Donna bit her lip to hide a smile as she served another customer, doing her best not to look over at the other tent across the lot.
Even without looking, Donna knew that someone was making a fool of themselves at the funnel cake stand. Something that involved broad gestures using gangly limbs and terrible singing, the only things Donna could perceive without looking directly at the booth.
Donna couldn’t look over there because she knew she wouldn’t be able to without smiling and giggling, and that would definitely get her father’s attention. Her father disapproved of anything having to do with that tent. It didn’t matter if Donna was distracted by the appeal of the funnel cakes or by the annoying cute girl currently doing an Irish jig inside the tent – that tent was The Enemy and no concessions would be made to it. Not even a smile at the cute girl.
If only the girl would stop singing and dancing and let Donna have some peace. Ignoring her was becoming increasingly difficult.
The line of people kept her busy, and luckily, none of them seem to have noticed or cared about her obvious distraction. She did try to avoid her younger brother’s eye, though, as he worked next to her.
“Can I get a funnel cake?” The customer in front of her was already holding a large corn dog, a turkey leg, and one of those gallon-sized county fair lemonades. “And a food box, if you’ve got ‘em.”
Donna gave the man a tight smile. “We don’t sell funnel cakes here, sir. We make zeppole.”
The man scratched his temple on the straw sticking out of his lemonade, not like he was confused, but like he would have rubbed a hand down his face if he had an available hand. “And what is za-pole-ee? Is it like funnel cake?”
Donna sighed inwardly as she explained, again, what exactly they sold.
Like many of the headaches in her life, Donna blamed her father.
Giuseppe of Giuseppe Zeppole was a simple man, though he took “simple” to mean “stupid,” so no one said that to his face. He was simple in that he had uncomplicated ambitions and passions. His ambitions were to have a family business doing something that honored his cultural heritage. His passions were his family and national pride.
He loved his kids, even if they weren’t what he’d expected: an obnoxious, weedy son and a queer, chubby daughter. He loved his wife, even if she’d rather work as a mechanical engineer than work all day at a state fair. He loved honest work and manual labor. He loved cold beer and warm bread. Easy. Simple.
A pain in the ass.
Sure, maybe in New York or somewhere else on the East Coast, a zeppole stand wouldn’t be so out of place. But traveling as they did, they were never somewhere with a high concentration of Italian Americans; no one could even pronounce zeppole here, let alone know what it was.
Donna had had this conversation many times.
“Zeppole is fried dough, like funnel cake, but instead of being crisscrossed they’re more like little balls that we cover in granulated sugar instead of the powdered kind. There’s also some options for fillings if you look at our menu.”
Donna tried to infuse as much “customer service enthusiasm” as she could into her words, but she knew they sounded rehearsed.
Turkey Leg Guy squinted at the menu, absently taking a pull of his lemonade. “So they’re like donuts? Do you have jelly filled?”
They did in fact have jelly filled.
Donna waited until she was turned around to roll her eyes as she put in his order. She gave him an empty carton for his corn dog and turkey leg as they waited for his zeppole to be plated. Her brother, Iggy, helped the next person in line.
She made her way over to the fryers where her father was prepping orders and putting fresh dough into the fryer. “Did you waste a carton on that guy?” he said by way of hello. “He only bought one order.”
“He was already holding like ten things.”
“But not our things. Only give extras to people who pay for ‘em.”
Donna sighed, taking the order and making her way back over to the counter.
Donna could admit that zeppole weren’t a terrible option for fair food; they were small and bite-sized, sweet and oily –– everything your average carnie could want. And she couldn’t begrudge her father this attachment to his heritage either, even if talking to endless drones exhausted her.
And she definitely forgave her father for making her work so often while she was home from college for the summer. But that was more to do with the view.
The view where Funnel Cake Girl was now doing some sort of kick step. The view that she was not supposed to be focusing on. She snapped her eyes back to Turkey Leg Guy as she handed him his completed order, getting to the next customer.
She could feel her brother’s knowing smirk without looking at him. He knew she was struggling but, luckily, he wouldn’t give her up.
Not before he’d had his fun, anyway.
“Man, what a rush, right?” he said, turning to face Donna as the last customers shuffled away. “How fortunate we are to have been blessed with that surgence of customers.”
Donna closed her eyes, waiting.
“Fortunate, I’d say.” The counter creaked as Ignazio leaned against it. Donna could clearly see his performance even behind her closed eyelids; the kid wasn’t above recycling bits. “Or, I don’t know, there’s probably a better word than fortunate…if I could just think of it…”
Donna sighed and opened her eyes. Sure enough, there was Iggy, elbow braced on the counter as he leaned heavily on one foot, the other crossed behind it. She still had to look up at him, though, despite his dramatic lean, as he’d outstripped her in height way back in the fifth grade, leaving her to straddle the line between 5’ and 5’1” alone. He had his other hand under his chin to prop up his pensive expression, as if he were searching for what word could be better than fortunate.
Donna was tired of waiting. “Lucky? Is ‘lucky’ maybe the word you’re looking for? ‘Lucky’ like ‘the luck of the Irish,’ perhaps?” she hissed.
Iggy snapped his fingers with a grin. “That’s it! Lucky! It’s almost as if–”
“Yeah yeah yeah, getting lucky with an Irishman.”
He was referring, of course, to Finnigan’s Family Funnel Cakes which, aside from being Irish, didn’t really have any other identifying factors besides selling another kind of fried dough than what they sold. This somehow made their two tents rivals. Finnigan’s wasn’t even the most successful food tent at the fair. Nor was it the most absurdly patriotic (that went to Angus’s American All-You-Can-Fry Wonderful Wings and Waffles). There was another Italian booth that sold meatball subs that could easily be their rival. There were big chains setting up tents that threatened their family-owned business. But no, the fixation on funnel cakes from their customers had become a thorn in her father’s side.
They’d been traveling the same fair circuit for a couple years at this point and Giuseppe cursed them as some kind of demon, following her family from town to town.
He didn’t like the alliterative name (slant rhyme he takes no issue with), he didn’t like how they ran their business, he didn’t like that everyone in the family had red hair.
“Papa, they’re Irish,” Donna had tried to reason. “That’d be like them not liking us for being loud Italians.”
“They think we’re loud? Did they say anything to you? Show me who said something.”
It was hopeless.
She could hear him mutter under his breath from time to time when Finnigan’s line would get long. “Funnel cake isn’t even Irish. Turning their back on their homeland. Gimmicky bastards. Should show them what pride really is.” It was highly disrespectful to him for them to just be Irish and tap in on a German cuisine for their livelihood. He didn’t trust “culture grabbers.”
“Honestly, a whole world full of carny related humor and you go for Irish?” she continued, her voice low. “That’s so weak, Iggy, I’m ashamed of you.”
Iggy quickly glanced around to see if anyone had heard. Donna smirked. Iggy wasn’t embarrassed to be called out on his terrible jokes–he was quite proud of them, actually–but ever since the popularization of a certain Australian rapper, he’d been hugely embarrassed by the nickname “Iggy.” He started high school asking his parents and the rest of the family to start calling him “Natty” instead, and mostly everyone agreed. Except Donna.
Donna wouldn’t give this up for anything.
Iggy snorted, unconvincingly, with a shrug and Donna’s grin broadened. “Keep telling yourself that, Ducky.” Yeah, so Donna–Donald Duck–Ducky. They weren’t above childish teasing in the form of nicknames. “My terrible jokes don’t change the fact that you’ve been fantasizing about that ginger all day.”
Donna had to hold herself back from shushing him on instinct because she didn’t want her father to hear and he was just in the back of the tent. But shushing Iggy would only make him worse.
He wasn’t stupid enough to be loud about it–he wanted to torture Donna, not have her killed–but this wasn’t the first time he’d tried to set them up.
There had been one time when Iggy had deliberately spilled jelly all over his apron so Donna would have to get an extra from the truck. This happened to be around the time he saw the Finnigan girl, Grace, leave towards the parking lot on her break.
He’d also sent their father home early so he and Donna could close the tent for the night by themselves. This was also the night Grace was closing up her tent.
And let’s not forget: “Quick! She went to the bathroom, go work your magic.”
In the bathroom. He was hopeless.
She played it off. “Matchmaker matchmaker make me a match. What do you think this is?”
“I don’t think, Ducky, I know what this is.” Iggy smirked viciously.
Donna didn’t look at him. “You know nothing.”
She could hear him shrug. “It is what it is.”
“And what is it?”
“You know.”
“I know nothing.”
“It is what it is,” Iggy repeated.
She turned to him, finally. “And what is it?”
A different voice. “What is what?”
They both jumped, turning startled eyes to their father who was emerging from behind the fryer with a greasy cloth. He eyed them suspiciously.
“What is what is what?” Iggy asked.
“Nothing is what. Work is what.” Donna turned hastily and started wiping stray sugar grains off the counter, “Just love this work. This work is awesome.”
Their father narrowed his eyes but nodded. “That’s what I thought. Natty, work hard like your sister.”
“Wait, wha–” but their father just shook his head and exited the tent, trash bag trailing towards the garbage area.
Donna shot a scowl at her brother. “Watch it, will ya?” She snapped the rag at him. “You have no chill.”
Iggy’s head perked up, looking smug. “So there is a situation over which to have chill.”
“Of course there is, asshat. But some of us are smart enough not to talk about it when Lord Capulet is in the room.”
“Ooh, don’t do that.” Iggy winced. “I die in that analogy.”
“No, the cousin dies. I study this shit, I think I know.”
“Yeah, but he was like a brother. And in West Side Story, it’s Bernardo that gets ganked.”
“Nobody’s gonna die, don’t be dramatic.”
“You started it!”
“You said you were gonna die.”
“Because you said this was Romeo and Juliet.”
“Not literally.”
Donna hadn’t realized how loud their voices had gotten until a different voice interrupted. Softer this time, not the gruff voice of her father but one infinitely more sweet.
“Aw, you wouldn’t kill yourself over me, sweetums?” Donna and Iggy had been so distracted they hadn’t noticed the pouting redhead approach the counter. “But that’s what all the best romantics do.”
“Grace,” Donna bit back an embarrassed grin, turning from her brother where he stood, blinking. “Hi.” Grace smiled, reaching forward to brush some sugar from her shoulder. The movement was so practiced and intimate that Donna could feel her brother gaping. She shoved back her smugness and cleared her throat. “I don’t really think you should be over here. Papa just went to take the trash out, he’s gonna be back, like, any second.”
Grace smiled wider, flicking hair out of her eyes and leaning casually across the counter, right into Donna’s space. “Nah, he caught Sean just as he was dumping our oil. We’ve got a good couple minutes while they bitch it out.”
Donna knew this was probably true. She’d witnessed many incidents of her father and Sean–Grace’s eldest brother and head of their family operation–duking it out over business maintenance and fair ground dignity.
Their first tussle happened over the grease trap by the dumpsters, much like Donna assumed this one was playing out. All of the tents had to dump their dirty fryer oil in the same dispense bin provided by the fair grounds and Giuseppe didn’t think Sean was treating his fellow tent operators with the right respect.
“Leaving the trap open so any animal or person could fall right in!” he’d yelled, embarrassing every fair goer and family member. “Where do you get off putting my family in danger? You’re just a punk ass kid who thinks he can play with the big dogs, pulling other countries’ prime dishes like they’re yours. You got some balls.”
Sean had come back at him, indignantly, calling him old and stuck in his ways. The younger parties in both tents managed to pull them away before any authorities were called but neither fried dough proprietor was welcome back at that fairground in Virginia again.
When Donna and Iggy had calmed their father down after the event, he’d looked both of them dead in the eye. “I know you kids are young and you want to date around, alright? But neither of you,” he pointed behind him to where the other kids were presumably calming down Sean, “neither of you date anyone in that tent.”
Iggy snorted while Donna blushed, stuttering about how she wasn’t ready to date yet.
Giuseppe waved her off. “Yeah, I know, but you’re young, sweetheart, and they got a girl your age in that tent. And you know I love you even if you want to date girls, but,” he raised his hand to point like he had before, maintaining strict eye contact with Donna alone. “Don’t date that girl.”
Meanwhile, three years after that first incident.
Donna could feel herself soften as she leaned in closer, watching the freckles by Grace’s eyes disappear in her smile lines. Having naturally olive skin herself, she didn’t tan or freckle in the sun and she was forever enchanted by Grace’s tiny skin stars.
“Still…” she breathed, mouth quirking up.
“I needed to get your attention somehow.” Grace ignored her hollow protest, leaning in farther, her voice low and intimate. “It shouldn’t be this hard to catch the eye of the cute girl at the zeppole tent.”
She said zeppole like zep-ole-eh. Like it’s supposed to be pronounced. Like Donna had taught her that time in the parking lot when Donna was supposed to be fetching a fresh apron.
“Well you know, when I said I can’t look at you during work.” Her hand crept towards where Grace’s rested on the table, her face tilted towards her. “That wasn’t a challenge.”
“Of course it was,” Grace flipped her hand over, waiting for Donna’s to catch it. “I just didn’t know you weren’t impressed with song and dance.”
That was a lie. Grace knew Donna appreciated song and dance because they’d discussed their favorite musicals by the dumpsters when they were taking out the closing trash that one shift.
Donna’s touch was gentle as it landed, not holding so much as tickling. “I’m impressed by good song and dance.” Donna smirked as she traced lightly over Grace’s heart line in her palm.
Grace pulled her hand out from under Donna’s to dramatically clutch her heart, putting all of her weight on her other hand so she could maintain their closeness. “Doth the good lady wound me?”
She didn’t have a chance to respond, though, as Iggy cleared his throat. Loudly.
Donna turned to glare at him, still close enough to Grace that the air from her soft laughter was a breeze through her messy, curly hair. Grace straightened up and Donna mourned the distance. “No, you’re right.” She put a hand on Donna’s shoulder again without the excuse of sugar. This was just to touch. “I should have better impulse control.” Her hand trailed down Donna’s arm until she was trailing fingers past her wrist, bringing Donna’s knuckles up to her mouth to kiss. She looked up through her eyelashes. “I just saw you two arguing and wanted to be a white knight.”
Donna was absolutely swooning, brown eyes shaped like hearts and her apron practically jumping with the cartoonish love-sick beating in her chest. Grace, for all her courting, didn’t appear much the better when it came to mooniness.
Iggy snorted. “Romeo wasn’t a knight.”
Donna was going to have to murder her brother.
But Grace just winked, barely turning her head to indicate him as her eyes were still on Donna’s. “And this romance isn’t gonna be a tragedy. We’re revising this bitch.”
Donna laughed, her eyes catching on movement across the field and she squeezed Grace’s hand before shooing her away as her father came back. Grace just winked again, sauntering back, casual as anything.
Donna made herself busy, going over excuses in her head in case her father noticed Grace at the tent. She wanted to know the perfect temperature for dough frying, Pop. You know her brother probably doesn’t teach her right. She wished Iggy would do something besides stare at her; he was making them look suspicious.
He was finally pushed into action when their father came in, fuming and muttering, and snapped at Iggy to restock the napkins.
Donna bit her lip to hide a smile as she greeted a customer that had just approached the tent, doing her college best not to look over at the other tent across the lot.
Even without looking, Donna knew that someone was trying to catch her eye and blow her a kiss at the funnel cake stand. Something that she’d been doing every minute they were both there since they’d both gotten over themselves and went on a date ten days ago: Much Ado About Nothing in the park.
She served the single customer their zeppole, after which she finally gave in and looked at Finnigan’s Family Funnel Cakes. Sure enough, there was Grace, grinning like a lunatic, her hands in the shape of a heart and bouncing up and down on her chest. Donna grinned, shaking her head. Knock it off! she mouthed.
Grace stopped the movement, holding up one hand with her thumb and her pointer finger pressed together in an “OK” gesture. She used the other one to dramatically blow a kiss. Donna rolled her eyes but caught the kiss and stuffed it in her apron pocket.
Iggy was over her shoulder, hissing in her ear. “What the fuck is this?! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Donna wasn’t sure if Iggy was more excited for her or pissed at her for leaving him out. She hoped he could understand why they had to keep it on the down-low.
Mostly, though, she just wanted to torture him. And this moment was worth it.
Donna turned around, her face blank and expressionless. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She served the next customer.