Greenstead Apple Festival October 2006
Greenstead Apple Festival
By the time we’re thirteen, the apple festival isn’t cool anymore.
For most eighth graders, anyway. Our classmates deem the festival babyish, preferring to spend their weekends at the movie theater, the bowling alley, or the strip mall on Kent Street that’s more strip than mall.
But for Marina and me, it’s a sacred tradition.
In our thirteenth year, it’s something else, too: freedom.
For the first time, we’re old enough that we don’t need parents hovering around us.
Our parents drop us off at Juniper Park, we meet up at the tall stack of hay bales by the festival entrance, and we enter the park feeling like the entire world is ours for the taking.
With no parents or judgmental older sisters in earshot, we’re free to say and do whatever we please.
We take our time trying on scarves at a knitwear tent, meticulously considering whether burnt orange or emerald green would complement our wardrobes better.
We walk down the rows of booths talking freely, without looking over our shoulders to check who’s listening—last night I dreamed I was married to our algebra teacher; Marina wants to try out for choir; my mom hasn’t called as much as I thought she would since she moved to New York; Marina’s older sister had a pregnancy scare.
As tradition dictates, we buy one milk chocolate peanut caramel apple from Lettie’s Confections and sit at a picnic table to split it, slice by slice.
Unlike that first time, there’s no need to define our friendship.
With that matter settled long ago, we engage in the important work of people watching.
Kids throw tantrums over balloons and cotton candy, and we marvel over how we could have ever been that juvenile.
Young women walk by and we catalog their outfits, noting our favorites.
(Marina’s partial to colorful dresses over muted tights, while I’m fascinated by the way a simple pair of brown leather boots can go with any outfit.) When young men pass by, we confer over who qualifies as a Jack.
This is a term we coined after going through her dad’s old high school yearbooks one night and coming across a picture of a sophomore named Jack.
With his impish smile, deep-set dimples, and eyes that sparkled with intrigue, Jack soon became our shorthand for any cute boy.
“He’s a Jack,” I say, pointing at a rosy-cheeked teen cooing over a goat at the petting zoo.
“Definitely,” she agrees.
More people pass. I keep eating, observing, looking out for Jacks and leather boots. It’s when I reach for another apple slice that I realize Marina hasn’t eaten one in a while. She’s staring ahead, but her eyes are roving with thought.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“What if…”
“Hmm?” I nudge her with an elbow.
“What about her?” she asks, jutting her chin up ahead.
I follow her direction to see a girl of about fifteen kneeling by the jewelry booth to tie her shoe. She’s dressed in a simple white sweater, jeans, and Vans. Marina normally likes outfits with a pop of color, but there’s appeal in simplicity too. “You like her sweater?”
“No.” Marina hesitates. “What if I think she’s a Jack, too?”
It takes me a moment to parse out her meaning. I glance at the girl again, looking for what Marina might see. The concentration on her face as she inspects a necklace. The way her wavy brown hair tumbles down her shoulders. The shy smile she gives the booth attendant who comes to speak to her.
“Then she’s a Jack,” I say. “Or…Jill?”
Marina grins, tipping her head to the side as she thinks it over. “Jordan,” she decides. “Works for anyone.”
“Jordan,” I agree.
And it’s settled. Marina goes back to our apple slices.
We return to people watching and commentating.
And with every minute that passes in this new, supervision-less life, every word we utter that our parents aren’t around to eavesdrop in on, every Jordan Marina shyly points out to me, I feel our world growing brighter, wider, stretching out before us with possibility.