Tacenda

The sun is setting. I feel a strong sense of trepidation as I ascend the moldy, aged planks to the Stephens’ treehouse. The family’s Burtonesque backyard trees stretch far above the roof of their two-story home, and since the treehouse was initially built for Robyn’s older sister Wendy, that makes it slightly older than I am. Theoretically, any of these planks could crumble beneath my weight. Hell, the last time I made the climb, I was probably still in elementary school. The thought of falling makes me sweat even more than I already am, and I fear for my expensive laptop clasped under my arm.

I know Robyn is at the top, waiting. I can tell from the noticeable lack of cobwebs on my way up that she traveled the same route shortly before me. Meeting her one-on-one after all this time is almost surreal. So much so that I have to ask myself if it’s really worth it. The farther I climb, the more I ask myself whether I’m doing this because I genuinely want to spend time with her or because I feel obligated. The distant sound of thunder compels me to speed up. The last thing I want is for either myself or my laptop to get drenched.

Reaching the summit, I find myself on the wooden deck, inches away from the treehouse, and despite how dilapidated the whole structure is, I can’t help but feel an almost painful sense of familiarity. Nights like this one remind me too strongly of days gone by. Reminiscing on those late nights in the treehouse with Robyn evokes a specific melancholy: the smell of crayons and Play-Doh, that so-bad-yet-so-great 90’s fashion, I Spy books, cartoons from yesteryear, early-2000’s flash games, or even just riding around the neighborhood on my bike, not to stay in shape, but just because I could. Simply put, kids are better at holding tight to a unique kind of happiness, the type reserved for those still harboring blissful innocence.

I stop myself. Going down this line of thought is no good. Nostalgia is one hell of a drug.

I enter the treehouse.

As I predicted, Robyn is there, lying on the floor, probably trying to take a nap in her casual clothes. The treehouse interior is nothing special, though it does feel much smaller compared to when I was a kid. Robyn’s parents hadn’t sprung for anything fancy in the construction, mainly wanting to get it done. Had they known then just how many children they would have, they likely would have made the area a little bigger. Illuminating the room with a dim glow are a few firefly jars festooned along the walls. I imagine that they, along with the snacks laid out in the corner opposite to the entrance, must have been rather tedious to carry up. Robyn clearly took some time getting everything together, which is fair. It was her idea for us to meet one last time before college.

Her eyes open as I shut the door behind me.

“Yo, Kris” she says.

“Hey, friendo. Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Robyn leans back, lifting her legs into the air, then brings them down, employing her inertia to get into a sitting position with her legs crossed. There’s a big grin on her face.

“Time is relative. Anyway, how do you like these,” she says, gesturing to the jars. “Max made them.” Max is her youngest sister.

I nod, unsure of what else to say. A gust of wind blows through the leaves, indicating the imminent change in weather. Just past the walls, I can hear rain patter against the trees. Instead of continuing our bout of small talk, I opt to get things started.

“So, you wanna jam? I’ve got it all ready.”

“Hell yeah!” she says, bouncing up and down. She reaches over to the snack pile to grab two controllers, and I boot up my laptop. The bright screen drowns out the comparatively meagre light from the fireflies, and after a moment, I start the emulator before loading the rom for Phantasmagoric Warriors 2. I personally prefer the third game in the franchise – superior roster, the inclusion of the parrying system that added new layers of strategy and risk, and an overall more enjoyable metagame. However, Robyn and I grew up playing the second, so that’s what I deemed the best option. After all, this was supposed to be our final hurrah, a celebration to old times. She hooks up the controllers to the laptop, and after configuring them, we begin.

Video games have always affected me in a strange way. I’ve never been good at keeping the conversation going, but for some reason, I find myself way more talkative and amicable when I’ve got a game in front of me. It’s as if my self dissolves away, becoming lost in the game. I operate best with people when there’s a medium between us.

“All-freakin’-right,” I say, “I’m honestly so excited to play this. It’s been literally forever since we’ve done anything like this.”

“Absolutely!” she replies as the game’s main theme builds up suspense. “I still play with Max sometimes, but I can’t swear or anything around the kid, y’know?”

Like myself, Robyn was never the most socially inclined, making her a tough nut to crack for most. I, on the other hand, succeeded at befriending her by doing what I do best with people: analyze them. For instance, now would be the perfect time for a witty retort. Take the last thing she mentioned, make her feel slightly off guard from feigned offence, then end with a humorous statement.

“Oh, so that’s all I am to you? Someone you can say ‘bitch’ and ‘asshole’ around comfortably?”

She laughed. “Well, you said it, not me.”

It’s that easy. Next up, the character select screen, probably one of the most telling parts about one’s current mindset. I choose Oppenheim, the heartless, black-clad agent of the Kubo corporation. He was my favorite character as a child, a shining example of what ten-year-old me thought was cool.

Things get interesting when Robyn makes her choice. Typically, she would select Absalom, the ageless, aesthete skater who also happened to be a time lord. She had the biggest crush on him when we were young, as did a good percentage of the fanbase. Plus, with decent attack power, defense, range, and a reliable super ability, he’s a great character for beginners.

Yet, to my surprise, she forgoes Absalom in favor of Shishido Chou – the half-human, half-butterfly girl. She was the last of her race after the Kubo corporation committed mass genocide on all nonhuman creatures. The quixotic ragamuffin is probably the closest the game has to a protagonist, yet she is a glass canon, making her one of the hardest characters to master. Her super move, Ambrosial Nocturne, is a guaranteed kill, though it’s especially difficult to land, and her best attacks require near-perfect precision to pull off. As for why she chose her, I have two ideas: One, she has been playing the game more than she alluded and is handicapping herself. Two, she doesn’t want to win because…

I stop that line of thought, and a fear grips me. I can hear the rain growing in intensity, and I’m reminded of where I am – a small space with the person who wanted to be my girlfriend, the same person I denied, and here we are, acting like it never happened.

The second reason why she would choose Chou is because she doesn’t want to win. My god, is this whole thing an attempt to win me over? Why now, after all these years? But then again, it makes so much sense. From a lore perspective, Oppenheim and Chou begin the game as enemies, but as things progress, Oppenheim is revealed to have no knowledge of the attack on Chou’s people and feels remorse for his sins. He only joined the organization in the first place because they took him in from the orphanage to experiment on him, suppressing his emotions until Chou softened his heart.

They end up together.

“Hark!” Robyn says, “Thou’st hit start if we’re to do battle!”

“…Sure thing.”

I hit back and change to Ştefan on instinct. This is for the best. Ştefan, the overly emotional beastmaster-slash-poet, has next to no relation to Chou.

“Ştefan, huh?” Robyn says. “Interesting. His role in the TV series was awesome. Any reason why you picked him to square off against my Chou?”

“His super, duh. Raddest in the game, no contest.”

That isn’t a lie. Lackadaisical Jabberwocky looks flashy as hell. Ştefan was also my favorite character to play whenever I got tired of Oppenheim.

Just like that, everything is copacetic. I choose the stage – Winter Fortress – and wait through a few loading screens. Upon entering the stage, the deep baritone of the announcer bounces off the room, and just like that, I’m brought back to my childhood.

But then I remember the TV series.

The Phantasmagoric Warriors animated series aired early in the mornings, so whenever Robyn and I met up at school, we’d talk about it for a large chunk of our day. Looking back, it probably wasn’t as great as I recalled. Being an American-created series based on a Japanese game, it was inevitable that some things would get lost in translation, such as Chou’s main love interest. In the game lore, it’s Oppenheim, but in the series, she ends up with Ştefan. Christ, the two had kids in the final episode. That image is not something I want Robyn to have of me.

Go!

The blaring voice of the announcer brings me back into the game, but in a way, it’s too late. I can’t focus. I use Ştefan’s basic “Batwing Slice” attack repeatedly, only occasionally peppering Chou with a few low kicks or an uppercut. It’s comedic, in a sort of sad way, seeing her beautifully animated sprite dance across the screen in perfect synchrony to Robyn’s furious pounding of controller buttons. Meanwhile, I’m just crouching in a corner taking chip damage and utilizing the same cheap tactics.

“Wow… you’ve gotten really bad at this,” Robyn says.

“Shut up!”

***

Over the following hours, the rain only got worse, sometimes even seeping through the roof and dripping onto us, yet despite this, we don’t stop. For some reason, I refuse to let this moment end. Nostalgia is one hell of a drug, and if I could ever meet the bastard that made time go by so quickly, I’d punch them. Seeing life pass by terrifies me.

Is it too much to ask for someone to love me with them being in love with me?

As Robyn prepares to pull off a finisher, my screen dies.

“What the hell! I was winning!” Robyn squeaks.

I guess it was inevitable. We were running the game for a lot longer than I initially intended. Robyn had let the fireflies out earlier so they wouldn’t run out of air, making the room completely dark. To compensate for our lack of vision, I pull out my lighter. After a few clicks, it coats the room in an orange glow.

“Oh, nice! You came prepared.”

“Not prepared enough to bring an umbrella.”

With our faces so close to the flame, I wonder if I should have said something differently back then.

“You know, you don’t have to be so damn self-deprecating all the time,” she says.

It’s crazy how the most innocuous of events, things that only seem enjoyable in the moment, stick with you the longest. Right now, I can tell that this is one such moment. I need to tell her something, anything.

“…Robyn…”

Before I can say anything else, the floor lets out pained groan, which probably isn’t a good thing.

“…I don’t think this thing was built with the weight of two adults in mind.”

Then I can feel the whole treehouse shake. That definitely isn’t a good thing.

Suddenly, the storm crescendos with a distant thunderclap, signaling the treehouse to break free from its supports. Our stomachs plunge as we’re dropped a foot lower, still on the tree, yet far more unstable. I had fallen to one side of the treehouse, while Robyn had collapsed against the other. We steady ourselves after a healthy barrage of panicked curses.

Screw the weather. I’m getting out of here.

But as I make my way to the exit, Robyn yells at me to stop, and it doesn’t take long to realize why. Every step I take makes the treehouse tilt strongly toward Robyn’s side. Slowly, I lift my foot in the air, and my side of the treehouse rises.

“Kris! Stop it!”

I apologize in a hushed breath. Essentially, we’re balancing on a tree branch, counterbalancing one another so that the treehouse doesn’t shift. All we can do now is pray and hope that the storm doesn’t disturb the treehouse any further.

As time passes and things remain relatively the same, we grow comfortable enough to sit down. We aren’t at ease enough to fall asleep, but neither of us felt all that tired in the first place. After what seemed like hours of silence between us, Robyn voices a small chuckle.

“What’s that about?” I ask.

“I was just thinking about the first time we met.”

“Ah, yeah. I remember. Mayla Burch, right?”

“Exactly!”

Mayla was the resident bully in Robyn’s grade back in elementary school. She’d do the typical stuff – stealing money, copying homework, and pouring juice on the socially awkward kids’ backpacks. Now, she never targeted me directly, but on one occasion, she stole the answer key for a math test, one that, for me, was the deciding factor between an A and a B. I was ready for it, but because Mayla took the key, the school forced our teacher to annul the original and create a harder test for us. Long story short, I didn’t get the grade I wanted, and Mayla got to brag about how she got away with it. The absolute cheek. I needed revenge, and the best place to get it was in Robyn’s treehouse.

Taking my BB-gun, I made the perilous climb to the treehouse. I was surprised to find Robyn there, but she was so distraught she didn’t have much of a reaction upon seeing me. Using the opportunity, I set up my weapon, taking aim at the streets. I had learned the path Mayla took home every day, and it didn’t take long for her to fall into my sights. I wasn’t planning to harm her, just shoot around her legs a little to spook her. It was Robyn who came up with the idea that got me into trouble.

Earlier that day, Mayla had swiped Robyn’s science fair project, a papier-mâché volcano that spewed a variety of paints. She told me to shoot her backpack, which I did, and the volcano, which was still in there, broke from within, pouring out the multi-colored watercolors. Her backpack and everything inside it were ruined.

Unfortunately, Mayla did manage to put two and two together, figuring out that the shooter’s firing location was in Robyn’s treehouse, but in an act I barely understood at the time, I took full blame. According to me, all Robyn was guilty of was being too trusting and letting me up to her treehouse.

“You know,” Robyn says, “I was really broken up about what Mayla did. I don’t get many opportunities to stand out among my siblings, and when she took that away from me, I didn’t know how to react. I guess what I’m trying to say is that getting revenge with you was pretty cathartic.”

“Younger me was much cooler.”

Things are quiet after that for a bit. It’s only when Robyn resumes the conversation that I realize how hoarse her voice is.

“Kris, I want you to answer me honestly, all right? After we leave, will we still see each other?”

“Do you want an honest answer?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.” I can see her posture slump as I say that. “But we’ll still be friends, at least I hope so. Just because we aren’t going to see each other often doesn’t take away any of the memories we’ve built. It’s only when we devolve into apathy that we lose sight of one another.”

She looks back up. I feel like a bastard, exposing myself and expecting her to be okay with that.

“I’ve been like that for a long time now, haven’t I? I’m sorry about that. I really am. What I’ve done is unforgiveable.”

I fall to my side to rest, not caring how it causes the treehouse to teeter. I just want to sleep.

“Nothing scares me more than saying goodbye,” Robyn says. “Sorry for being a coward… and a bad friend.”

That line jolts me up.

“Bullshit!” I say. “You’re not the bad friend! I’m the bad friend! I left you alone for years, bitch!”

I understand now! You never loved me the way I thought you did. My fear is losing precious memories, but your fear is losing what you have now! I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.

“N… nuh-uh!” Robyn retorts. “I’m the sucky friend! I put you in a difficult position and expected you to set things right! I should’ve known it was too hard for you!”

“What the hell does that mean? I’ll have you know…”

For the rest of the night, our debate rages on.

I think about how, in less than two years, I’ll be twenty. Based on nationwide statistics, a quarter of my life will be over. I want to spend as much of that time as possible with her to make up for what I lost. The storm comes to an end, and as the sun rises in the distance, we wait for our rescue to arrive.