1
Ginette and Pete had always been close.
As friends, first.
They had grown up together. And learned to do just about everything together, like swim and fish and shoot and play chess and skate and cross-country ski and ride snowmobiles and ATVs across northern Maine’s wide-open spaces and impenetrable forests.
But the summer before the winter when all the extraordinary things did or didn’t happen, they became more than friends.
Pete’s mom and dad took them to the Northern Maine Fair in Presque Isle, the largest city in Aroostook County, which is the largest county—and one of the least densely populated counties—east of the Rocky Mountains.
Going to Presque Isle was always exciting. It was an hour east of—and a world apart from—Almost. (It had a four-story building and once had over ten thousand people.).
Going to the Northern Maine Fair was doubly exciting, because of all the rides and all the food and all the games. And all the people.
Ginette and Pete rode a carnival ride that zipped and flipped and spun them almost sick. And Pete grabbed Ginette’s hand the first time the ride zipped and flipped and spun her and Pete—and held on to it the whole ride.
And Ginette felt a strange lightness fill up her insides while Pete held on to her hand. It made her feel like the lights from the carnival rides were glowing inside her. And like she was somehow weightless as the ride zipped and flipped and spun them.
And Pete felt the same strange lightness while he held on to Ginette’s hand.
* * *
After the ride, they recovered from being almost sick.
And then they recovered from the strange lightness they had felt when Pete was holding on to Ginette’s hand.
And then they felt well enough to get some fried dough smothered in confectioner’s sugar. And they walked around the midway while they ate it.
And then they played some carnival games.
Ginette won herself a giant stuffed frog at the milk-jug toss.
And Pete won nothing. And may have felt bad about winning nothing. So Ginette slid her hand inside his and held it to make him feel better.
And they walked around the midway holding hands. And felt that strange lightness fill up their insides again.
But they stopped holding hands when it was time to go home. Because they had met up with Pete’s parents again, and they weren’t quite ready to hold hands in front of them.
And then they didn’t hold hands the rest of the summer.
And they didn’t hold hands when they started school at the unified high school up in Fort Kent.
Maybe because they weren’t quite ready to let everyone know—including themselves—that they were ready to be more than friends.
But one fall day when Ginette got home from school, she found out that her black Lab, Dill, had died—for no reason other than that he had finished up living his long life.
And Ginette called Pete and told him what happened.
And he stopped by. And they went for a walk in the woods. And Ginette took Pete’s hand and held on to it while they walked. And when they were deep enough in the woods, she started crying and told Pete that she didn’t know what she was going to do without Dill. And Pete hugged her to comfort her. And when he did, Ginette felt that strange lightness fill up her insides again. And it made her feel like everything was going to be okay. Even though she was so sad about Dill.
* * *
After that hug in the woods, Ginette felt like she was ready to be more than friends with Pete. And in school the next day, she slid her hand into his on their way to science class.
And on their way to geometry, Pete slid his hand inside Ginette’s hand.
And they walked around holding hands a lot after that, happy that they had tacitly decided that they were more than friends.
And that was enough for them for a while.
That is—until the Friday when all the extraordinary things did or didn’t happen. That day had started out in an unusual way. School had been canceled. Because of snow. And snow days were rare in Almost. Because people from Almost, Maine, are snow-removal experts. But so much snow had fallen during the early-morning hours on that Friday that the experts couldn’t clear the roads fast enough with their plows to make them passable for school buses. So school had been canceled.
Ginette’s mom heard the news on the country radio station out of Presque Isle and sneaked into her daughter’s room to shut off her alarm so she could sleep in.
It was almost eleven when Ginette woke up. And she panicked a little when she saw the time and hopped out of bed and stumbled into the hall trying to figure out why she had slept so late.
“Mom?” she called.
“Oh! I was just about to wake you, sweetie!”
“What’s—”
“Snow day!” Ginette’s mom raised her arms in the air, fists clenched, as if she had won something.
Ginette looked out the window and saw all the snow and smiled. Snow days are unexpected gifts of free time and fun. A snow day on a Friday is even better, because it makes for a three-day weekend.
“I’m gonna go check in on Mémé,” continued Ginette’s mom. Mémé was Ginette’s grandmother. “And then I’ll probably head in to work, if the roads are good.” Ginette’s mom was a server up at the Snowmobile Club, which would have plenty of business on a snow day. And she went on to tell Ginette not to eat crap and lay around all day, and Ginette rolled her eyes a little and said she wouldn’t. And then her mom said she wanted her to shovel the roof and the driveway and a path to the propane tank—and to ask Pete if maybe he could help her. And Ginette said she would even though she didn’t want to shovel, because that would eat into the free time the snow day had given her. And it wouldn’t exactly be fun.
“And then you and Pete can go over to Mémé’s and help her shovel out,” suggested Ginette’s mom. And she grabbed her coat and her bag and headed out.
Copyright © 2020 by John Cariani
