the-year cleanup.

  “That’s my cue,” I shout over the music. Mr. Person grabs a set of headphones and, unplugged, slings them over his head to block out the sound.

  “See you at the end of the summer for cross-country practice!” he yells.

  “Probably!” I yell back.

  The administration seems to have forgotten that they work in a high school filled with teenagers who listen to music louder than this plugged directly into their ears on a regular basis, so when I head to my locker to clear out the remnants of the last year, the halls are still filled with students oblivious to the soundtrack of seventies youth.

  Most of the crap in my locker is just that, crap, but there are a few things worth saving. I find a note from Dmitri:

  Can’t wait to hang out after school

  It’s not dated, but I know it’s from early in the school year. A freakin’ lifetime ago.

  There’s a stack of hall passes from Mr. Person after he became tired of me coming to his office so frequently, needing space from whatever class I was in. I should bequea
th these to my brothers and sisters if I have any left after I graduate.

  And I discover the culprit of the foul stench emanating from my locker for the past several weeks: a shriveled-up apple core underneath a pair of gym shorts. A lethal combo.

  My phone buzzes with a text from Janina.

  JANINA: You still at school? Want to meet at the 7?

  Ever since Janina and I ran to the Slurpees, she has been semi-addicted. My stomach can’t handle it, but I keep her company and dine on Red Vines instead.

  ELIANA: Want to run first? Seven miles to the 7-Eleven?

  The mountain of recyclables piles up on the hallway floor. Students kick their way through the deluge, without care that someone has to clean it up if they don’t. That always bothers me, and I complain loudly, “Where do you think this stuff goes if you don’t put it in the recycling bin? Heathens!” I grab a handful of papers and stuff them down into the nearest green container, a lone activist on a mission to give the custodians and the earth a break.

  My phone buzzes again, a presumed RSVP for the run from Janina. However, the text is not from Janina but from Dmitri.

  DMITRI: You’re coming to the show tomorrow, right?

  ME: What do you think?

  DMITRI: I think you better be there or I’m playing a special sequel I wrote called “The Girl Who Dumped Me on the Ferris Wheel.”

  ME: I kind of want to hear that song.

  DMITRI: You. Are. Coming.

  ME: You. Are. Correct.

  DMITRI: Good. And I’ll see you in the morning at your house.

  Dmitri is helping me clean up the basement. Together we have already cataloged 112 of my dad’s movies in order to sell them online. My mom suggested that if Dad could make some money and clear some space from the movies, he could go back to school for the degree he has always wanted: high school teaching. I’m really hoping he doesn’t finish the degree before I finish high school, but I’m also pretty excited. Dad will finally get out of the basement, and I may finally have a bedroom to share with Samara that’s the not the size—and shape—of a closet. And Mom will once again have a partner in parenting instead of a basement-dwelling, film-obsessed weirdo. Or at least she can have a film-obsessed weirdo who actually brings money into the house.

  And it gives me lots of extra time with Dmitri.

  Sometimes Dimmi and I take breaks from the cataloging to watch an old movie. Most recently we stumbled upon Rabid Grannies, a foreign, dubbed horror movie about, well, a group of old people who kind of eat each other. We laughed through the entire film.

  We do that a lot together now, laugh. It’s pretty great. Mostly pressure-free. But when there is pressure, it’s the good kind. Because even though it’s in my gut, it’s not that icky, barfy feeling. It’s the pleasant twitter of butterflies, flitting around with anticipation. Because I don’t know what is going to happen next. And for once in my life, finally, I like how that feels.

  Dmitri

  BAM!

  THWAP!

  BAM!

  THWAP!

  The first song at the first-ever gig of the Frozen Weirdos—the day after the last day of school—starts with a Queen-like “We Will Rock You” beat. It leads us into Reg’s screeching guitar, a superfast groove with thumping bass, and riffing (almost rapping) vocals. The lyrics are mine.

  Roots deep

  A towering, flowering leap

  Watching me scramble up the heap

  Of this twisted, knotty day

  Soil thick

  The air and my hair slick

  Feeling like a sunburned hick

  Thanking you for showing me the way

  I wrote those words working in Yia Yia’s garden the day after her funeral. I spent hours there. I didn’t really know anything about gardening, so I just went on intuition. I pulled weeds, pruned plants that looked unruly, harvested vegetables that seemed ripe for picking, and sometimes just sat and breathed in the air. It sounds corny, but I had the feeling Yia Yia was with me, guiding my hands.

  At one point my father came out and stood over me, watching. I looked up at him, using the back of my hand to wipe the sweat from my forehead, and waited for him to say something like “This not for you; this woman work.” But he was silent. He turned on his heel and went back in the house. He came out twenty minutes later in a t-shirt, tan shorts, black socks, and work boots, and got down next to me. We didn’t talk, we just pulled weeds together. It was, and I think will always be, one of the happiest moments of my life.

  I was surprised when Ellie texted me that same night asking how I was doing. I figured she was being polite—Ellie is big on manners, the kind of girl who can actually stand on ceremony—so I responded, politely, that I was doing fine, and thanks for asking.

  Then she texted me the next day. And the day after. And three times the day after that. Good God, I thought, is this what I did to her? But I knew my barrage of communication had been so much worse. Not that this was bad. Just the opposite; it was welcome.

  At the height of our relationship, Ellie and I texted a lot, talking about everything and nothing—movies, music, school. That’s when we were at our best. It started to go south when our conversations droned on and on—pretty much entirely my fault—about the state of us.

  Now that we’ve reestablished our texting rhythm, Eliana invited me over to help sort through her father’s movies so he could list them for sale online. I didn’t know what to make of the invitation, or if I should even go. I asked Reg.

  “Of course you shouldn’t go. But you’re going to anyway, so why are you asking me? Dumbass.”

  I love Reggie.

  Any hesitation I had evaporated the moment Ellie led me to her basement. I had seen Mr. Hoffman’s DVD/VHS collection before, or thought I had. There were three bookcases on one wall with DVDs and cassettes shelved spine out. I figured that was it. Eliana had hauled the rest of his stuff—seventeen boxes (seventeen!)—out of storage, and stacked them in the middle of the floor.

  “I think your father might need an intervention,” was all I could I think to say.

  “Duh.”

  We got to work.

  There were some real gems in the collection, and some truly weird stuff, too. I was worried one film, Bikini Bloodbath Carwash, was actually porn. I showed it to Ellie, and she freaked me out by shoving it in the DVD player. Turns out it was just a dumb horror-slasher flick with a lot of sudsed-up college girls. We laughed a lot at that one and many of the others. We laughed so much—enjoyed each other’s company so much—that progress cataloging the DVDs was slow.

  We didn’t kiss, we didn’t hold hands, but we did sit with our shoulders and knees touching. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice. I think Ellie did the same thing.

  I scan the crowd for Eliana now, my gaze moving over so many familiar faces. Nicky is here, and, somehow, he’s managed to drag my parents. My mother is swaying to the beat; my father looks like Frankenstein, stiff and unmoving. I’m surprised he doesn’t hold his arms straight out. But he’s here.

  Kyle and Drew from Unexpected Turbulence turned up, and I can tell by the look on Kyle’s face he approves of the Weirdos. For some reason that matters to me. Chad isn’t with them, not that I would expect him to be.

  I spot Janina towering up from the back of the crowd, with Ellie’s sister Sam at her side. I don’t see Eliana at first, but then some dancing people shift and she comes into view. Her hair catches the light and kind of glows. She’s wearing a white t-shirt, black skirt, and black sneakers. Simple, understated, and so freaking beautiful.

  She catches me gawking at her and waves, her mouth betraying her normal stoic demeanor and turning into a pretty wide grin. Both pretty, and pretty wide.

  I smile back and strike the crash cymbal, ending “Towering Flower,” my song about Yia Yia. I twirl my sticks in the air, kick the bass drum in a steady beat, starting another song.

  I’ve never been more ready for the music and whatever else—for everything else—that comes
next.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Julie

  This book was so much fun to write. Writing novels can be very solitary, and I am grateful for the camaraderie, communication, and connection this book brought to my life. Len, thank you for being a great partner. You listened, you shared, and damn if we didn’t work well together.

  Thank you to my book family at Feiwel and Friends: Jean Feiwel, Liz Szabla, Anna Roberto, and Rich Deas, and my amazing agent, Rosemary Stimola, for bringing me this collaborative opportunity. You knew it was what I needed to keep writing, and I am so thankful for the experience.

  Thank you to my family and friends for listening to me talk about this book for several years because being a parent, librarian, and writer are not the easiest concoction for writing a book.

  Thank you to the teachers, grocery store clerks, delivery drivers, postal workers, restaurant workers, and all the other people who keep this world running. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  Len

  While publishing is a collaborative effort, writing is not. You lock yourself in a room (or sit anonymously in a coffee shop) and put pixel to screen. (Sorry, luddites … I haven’t put pen to paper in years.) So, what is the writing process like when you coauthor a book?

  Good question. And it’s where these acknowledgments must begin.

  Julie Halpern and I have never met in person. Let me say that again. Julie Halpern, the person with whom I cowrote the book you’ve just finished and (I hope) have enjoyed, and I have never met. Julie’s editor at Feiwel and Friends thought we would make an interesting writing duo. So they introduced us, sat back, and let the magic happen.

  And magic it was.

  I offer my enormous thanks to Julie for being such a wonderful writing partner. As our characters blossomed so too did our writing relationship. And while the journey was filled with roller coasters, “bumpy” cars, and the occasional Tilt-a-Whirl, it really was most like a Ferris wheel, the two of us getting to know each other and seeing more of the landscape with each trip around. Thank you, Julie!