OLLIE

A Story by Katie Bernet

Ferris wheels are for people in love. I’ve known that since I was ten. The first time I came to the State Fair of Texas, I watched my grandparents float round and round in a perfect circle. It turned into this big thing.

I’ve never been in love, so I’ve never ridden the ferris wheel. But today is my day.

I buy a cotton candy that’s bigger than my face and meet Mary at the back of the line.

She turns her nose up. “That’s pink.”

I laugh. “It’s cotton candy.”

She mutters something under her breath. It sounds like, “You look silly.”

Mary loves to tease me.

I wrap my arm around her skinny hips.

“Ay,” she moans. “It’s too hot for that.”

I let her go and cross my arms. “Want some?” Sugar melts on my tongue.

She shakes her head. “You look like a little kid.”

I stick my tongue out to complete the picture.

Her eyes skim up and down my body.

I first saw Mary in front of my mom’s restaurant. I was still in school at Le Cordon Bleu. Out for the summer. She was walking down the street with her usual crew. Five Latinas. Pretty intimidating if you ask me.

I was staring at her. Overflowed a cup of coffee into a customer’s lap. She told her cronies to go on without her. Guess she thought I was cute.

The ferris wheel line is barely moving. Mary’s looking at her manicure and I’m watching this little family in front of us. Mom, Dad, three girls and a boy. They’re all playing and laughing.

I nudge Mary and point at them.

She rolls her eyes. “I know, right?” Her voice flattens out. “Loud.”

I deflate. That’s not what I meant.

Mary thinks she’s too good for her family. Her Mom is a batty Latina with a loud mouth and two-thirds of a GED. I think she bosses Mary around a lot. Before Iraq, her Dad was full of fire. Now he’s just a squishy white guy that follows her mom like a puppy dog. Mary says war took his alma " his soul. She has a little brother too, but he’s a skater and Mary doesn’t like to get dirty. They don’t hang out much.

My family is storybook perfect. I feel guilty about it sometimes, especially when Mary comes over for dinner.

Mary c***s her hip. “This is ridiculous.” Beads of sweat dot her forehead. “The line’s not even moving. I just want to go home.”

My shoulders tighten up. “I thought you wanted to come.” Seriously. She told me so. I remember because she had cappuccino foam on her lip. She said, “Fine, let’s go to the fair.”

She swings her leg over the guardrail. “No. You wanted to come.” Her hand shoots up. “Stay here. I’m going to get a Coke or something.”

Everyone’s looking at me.

Mary likes drama. She would kill me for saying this, but she’s a lot like her mom. One day we were hanging in my apartment, watching a movie about the end of the world. It was a sad movie. Parents died. Kids died. Husbands died. Mary looked right at me and said, “I wish that would happen to us.”

I laughed and stuffed my face with popcorn but she got serious and said. “No, really. I wish the end of the world would come right now.”

I wanted to know why.

She couldn’t explain it. It was just a feeling she had. Boredom. Longing. I don’t know. She thought the end of the world would be a big adrenaline rush.

I would be the first person to die at the end of the world. Mary would probably agree. She tells her girlfriends that I’m adorable " not sexy or tough. It doesn’t bother me. She said it to my face once. We were making out on my apartment balcony and she bit my lip. You’re adorable. I could see the ferris wheel over her shoulder, a tiny spec on the horizon. I could see us together. I could see us old like my grandparents.

Mary’s my first real girlfriend. I did the Sadie Hawkin’s thing and the prom thing and the online dating thing (only in college, I swear) but I’m good at being alone. I’ve spent a lot of time writing girls off before I even meet them.

Mary forced her way into my life. Our first date wasn’t at some fancy Italian restaurant. She didn’t wear a dress and I didn’t pick her up in a sport coat. She dragged me to a gas station taco joint where we ate viper peppers and got grease on our chins. I didn’t have time to come up with a reason to dislike her. I was too distracted by the heat of the food and the heat of her alma.

I was a quiet kid. If you told ten-year-old Ollie that someday he would stand in line for the ferris wheel beside a thick-haired half-Latina with fiery eyes and sassy everything, he would pass out cold. Honestly. Mary and I are cosmic opposites. Sometimes I think she’s a black hole and I should just run the other direction. Other times, I think she’s a galaxy. Either way, I’m just a spec of a star " the kind of you can only see when it’s really dark.

The line is moving now. Mary comes back, pressing a cold Dr. Pepper can against her forehead. “They ran out of Coke,” she says.

I shrug. “Sorry.”

She squints into the sun. “I really don’t want to get on that ferris wheel. It’s so boring. I’ve been on it like a hundred times. Let’s go ride the Love Bug or something.”

I look from left to right. Everyone’s waiting for my response. The family in front of me. The teenage girls behind me. I’m too embarrassed to tell her that this means a lot to me so I step over the guardrail.

I think about that night with the shooting star. We were on the roof of my mom’s restaurant. I made crème brulee and lit candles. I held her hand. I wanted to be romantic, but something shot through the sky. I swear it was just an airplane. Mary thought it was a shooting star. She wanted to chase it. Didn’t even taste the crème brulee. We spent all night driving and running and driving and running. I was so tired and Mary was so beautiful.

We ride the Love Bug. It plays kitschy carnival music and Mary loves the way she can’t control herself. The velocity sends her crashing into my side.

The world is a blur. Mary is the only solid thing. I look right at her and my head spins. The breaks screech just in time. I vomit onto the platform.

Everyone points like I’m weak and disgusting, but I barely notice because I’m so angry. Irrationally angry. It’s Mary’s fault that my cotton candy is splashed all over the wooden deck.

I walk as fast as I can, leaving Mary behind. I have to get away from her. I have to catch my breath.

I vomit again into a trashcan. My hands grip the sides of the can and I close my eyes. The music from the Love Bug bangs into my eardrums. I hate myself for chasing this girl. I should be on the ferris wheel.

Mary grabs my arm. “Ollie, what happened?”

I wipe my mouth. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Mary presses her hand against her forehead like she’s thinking really hard. “Look, I gotta know something,” she sits into her hip, getting real. “Do you love me or not?”

I blink for a long time. This girl is crazy.

Her voice wavers. She’s holding back tears. “I’m sick of waiting for you to wake up.” Voodoo magic drips from her tear ducts. “I’m on fire for you,” she says softly. “Why can’t you see that? Why don’t you feel the same way?”

I don’t know what to say. I need her to slow down.

Mary turns her back on me.

I rub the little tattoo on my shoulder. Mise en place. It’s a chef thing. A way of life. Like when all your knives are clean and your spices are ready and everything’s in its place. It’s organized. It’s orderly. It’s ideal. It helps me breathe. It helps me focus.

I watch Mary walk away and think about how much I wanted to buy two red tickets and sit side by side on the ferris wheel and float round and round in a perfect circle.

Mary looks back at me. Just for a second. Then, she’s gone and something happens in my chest. It feels like watching saffron blow away in the wind.

“Mary wait!” I run until I can grab her waist.

She turns around, angry and hopeful.

I want to kiss her but my mouth still tastes like vomit. “I love you,” I say, nodding. “I love you so much.” My heart thuds.

Her fist lands softly on my chest. “Good.” She hits me again. “I thought you were just going to stand there.” She’s full of energy. Crying.

I hug her tightly until she stops fighting me. People are staring at us.

I glance up at the ferris wheel. Women’s dresses blow in the breeze.

Down here, it’s stifling hot. My skin sticks to Mary’s. Everything smells like cherry pie and turkey legs. It’s overwhelming. “Let’s get out of here,” I say.

Mary wipes her eyes. “Ok. Let’s get out of here.”