Chapter 8 – School Fair
617 Words
The campus was unrecognizable.
Banners hung from the gates, colorful streamers fluttered in the breeze, and the once-quiet quadrangle buzzed with stalls, loud music, and the endless chatter of students. The annual School Fair was always the most anticipated event of the year—three days of fun that everyone looked forward to, even the teachers.
I had never really cared much about it. I usually walked around for a while, bought some food, maybe watched the program on stage, then went home early. But this year was different.
Because this year, I wasn’t walking alone.
“Come on,” he said, tugging at my sleeve as we stepped into the crowd. “We’ve got to try the booths before they sell out of tickets.”
I rolled my eyes. “You just want to dunk someone in the water tank.”
“Exactly,” he grinned.
The first hour was chaos. He dragged me from one booth to another—shooting hoops, ring toss, even a “Guess the Song” stall where he sang off-key on purpose just to make me laugh. At every game, he insisted I try, cheering me on like I was some kind of champion even when I failed miserably.
“You throw like you’re scared of the ball,” he teased after my third attempt at the ring toss.
“Shut up,” I said, trying to hide my laughter.
He wasn’t much better, though. At the basketball booth, he missed three shots in a row before sinking one by accident.
We both burst out laughing, doubled over as the booth attendant shook his head at us.
By lunchtime, we were sitting under a tent, sharing a plate of fries and a bottle of soda. The air was sticky and hot, but it didn’t matter. There was something about being there with him that made the fair feel brighter, louder, more alive.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, holding up a fry like a microphone. “If you had to sing on stage right now, what song would you pick?”
“None,” I said quickly. “I’d rather die.”
He smirked. “Wrong answer. You’re supposed to say, ‘I’d sing with you.’”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my lips.
In the afternoon, we wandered near the rides that had been set up just outside the school. There was a Ferris wheel, spinning gently against the blue sky.
“Wanna ride?” he asked, eyes glinting with challenge.
I hesitated. Heights weren’t really my thing. But before I could answer, he grabbed two tickets and handed one to the operator.
And just like that, we were seated in the small carriage, rising slowly above the fairgrounds.
From up there, the noise faded into a distant hum, the laughter and music blending into something soft and far away. The view stretched across the town—rooftops, fields, the glittering line of the river in the distance.
He leaned back, looking completely at ease. “Not bad, huh?”
I clutched the safety bar a little too tightly. “Easy for you to say.”
He chuckled, then glanced at me. “Don’t worry. I’m right here.”
Something about the way he said it—calm, certain—made me relax, just a little.
For a moment, we sat there in silence, the world spread out beneath us, the afternoon sun painting everything in gold. It wasn’t dramatic, no fireworks or confessions. Just two kids, sharing fries, games, and a Ferris wheel ride.
But somehow, I knew I’d remember it forever.
Because sometimes, the simplest moments are the ones that stay.
- Writer
