The Wheel

My older brother, Phil, grabbed my hand and tugged me through the carnival entrance. He was six years older than me, but we seemed a million years apart. He with his rough hands, a rumpled shirt that came from the pile of clothes on the floor in his room, and uncombed red hair. And me, with my floral jumper and white t-shirt, both spotless and ironed, and my black hair drawn back into a single braid.

I tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip. He was on a mission; nothing was going to stop him. We turned onto the Midway, which was alive with the flashing lights and throngs of people milling around the arcade games. Men missing teeth and women with shirts that looked like they'd bust out of them at any moment, called to us to take a chance - toss a ring to win a goldfish, throw beanbags at bottles and win a stuffed animal. Phil plowed through.

Bile rose in my throat, and cold sweat trickled down my back when I saw the Wheel lit up by spotlights at the end of the Midway. According to the posters at the entrance and plastered all over Crystal Cove, the Wheel was the biggest in the country, higher than any ride at the State Fair.

Phil didn't notice my agony as he dragged me through the people he said were just too dang slow. When we got to the funnel cake stand, I dug my heels into the soft dirt littered with empty ketchup packets, cigarette butts, and pamphlets that said, "Jesus Saves."

"We ain't stopping Jennie," Phil said.

"I want a funnel cake," I lied. The deep-fried smell of dough and sugar made my stomach turn. But I'd do anything to delay what lay ahead.

Phil looked down at me with his mouth pressed tight and said, "I got four tickets. That's enough for one ride each. We're going on the Wheel."

"I don't want to," I whined. The Wheel went up high in the air, and I liked feet planted firmly on the ground.

"I'm going. You're going." He strode off again with me in tow. I had no choice but to follow unless I wanted to be dragged in the dirt.

And then, we were under it—the Wheel. I dared peer up. It had to be four stories tall. Tinny music blared from speakers hanging from droopy wires as we pulled into the end of the line. We navigated through the ropes, my legs like jelly until we came to a stop, and Phil finally let go of my hand. I backed away, bumping into the belly of a man who, in one hand, held a pink stuffed bunny he'd won on the Midway, and in the other, a corndog.

"You scared?" He laughed down at me with his sweaty face.

I moved back toward Phil. This time I kept my eyes to the ground, focusing on

the tightly tied bows of my shoelaces until everything blurred and the noise around me faded. I wished for Phil to have lost our tickets or the electricity to shut down. Anything, so I didn't have to go on the Wheel.

Then, it was our turn. Numb, I followed behind, my knees weak as I stepped inside the bucket and slid in, the backs of my thighs squeaking on the warm plastic. The sounds of the carnival drifted away, replaced by the sound of my jack-rabbiting of my heart. There must be a way out. I moved to go. Phil put his arm out across my chest and pushed me back.

"You'll be fine. Take a breath," he said.

As I tried to breathe, a face etched with lines and cloudy grey eyes hovered over me—a Carnie. With an arm covered in tattoos that looked as if he'd done them himself, he pushed a metal bar down to our waists. I clenched the bar until my knuckles turned white.

"Keep your hands inside. No swinging the bucket," the Carnie recited without feeling.

There was a jolt, and we moved backward. I screamed. Phil looked at me and shook his head. "We're barely moving."

We swooped up in the air. The deck below grew smaller. And then we stopped, and my heart froze in my chest.

"Why are we stopped? I squeaked out.

"Letting people off and on," Phil said.

I clenched my eyes shut and burrowed into his shoulder. "It's gonna be ok, Jennie. You can't fall out of the seat. The bar stops you."

"Wait, I can fall?" I mumbled.

"Not really. But you're kinda small, and you could slip out if the bucket tipped," he laughed.

Heat rose on my cheeks as the bucket swayed.

"Stop it! Stop it!" I cried.

"I'm not doing anything. It's the wind."

The Wheel jolted again, and I pushed harder into his shoulder until he pried me away.

"You might as well try and enjoy it. You're up here already. Peek down," Phil said.

"No," I whined.

Three more times, we stopped and started. Each time was worse than the time before. I wanted out. The bucket swung, but I knew it was only the wind, and I wasn't going to slide out. Not from that anyway.

I don't know if it was because I was so frightened or he was feeling sorry for me, but Phil had a moment of being nice. He did that once in a while, like when we played a game, and I was losing big time, or if I fell off my bike and scraped my knee.

Whatever the reason, he put his arm around me and said in the same calming voice that Dad used, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you here. I've been wanting to go on this since last year and the year before. But you know," his voice caught.

I knew. We hadn't had enough money for one ticket, let alone four. We'd walked the Midway, watched people play games, and smelled the corndogs and sugary sweetness of the cotton candy. At the main stage, we stood behind the chain fence meant for those who couldn't buy a ticket and listened to the bands who were so far away they looked like fire ants.

"If you'd just try a little, you might like it," Phil said.

The Wheel moved, this time without a jolt. Now we were going. The wind tousled the ruffles on my jumper. The breeze felt good. Sometimes Phil was right. I took a small breath, then another. I could smell the salt air of the ocean. I released my grip on the bar enough, so the blood flowed back into my fingers. I peeked out with one eye at the lights below. Soon we were at the bottom. I looked up to see feet dangling from the other buckets. As we swept up again, I took another deep breath and decided to go for it and open my other eye. So far, I'd been safe next to Phil. I hadn't fallen out. I hadn't barfed.

I opened both eyes just as our seat was about to reach the peak. Stars twinkled in the sky, and the moon shimmered over the ocean. Distant laughter from below mixed with music and the ding of a bell as someone won a prize. Phil elbowed me and pointed to a row of lights on the horizon.

"That's a ship," he said.

"Dad's ship?" I asked. He'd been gone so long.

"It must be. He's home tonight," Phil nodded.

We went around again, and I looked for the lights on the horizon, forgetting my fear, and instead saw the beauty. Dad was coming home tonight. I thought about him on the deck of the ship, looking toward land and seeing the Wheel. If we could see his ship, a tiny dot in the distance, surely, he could see the Wheel all lit up.

"Thanks," I said as we slowed to a stop.

"For what?"

"For making me go," I said, my hands flat on my lap.

"I'm sorry dragged you here," he said.

The Carnie moved the bar away. We slid out, and two new riders climbed aboard. The Carnie said the exact words to them that he'd said to me, I'm sure, for the thousandth time that day.

"I wish we could go again," I said to Phil.

He ruffled my hair. "Me too, kiddo."

We walked down the Midway, slower this time, my hands swinging at my sides, a feeling of accomplishment mixed with the excitement of seeing Dad washed over me. Mom would be excited to hear about Dad's ship. She'd be all ears when I told her about the salty smell of the ocean, the tinny music that blared from the speakers, and the Carnie with his tattoos that looked like he'd drawn them himself. Mostly though, I wanted to see her smile when I told her I'd ridden the Wheel and wasn't scared. It was beautiful like Phil said.