Somehow, Aimee’s pool is always cool. Aimee’s house is cool. I know I don’t live in some terrible, broken home or anything. It’s nice. I’m lucky. But I always like being at Aimee’s house more. Even when her parents make me do chores, I like it more. And they do. All the time. I know where the Comet and backup sponges are and that trash night is Wednesday, recycling is Thursday. Aimee and I are fifteen now, and her parents say that when we get our driver’s licenses we’re going to start doing the grocery shopping. They say it like a joke, but I wouldn’t mind. As long as I get to go over there all the time.

Even though tonight is hotter than an oven, I’m happy. It’s the annual End of Summer Carnival, the one super townie thing we really have around here. There’s a Ferris wheel and some little roller coasters, a funhouse, lots of games, and—the part we like best—a ridiculous amount of junk food.

Funnel cake, ice cream, turkey legs, the good kind of chicken tenders with an array of dips, deep-fried Twinkies and Oreos, nachos, hot dogs, cheeseburgers, popcorn so salty it stings the tongue, soft pretzels with cheese dip that I can only find here (my mom eats them with mustard, gross), corn dogs, pizza, weird soda, root beer floats, snow cones (always disappointing), cotton candy, and then a bunch of stuff our moms like and we don’t, like chocolate-covered bananas, cheesecake, onion rings, and chili cheese dogs. The air smells like fry oil, salt, sugar, and some other cheap neon smell I can’t put my finger on but that practically intoxicates me every year.

Best of all, our moms come with us; they sit and drink pink wine from plastic cups and listen to the live music, and we get to run around with a twenty-dollar bill each and do anything we want with it.

Like get ripped off by a stoner in a tie-dyed shirt with a broken horse game, for example.

Aimee and I walk through the candy-colored stalls to the sound of the old-timey jazz band playing on the stage off in the distance.

“This reminds me of that scene at the beginning of The Notebook,” I say. “Ooh, we should watch that tonight!”

“Oh … actually, um…”

I turn to look at her, thinking she’s doing a bit. “Oh what, you don’t want to?”

“I’m actually going over to Theo’s tonight.”

“Wait, what? Tonight?”

“Yeah. He didn’t want to come to the carnival but he invited me over after. His friends are watching like … Tarantino movies or something all night and they invited their girlfriends.” She says the syllables of Tarantino with unfamiliarity that she is clearly trying to pretend isn’t there.

I stop walking. “Are you and Theo boyfriend-girlfriend now?”