“Shut up,” I said again. I was waiting for the voice to chime in, to tell me that I was imagining this vibe anyway, this idea that you might be interested in me, but then I remembered that you were there, so the voice wouldn’t speak.
You lifted the Cookie Monster, pushed it between me and Paris. “Excuse me,” you said, in the Cookie Monster’s voice. “I’m hungry. I want cookies.”
Paris smiled. “No cookies. This is Jersey, land of the funnel cake.”
You nodded. “Funnel cake it is, oh courageous leader.”
“I should think so,” said Paris. “But first, Julie’s turn.”
“No, no,” said Julie. “I told you, I never—”
“—win anything, I know,” said Paris. “Still.” Julie sighed and stepped up. She took the balls and she barely tried, she just threw them kind of randomly. She didn’t win anything. I have to say, she didn’t look at home there, competing for a plush toy at a concession stand in an amusement park. I felt a flash of irritation at Paris for humiliating her like this. I mean, Julie had tattoos all down her arms and was wearing a pleated fifties skirt with a Replacements T-shirt. This was not her scene.
“See?” said Julie, as the last ball pinged off the board and went flying. “It’s like a curse.”
“What is?” you said. You’d been chasing Shane with the Cookie Monster a moment before, growling; you’d missed the part before.
“I never win anything,” said Julie. “Like, not even scratch cards. Never.”
“That sucks,” you said.
Julie did an eye-shrug. “Whatever.” She started walking, and we followed.
Your cell rang and you looked at it, then at us. “My dad,” you said. “Save some funnel cake for me.” You answered the phone. “Hi, Dad. Yeah, I’m at work. Yeah, I’ve been practicing. Yeah, listen …”
You walked off a little distance, head down, talking low and intently into the phone.
“Funnel cake, yes?” Julie said. There was a funnel stall a bit farther down—we could see it.
“Yep,” said Paris.
You put your hand over the bottom of your phone. “Save some for—”
“You, I know,” I shouted back.
You nodded, pleased, and turned away again. “Yeah, Dad, I know, I’m—”
I stopped eavesdropping, and walked on.
Fell into step beside Julie.
“Not even a spelling bee?” I asked, as we walked.
“Huh?”
“You said you didn’t ever win anything.”
Julie shook her head. “I am a born loser,” she said.
“What about you, Shane?” Paris asked. “Won anything?”
“Well, yeah,” he said. “Like, football trophies.”
“And him?” she gestured back to you, still on your phone.
“Oh yeah,” said Shane. “He has a shelf of the things.”
“My brother’s the same,” said Julie. We were in line for funnel cakes now. The smell was amazing. “Growing up, he was always winning that stuff. You know, those little pedestal things with statues of guys on them, swinging a baseball bat or diving or whatever. His room was full of them. I always …”
“Yeah?” said Shane. I felt like I had underestimated him. He looked genuinely interested, I mean, interested in the story.
“I don’t know. I just wanted one, you know? Just one.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why. They were stupid, those little statues.”
“Give us all of your funnel cake,” said Paris, reaching the front of the line.
“I’ve got like a ton,” said the redheaded girl in the stall.
“Give us five of your funnel cakes.”
“Five dollars,” said the girl, handing over a bag.
For a long moment we just ate funnel cake. When I say “we” ate it, I mean the others, not me, because of my allergy. I miss out on all the fun. Major understatement!
Paris said it was good. I mean, you know that anyway. I don’t know why I’m telling you. Funnel cake is good. Alert the President and the Joint Chiefs.
Anyway.
“But you might still win a trophy,” said Paris, to Julie.
“What?” said Julie.
“Roller derby,” said Paris. “You guys are in the final, no?”
“Oh. Yeah. But you get, like, a certificate.”
“No trophy?” said Shane.
“No.”
“Dude. That sucks,” said Shane. He was serious. I kind of fell in love with him a bit in that moment. I mean, in a platonic way. I knew now why the two of you were friends, even though you were so different. He would never be reading Ovid, that was for sure.
Julie brushed some powdered sugar from her T-shirt. “If we win a certificate, I’ll be happy,” she said. “At least that’s something.”
“So, roller derby?” said Shane. “What are you, a jammer or a blocker?”
“You know it?”
“Yeah, my sister …”
The two of them strolled on, chatting about roller derby. The two unlikeliest people to be talking to each other. The jock and the punk. It was like a Benetton ad or something.
And you were still talking on the phone, like twenty feet behind, pretty intensely. Now I’ve met your dad, of course, and I know a bit more about you, so I get why, but at the time it seemed strange.
Which left me and Paris.
“What was that?” I said.
“What?”