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I roll my eyes. “Is it really that hard to believe a teenager wants to go out on a Saturday night?”
He stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “Are you going with friends?”
“Yeah, with Prisha.”
“Who’s Prisha?”
“The Indian Ambassador’s daughter.”
His eyes light up, and the corners of his mouth curl up. “Of course, you can go. I think it’s good you’re making friends and getting out of the house.”
This is too easy. “That’s it? No strings attached?”
“No, I think it’s great.”
He gives Galina a grin, and something passes between them I don’t understand. She reaches out and pats his arm.
And then we resume our normal routine. I eat in silence. They talk.
The Spring Festival reminds me of the Texas State Fair in Dallas. A Ferris wheel towers over the fairgrounds, which takes place in the city park. Aromas of greasy, fried food and sugar and baked bread waft through the chilly air, and the distant screams of roller coaster riders pierce the buzzing chatter of the crowds.
I’ve always been attracted to carnivals, especially after sundown. There’s an energy charged with debauchery and adrenaline. But carnivals are also romantic, and the night holds a promise that anything can happen.
I don’t want the fair to lose its magic when I get older. I want to hold on to this feeling forever.
Prisha and I meet at the entrance to the park, and I realize this is the first time I’ve seen her outside school. We’re both bundled up for the cold night ahead in street clothes.
However, I’m regretting the short skirt and knee-high socks as the breeze kisses my thighs.
“I thought we were celebrating warmer weather,” I ask. “So why am I freezing my ass off in April?”
“You weren’t here for winter—it’s brutal here. This is positively tropical in comparison.”
I hook my arm into Prisha’s, and we take off into the park, making a beeline toward the food. It isn’t hard to find; all we have to do is follow our noses.
Brightly colored food stalls stand near an ornate, nineteenth-century fountain, and people sit on the concrete edge to eat their fried foods and drink wine. The water is swathed in light, which fades from red to green to blue.
We stand in line at a wine vendor, which feels downright illegal. Our nerves start to get the best of us, and Prisha almost abandons the queue, but when it’s our turn, the vendor hands us two glasses of white wine.
We walk away giggling after we get away with it.
Prisha leans in to whisper to me. “This is actually my first taste of alcohol.”
“Like, ever?”
She looks sheepish. “Yeah.”
“Then cheers to alcohol!” My voice earns me a few amused glances, but I’m in too good of a mood to care. I raise my plastic cup to tap hers, and we each take a sip.
“Ew, blech!” Prisha makes a sour face. “This is disgusting.”
I take another sip, letting it sit on my tongue for a moment. At least, I think that’s how you’re supposed to drink wine the classy way. “I think I like it.”
“Maybe we should order food?” Prisha suggests. “I hear soft pretzels pair well with a dry white.”
We laugh and set off in search of food. Prisha doesn’t eat beef or pork, so she loads up on mushroom pelmeni—some sort of Russian dumpling stuffed with mushrooms. I go for the German fare, snagging a bratwurst and fried potatoes.
And then we go back for beignets and cake and hot chocolate.
