The Secrets Told on the Swings

 The heavy black iron gate noisily creaks as I push into the abandoned playground. This place, my sanctuary, where I sought solace and solitude, has been invaded. The realization hits me like a wave, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. 

I'm irritated at the intrusion. This rusty old playground is my safe space. It's the only place where I can relax and be completely unbothered. I tell myself it's okay; I'm overreacting; it is a public park. I have no right to be angry at others for using the space. Wanting to avoid conversation, I grab my earbuds and scroll through my favorite playlist.

After a few rounds around the playground, I make my way to the swings at the rear. The chains are rusted, and the black plastic seat frays at the edges. The chains protest as I sway back and forth in ever-widening arcs. Stevie Nicks' velvety voice fills my ears, and I drift into a fantasy of abandoning everything to become a wanderer. Suddenly, the intruder halts before me, their gaze fixed, shattering my reverie.

"What are you singing?" she asks.

"Gypsy? By Fleetwood Mac? Everyone on the planet knows this song now because of TikTok." I say dismissively. 

"I don't." She says quietly. "I'm not allowed on TikTok."

For a moment, I stare back at her, taking in the scene. She isn't someone I've seen before. She doesn't go to my school, and I can't recall ever seeing her in town. She is wearing a nondescript brown dress that looks handmade, and her hair is in one long braid down her back, adding to her air of mystery. She wears no jewelry, not even a watch. 

"You're not allowed on TikTok?" I ask, trying to keep my disbelief from rising in my voice.

"I'm not allowed on the Internet except for school assignments, and even then, my mother supervises my computer use," she says sheepishly.

"Oh, you're from a granola family that thinks screens are bad for their kids, huh? That explains the outfit, then."

She looks down at her plain dress, her cheeks flushing, suddenly embarrassed. Her gaze shifts to my torn jeans and faded Guns n Roses tee. "Should I assume you're homeless, then? Based on your ratty clothes?" She asks defensively.

"Ratty?!" I say incredulously. "These are vintage; you know nothing about fashion." I finish this conversation and turn my earbuds back on, pushing off with my feet to start the swinging motion that brings me peace. The intruder stands in the path of the swing, forcing me to stop again. 

"What's your deal?" I say, my frustration mounting. 

"What's yours?!" she snaps back, plopping beside me, pushing off with her feet. 

"Seriously, Granola?" I ask. "You stepped into the path of my swing, not the other way around. I've been coming to this playground for weeks to escape everyone and everything I know. Then, today, you pop up out of nowhere to demand that I share my playlist, and now you want to know what MY deal is?"

"I didn't demand anything; I asked you a question. I've never heard lyrics like those," Granola says. I told you my parents are strict. That's why I'm even in this miserable old park today. I ran away. I didn't know where I was going; I just walked until I ended up here."

Her admission amazed me, especially that she would blurt all that out to a stranger. I'm studying her again, but this time through a different lens. I shouldn't judge a book by its cover, after all. Granola keeps talking.

"Do you know what it's like to be the daughter of the most significant fundamental Christian on this side of the Mississippi? I can't wear the clothes I want to wear, cut my hair, pierce my ears, use the internet, have a cell phone, or even make friends. Everything I read, see, or interact with is tightly controlled by my parents. They won't pay for my education to go to college; my father says I don't need an education to be a wife. A WIFE?! Can you imagine? I'm not even eighteen, but my father is planning my wedding to a man twice my age. Today, my mom wanted to take measurements for my wedding dress. I ran away when she went to buy fabric. Now I'm here on this dilapidated swingset, talking to you."

I'm almost certain my mouth has been standing agape the entire time she speaks. I open my mouth to speak, but the words take a few moments to formulate. "Wow," I breathe, "that's a lot. I misjudged you, Granola. Do you have a plan?"

"No." she sobbed, "But I can't go back there. My father will never let me out of his sight after this. I won't get another chance to escape."

"Okay, calm down," I say, although I know that this has never effectively helped anyone to calm down in the entire history of civilization. "I guess we're all running from something. My life isn't exactly a bed of roses, either. So I'm going to help you, Granola."

"My name isn't Granola," she says shakily. It's-"

"Un-uh!" I interrupt her. "I don't want to know your real name; you don't need to know mine. From now on, you'll be Granola, and I'll be Rags because my clothes are so ratty. I can't rat you out if I don't know your name." 

Granola stops sniffling and looks at me with a slight grin. "Okay, Rags, what do I do now? It's getting dark out, and I have nowhere to sleep."

"There's a small garden shed at the back of the park where the groundskeeper used to keep his lawn equipment. No one ever goes back there." I don't tell her I only know because I've been scoping the place as a potential hideout for my escape. I've been trying to build the courage for weeks. "I'll sneak out tonight once my folks are asleep and bring you a sleeping bag and a change of clothes. Also, we're cutting your hair. Somebody'll recognize you in an instant in that get-up." 

Granola is looking at me through widened eyes. "You're really gonna help me, aren't you?" she asks in quiet astonishment. 

"Well, I can't leave you out here by yourself. We'll get you settled in the garden shed, and I'll be back later with supplies. But I gotta get going before my parents are looking for me." I don't tell her that if my parents have to be bothered to look for me, I'll be the one dressed funny tomorrow. 

I took her down the path to the shed, ensured she could secure the doors, and headed for home, four blocks away. I had to run to beat my father home from work. I didn't need any complications tonight.

Several hours later, I tapped on the shed door. "Hey, Granola, open up. It's Rags." She cautiously peeked out. Then I heard her sliding the beam we had rigged as a lock earlier. She took one look at my face and gasped.

"What happened to you? What are all these bags? What's going on, Rags?" she rattles off each question, her voice more anxious than earlier on the swings. It's at that moment that I decide to tell Granola the truth. I only knew of the shed because I had planned to run away for weeks. The beam wasn't there by coincidence. I had been cleaning and prepping the shed for weeks. I had been slowly hiding food in my closet, one snack or canned goods at a time, for weeks not to draw my father's attention or ire. My father kept almost the exact grip on my life as Granola's dad had hers. The only difference is that Granola's dad was a saint, a minister with a large following, and my dad was a sinner, a drunk with a mean temper.

So there I was, in the middle of the night, standing outside the shed with my long-forgotten sleeping bags, a duffel bag full of clothes, and another full of food. "Come on," I say, "let's go to the swings, and I'll tell you the whole story." She trusts me with her secrets, so I have decided to tell her mine.

She worries that someone will see us as we walk the path to the playground. I remind her that it's the middle of the night, and no one is looking for two runaways at the run-down playground in the long-forgotten community park. The community left years ago; this place is a forgotten relic of the 1980s. Besides, my parents don't know that I'm missing—well, not yet. 

We take our spots on the swings, and the chains creak as we push them off into the air. I tell Granola that I've decided to join her on this adventure. Then I tell her the entire story—that my father isn't my father at all; he married my mom when I was two. And I'm not sure when it started, but my earliest memories are of him touching me below the waist. I told my mom a few years ago, but she says we can't leave. He hasn't touched me like that since I told Mom, but he beats me for any offense now, no matter how small or imagined. He's responsible for the shiner I'm currently sporting. 

"Damn, Rags," Granola says when I've finished speaking, her face a scarlet red from the mischief of cursing. I laugh out loud at her innocence. "So that's why you decided to help me."

"You inspired me," I say. "I've been coming for weeks, planning my own escape. Today, when you showed up on the run, I realized we could help each other. I've been stocking supplies and cleaning the shed for weeks. That's why I was so annoyed with you earlier. I feared you'd rat me out if you saw me working on the shed. I expect my smiling face to be all over the news in the morning."

Granola takes in all this information, thinking quietly to herself. After a long silence, she stands abruptly and hugs me. I recoil from the contact. "Sorry." she says sheepishly, "I just feel so lousy dumping all my problems on you when you had your own."

It's cool," I say. "You gave me the courage to leave." 

We sit there til dawn starts to creep into the horizon. "We'd better get inside and sleep for a while," I say. "We can't stay here for more than a day or two, or we'll be found and sent back home. Like you pointed out earlier, we might not make it out again."

Tonight, when we awaken, I'll cut and dye Granola's hair. I passed the hours waiting for the sound of my dad's snoring and my eventual exit by cutting and dyeing my hair. When I met Granola, I was a blonde with long, wavy locks. I was sporting a black pixie cut when I met her outside the shed tonight. I chose a drugstore red for Granola and plan to cut her waist-length hair to her shoulders in a layered bob. I'm going to show her what TikTok is all about and help her find her style. We'll both be eighteen and can find legal work in a few months. Until then, we'll move from town to town, and sleep in the tent I packed along with the sleeping bags.

Eventually, we fell asleep beneath the windows, hoping we wouldn't be seen through the dirty windowpanes if anyone thought to search the park. I am still determining where this adventure will lead. I don't know how we will support ourselves once my babysitting money runs out. The only thing I know is that I'm finally free from hell, and I helped another condemned soul escape on the way out.