Up In The Air

Summer was in the air, but summer wasn’t quite there. Hey, that rhymed. In order to tell you this story and really tell it to you right, I would have to recapitulate everything that happened that led up to that ‘almost summer’. But I don’t feel like it. I probably never will. So, instead, I’m not going to tell it to you right. I’m just going to tell it to you and hope that you like it. I like it. Fuck, I may even love it. Let’s try this again.

Summer was in the air, but it was springtime. It was a small town. The windows were open on every house on Lowe Street. Everyone was doing laundry. The only reason I knew that: everyone’s house smelled like fucking laundry. It was a good smell. My hair was in a braid that I specifically chose to drape across my right shoulder because that was how I parted my hair. Because fuck a middle part. I was wearing overly distressed shorts but luckily didn’t feel distressed at all. I was carefree, you could even say. I was also wearing this stupid t-shirt that said something about motorcycles. I’ve never even been on a fucking motorcycle. I was also wearing—fuck it. You get the point. I was wearing clothes. Moving on. Where was I going? That’s what you really want to know.

I was going to the carnival. Yes, the carnival. I didn’t give a fuck if I was a full-blown adult. Adults go to carnivals. Sure, they do. I mean, shit, I was nowhere near the empty field near the high school where the carnival was held, but I could smell the smells. I could smell all the smells—all of them. Popcorn, cotton candy, freshly squeezed lemonade, funnel cake, curly fries, chicken on a stick. Why did it have to be on a stick? Because fuck the rules. I kept walking, and I eventually made it to the parking lot that backed up to the field. I met up with my three friends. Here’s a little bit about them, if you care.

Jessica Hayfield was my age. We were born on exactly the same day at exactly the same time, not that that’s important in any way. She was pretty—like above-average pretty: platinum blond hair, bright brown eyes, legs for days. We worked together as assistants at her family’s mechanic shop. Bailey Brown was two years younger than us. She didn’t have a job. She was ‘searching’ for one—whatever the fuck that means. She was a sweet girl who always did what she was told to make her momma happy. Liz Ranier was one year older than us. She was unapologetically loud, and she hated most girls, except for us. And then there was me, of course. I guess you want to know about me. 28. Tall. Sparkling eyes. Mechanic shop assistant. Absolutely no inclination to sit on a motorcycle like the one that was on my shirt. Absolutely no inclination to shut the fuck up, either. Lana Reed, at your service.

“Lana, where the fuck were you? We’ve been waiting for like an hour,” Bailey whined. In case I failed to mention this, Bailey liked to whine a lot. We loved her for it.

“It was not an hour,” Jessica laughed. “Come on, let’s go. I have a couple of bucks cash that we can throw in the bucket.”

The semi-annual carnival in our town was hosted by the local police, and they accepted donations every time the carnival came around to help support the community. To me, that always meant that the carnival was free, but Jessica liked to give people money, so she covered all of us at the gate. The cop sitting at the gate was checking her out. She noticed. We all noticed.

“You ladies have a nice time,” he said. Instead of responding professionally and politely, we giggled like a bunch of immature teenagers and ran off to our first stop: the concession stand. The carnival was alive with good smells and happy sounds. It was super fucking happy all around. We got some freshly squeezed lemonade and chicken on a stick before finding some seats. Why did it have to be on a fucking stick? I still don’t get it.

“Sandy McCullough is such a fucking bitch,” Liz complained.

“You’re just saying that because you hate anyone who has a vagina,” Bailey piped up, chugging her lemonade like a thirsty lunatic.

“Don’t say vagina,” I said flatly. Everyone stopped chewing and looked up at me.

“You’ve barely said anything this entire time, and the first words out of your mouth are, ‘don’t say vagina’?” Jessica teased.

“Yeah, don’t say vagina. Say cunt instead. Cunt sounds nicer, I think,” I said confidently, giving them a sheepish smile before returning to the solace that my lemonade provided.

We spent some time discussing the rides. I didn’t like any of the rides with the exception of two: the merry-go-round and the Ferris wheel. Jessica seemed to have an interest in joining me on the Ferris wheel, but no one else did. Before we stopped at the ticket stand, we walked around for a bit and made fun of the people who were playing games.

“So, you pay like thirty bucks to attempt to pop a bunch of balloons on a wall, and if you win, they hand your girlfriend a two-dollar toy from China or some shit?” Bailey whined.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Jessica said, pretending to be offended.

“Obviously,” Liz chuckled.

Bailey and Liz grabbed cotton candy, and then got in line to buy ride tickets. We followed them, and when we finally got our tickets, the line for the Ferris wheel was outrageously long. As it should be. Because fuck the other rides.

“I think I’m going to go on the sidewinder thingy,” Jessica said nervously. She was obviously afraid to disappoint me—as she should have been.

“Fuck that noise, but you do your thing. Go live your best nauseating life on the sidewinder. I hope it lives up to its full puke-inducing potential,” I said warmly. She laughed and headed off in her own direction.

“What did the sidewinder ever do to you?”

I turned around. What do you want me to fucking say here? That time stopped and angels sang and shit? Because fuck that. He was taller than me, which was an accomplishment, of course. He had on stone-washed jeans, a black v-neck band tee, and Converse. He wore this braided leather bracelet around his wrist. Not that his wrists were fucking important in any way. The important thing was that he was fucking gorgeous. The other important thing that I want to highlight here is that I turned back around and ignored him completely.

“I like your shirt. Do you ride?” he asked, clearly trying to force me into a conversation.

“I don’t really like the idea of riding motorcycles,” I said quietly, afraid to speak my mind for a moment. But something came over me. I wanted to challenge him. “And I don’t like your stupid Pink Floyd shirt, either.”

Maybe I’m a bitch when I find someone attractive, or maybe I’m a bitch when someone finds me attractive. Either way.

“It’s my brother’s shirt,” he chuckled.

“Then tell your brother that I said he has a horrible taste in music.”

“You know, the 250-million-some people who bought their records would probably disagree with you,” he said matter-of-factly.

“So it fucking goes,” I sighed, facing forward again.

“What don’t you like about them?” he pressed.

“Everything,” I said, preparing an annoying accent and a deeper voice before speaking again. “Hello. Is there anybody out there?” He laughed. He had a nice laugh.

“Okay. I agree with you there.”

“And ‘Another Brick In The Wall’—kids can’t fucking sing,” I continued.

“So, you hate kids?” he asked sternly.

“No, I don’t hate kids. I mean, yes, they’re annoying as hell sometimes. But you have to admit that they can’t sing,” I explained.

“What else?” he urged.

“The cash register sounds. Yeah, not on my fucking watch. Not in my fucking songs that I listen to,” I scoffed.

“So, what do you like, if anything?” he questioned slyly.

“About Pink Floyd? Absolutely nothing.”

“In general?” he clarified, crossing his arms over his chest. I wanted to avoid looking at his chest, and I forced myself to look up at his eyes instead. Brown eyes, brown hair. Boring, really.

“The Ferris wheel,” I said wistfully, stepping up to the platform and handing my ticket to the ride operator. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“—It’s a two-person minimum,” the operator said.

“That’s not a thing. I’ve been coming to this carnival since I was a kid. You shouldn’t have to be with someone just to ride the damn Ferris wheel,” I argued.

“New rule. With the lines the way they are and all the crowds this year,” he explained casually.

“Fuck the rules,” I said.

“She’s with me.”

“Not really,” I sighed.

“If you’re not getting on, then please step out of the line,” the operator continued.

“She is,” shitty band tee insisted.

“In line?” the operator asked. Mike. His name was Mike, per his name tag.

“Physically, she’s in line, although, she’s getting a little out of line, if you know what I mean.”

I dropped my jaw, showing him that this clearly offended me. Then, Mike took his ticket and tore it up with mine. He opened the door to a cart, and we stepped inside and sat down.

“You were a little bit of an asshole just now,” I announced confidently.

“You were a little bit out of line just now. I wasn’t making that shit up,” he laughed. “Besides, you love the Ferris wheel. I wouldn’t let you miss this.”

“Why are you being so fucking nice to me?” I asked.

“Why are you being so fucking mean to me?”

“Sorry,” I sighed. “It’s just—well, I don’t even know you.”

The ride started, and I looked straight out at the view of the town. I was afraid to look at him. Because fuck a meet-cute, if that was what this was supposed to be.

“I’m Evan,” he said softly, holding out his hand and waiting patiently for me to accept it.

“Okay, Evan. What, do you want me to give you a high five or something?” I teased. He gave me an irritated smirk, and I finally broke down and shook his hand.

“And you are?”

“Lana,” I said nervously. I get nervous sometimes. Look, that’s just a thing about me. “We don’t have to talk the entire time, you know.”

“Then stop fucking talking to me,” he said plainly. He was funny. He got my sense of humor almost immediately. I laughed a little, then stayed silent for a while. He sat pretty close to me. Too close, actually. That was the only way that it was possible for me to feel the sudden surge of his body tensing up when the Ferris wheel jolted to an abrupt halt with us right at the very top.