by Olivia Aylmer

We knew it was coming when they relocated recess to the indoor gymnasium.

From our perch on the fourth floor, we watched the trucks pull into the parking lot beside the Catholic church to the dismay of our teacher, tapping her foot by the blackboard as she tried to divert our attention back to a lesson on cursive handwriting. But nothing could draw our attention away from the men as they proceeded to build a fair from the ground up before our awestruck eyes.

Every afternoon over the course of a week, we would resume our spots at the window, left slightly ajar to let in the warm breeze that promised a spring respite from our bitter East Coast winter. The men worked from dawn till dusk, starting with the installation of a Ferris wheel at the far end of the lot and ending with a dragon-shaped rollercoaster that reached us at eye level. In the daylight, this haphazard collection of rides appeared to us as the playground we had never known. Recess for the students at Our Lady of the Snows School in Floral Park—our suburban Queens neighborhood—consisted of kickball, colored chalk drawing on the black pavement, or taking laps around the lot.

The first day of May, however, meant the start of the annual church fair and a weekend of magic popping up in unfamiliar places. Italian locals who had supported the church since its early days purchased the ingredients to fill cheap paper bags with their famed zeppoles; my classmates’ mothers whipped up devil’s food cupcakes by the dozen to fill card tables for the bake sale; and churchgoers signed up to enforce fair play at the water balloon booth.

My classmates and I were too busy getting caught up in the wonder of it all to notice that the amount of time and effort it took for every member of our small community to host such an affair hardly made up for the profits accrued from the cheap ride and raffle tickets. By Friday, as the parking lot transformed into a full-fledged fair complete with striped tents, carnival games, and merry-go-rounds, we could think of nothing else but the stroke of seven o’ clock.

I waited impatiently for my dad to step off the bus he took home from work in midtown after school on one such Friday in second grade. The moment I spotted him on the corner of my block, I sprinted down 264th Street and told him he had better change out of that suit before he could get a word in edgewise; it was Friday night, and we were headed for the fair. Dad, a sometimes daredevil, tried to convince me for the umpteenth time that tonight would be the night I’d take my first rollercoaster ride, questionable safety conditions and all. I firmly declined the offer as he changed into a t-shirt.

A short walk of a few blocks found us standing in line to purchase tickets and survey the crowd for neighbors and friends. The sky had turned blush pink and indigo, while a skywriter swooped down with his cotton ball message. The neon Ferris wheel in the distance reminded me of the reflections of lights on the Hudson from the perpetually lit skyscrapers I loved to follow with my eyes as my parents drove over the bridges and into Manhattan on Saturday nights. Tickets securely in hand, Dad led me through the crowd as crooners’ love songs drifted out of loudspeakers. We passed a group of priests sharing a plate of rainbow cookies on a picnic table and chuckling at a private joke, while nearby a group of kindergarten teachers challenged each other to pop the water balloon first. A stuffed tiger hanging from the highest rung of prizes caught my eye.

I soon spotted a group of friends from my class gathered by the roller coaster, their faces turned upwards with a combination of eagerness and utter fright. They waved, shouting at me to join them over the din. Fat chance.

Hands in my pockets, I looked back at Dad to step in and save me from the peer pressure. He diverted his eyes, clearly hoping I would face my fears in the absence of his chiming in. Shirt-tugger girl grabbed me by the hand, not waiting for my reply, which wouldn’t have come anyways since my entire mouth had gone dry.

And suddenly there I was, seated beside her as the noisy coaster started its steady incline, which at the time felt like climbing a miniature Mount Everest but was more like an ant hill. As the fair below grew further and further away, I could see across the entire lot—the rainbow balloons tied to poles that swayed to and fro in the mild May zephyrs, the painted sign that read “Casino Lounge” (a basement room where all the older men and, I imagine, a few priests went after a certain hour) and, at the very tip top of the incline, a familiar sight: my classroom window.

The two minutes that followed remain blurry. There was the breathless screaming, especially piercing in my row, and the wind on my back, and that pit-of-the-stomach sensation, at once the best and worst you have felt in your life. Then, of course, there were the final few seconds of my first ride, which found the girl next to me vomiting her cookies (literally, there were so many Italian cookies consumed at this thing) all over the riders in front of us.

Stepping off the ride in a fit of dizzy giggles, I searched for Dad. A few feet away, my eyes found him, but I was more excited to see the oversized tiger he held up with both hands. His face shone with the sort of pride that only comes to a dad when he beats all the other dads at the water balloon game and leaves the booth triumphant, clutching a stuffed animal without an ounce of shame.

As the evening drew to a close, we headed for home by foot. Balanced on Dad’s shoulders, I clutched my tiger with one hand and pulled warm dough from a bag of zeppoles with the other, sprinkling powdered sugar all over his hair. Behind us, the lights still glowed in the lot and a chorus of screams resounded through the leafy streets.