quite.
We decide to go for a walk, but before we leave to visit the park across the street, Nicole asks me if I left Alfie at the dorm.
“No, actually he’s still in the car.”
“Good. Bring him along.” Then she says slightly flirtatiously, “I might want you to show me a few moves.”
Okay.
That can be arranged.
There aren’t any lights specifically directed at the playground or outdoor basketball court, but the nearby streetlamps toss down enough light for us to see.
Mia puts her arm around Kyle’s waist and they slip off toward one of the walking trails that lead into the woods.
So far on the trip, there hasn’t been any sign that things have been rocky between them. Maybe they’re finally working stuff out.
Nicole heads to the swing set. “Hey, push me? Oh wait!— y our arm. I wasn’t even thinking.”
“I should be okay.”
She kicks off her flip-flops, and then positions herself on the seat, wiggling her way to being comfortable. “Okay. Ready.”
I roll Alfie onto the grass nearby, and then, placing my right hand on the small of Nicole’s back, I ease her forward.
Once she’s moving, she pumps her legs to gain more height.
“I’ve always liked swings,” she tells me as I push her again. “Even when I was a little girl, my dad used to push me all the time. I mean, back then, I was probably only going a few feet off the ground, but when I think back to it now, it’s like I was flying over the whole world.”
As she talks, she continues pumping and I keep pushing her, getting her a little higher with each swing.
“Then I’d jump off and he’d always catch me—except for this one time I when jumped before he was ready and he couldn’t get to me in time. I fell and scraped my knee pretty bad—got some gravel stuck in there. I still have a scar.”
“So that’s where that scar came from.”
“What? You noticed my scar? And when exactly were you checking out my leg, Daniel Byers?”
“Oh, I might’ve just happened to glance in that direction once.”
“Just once?”
“Maybe twice.”
“Uh-huh.” She pumps. Rises higher in the night. “Anyway, Dad felt terrible. And I just remember crying and holding him and how strong he was and how safe that made me feel.”
She swings back toward me.
I give her another push.
In the trees, cicadas cycle louder and softer as if they’re somehow orchestrated to chirp—or whatever it is cicadas actually do—in sync with each other.
“It’s weird,” she says. “I haven’t thought about that in years. Not until just now, when I started swinging again.”
“Maybe you just needed something to spark the memory.”
Like the pictures of Grandpa that Mom is sending tonight.
Like the blurs.
The boy in the road.
Your corpse in the attic.
“Maybe.” Then all at once she shouts, “Okay, here goes! I’m gonna jump!”
“I’m not going to catch you.”
“I’ll be fine!”
She swings back one last time, and as she floats forward, she leaps from the swing, squealing and kicking her feet in the air like a long jumper launching herself out over the sand.
She lands a bit off balance, but quickly collects herself, and then throws her arms out in celebration as if to say, “ Tada!”
“Nicely done.”
She takes a bow. “Thank you. I’ll be signing autographs later.”
“And no scar this time.”
“Not this time.” She flits over and picks up my basketball. “Alright, come on. Before Kyle and Mia come back I want you to show me how to shoot.”
She dribbles it onto the court using both hands at the same time.
It’s a little troubling.
“Okay, now.” She slings the ball to her hip. “I need to tell you something.”
“What’s that?”
“A ton of people have tried to teach me before, but it’s never worked.”
“And you never wanted me to show you before now, either. Why is that?”
“Embarrassment.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“You haven’t seen me shoot yet.”
“Well, go ahead.
We decide to go for a walk, but before we leave to visit the park across the street, Nicole asks me if I left Alfie at the dorm.
“No, actually he’s still in the car.”
“Good. Bring him along.” Then she says slightly flirtatiously, “I might want you to show me a few moves.”
Okay.
That can be arranged.
There aren’t any lights specifically directed at the playground or outdoor basketball court, but the nearby streetlamps toss down enough light for us to see.
Mia puts her arm around Kyle’s waist and they slip off toward one of the walking trails that lead into the woods.
So far on the trip, there hasn’t been any sign that things have been rocky between them. Maybe they’re finally working stuff out.
Nicole heads to the swing set. “Hey, push me? Oh wait!— y our arm. I wasn’t even thinking.”
“I should be okay.”
She kicks off her flip-flops, and then positions herself on the seat, wiggling her way to being comfortable. “Okay. Ready.”
I roll Alfie onto the grass nearby, and then, placing my right hand on the small of Nicole’s back, I ease her forward.
Once she’s moving, she pumps her legs to gain more height.
“I’ve always liked swings,” she tells me as I push her again. “Even when I was a little girl, my dad used to push me all the time. I mean, back then, I was probably only going a few feet off the ground, but when I think back to it now, it’s like I was flying over the whole world.”
As she talks, she continues pumping and I keep pushing her, getting her a little higher with each swing.
“Then I’d jump off and he’d always catch me—except for this one time I when jumped before he was ready and he couldn’t get to me in time. I fell and scraped my knee pretty bad—got some gravel stuck in there. I still have a scar.”
“So that’s where that scar came from.”
“What? You noticed my scar? And when exactly were you checking out my leg, Daniel Byers?”
“Oh, I might’ve just happened to glance in that direction once.”
“Just once?”
“Maybe twice.”
“Uh-huh.” She pumps. Rises higher in the night. “Anyway, Dad felt terrible. And I just remember crying and holding him and how strong he was and how safe that made me feel.”
She swings back toward me.
I give her another push.
In the trees, cicadas cycle louder and softer as if they’re somehow orchestrated to chirp—or whatever it is cicadas actually do—in sync with each other.
“It’s weird,” she says. “I haven’t thought about that in years. Not until just now, when I started swinging again.”
“Maybe you just needed something to spark the memory.”
Like the pictures of Grandpa that Mom is sending tonight.
Like the blurs.
The boy in the road.
Your corpse in the attic.
“Maybe.” Then all at once she shouts, “Okay, here goes! I’m gonna jump!”
“I’m not going to catch you.”
“I’ll be fine!”
She swings back one last time, and as she floats forward, she leaps from the swing, squealing and kicking her feet in the air like a long jumper launching herself out over the sand.
She lands a bit off balance, but quickly collects herself, and then throws her arms out in celebration as if to say, “ Tada!”
“Nicely done.”
She takes a bow. “Thank you. I’ll be signing autographs later.”
“And no scar this time.”
“Not this time.” She flits over and picks up my basketball. “Alright, come on. Before Kyle and Mia come back I want you to show me how to shoot.”
She dribbles it onto the court using both hands at the same time.
It’s a little troubling.
“Okay, now.” She slings the ball to her hip. “I need to tell you something.”
“What’s that?”
“A ton of people have tried to teach me before, but it’s never worked.”
“And you never wanted me to show you before now, either. Why is that?”
“Embarrassment.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“You haven’t seen me shoot yet.”
“Well, go ahead.
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