The Swing of Things

The rhythmic screech of metal on metal pierces the night, echoing in the dark like demon screams coming for your soul. Instead of fleeing, I march toward the sound, unafraid, yet anxious still. I’m either a brave lad, or I’m stupid. Maybe both.

Maria sits, toes dragging in the dirt, scuffing a groove deeper and deeper into the dirt, as she swings back and forth absently on the ancient playground equipment, setting my teeth on edge with every ear piercing motion. I take the seat next to her and join her, gently swaying, my swing groaning in a different pitch, creating a hideous disharmony.

“‘Sup?” I ask.

“Nothin’,” is her absent reply.

“What cha doin’?”

“Swingin’.”

“Can I join you?”

She gives me that look, the one with rolled eyes that clearly says I’m an idiot. “Bit late to ask.”

“Yeah, well, I can piss off if you want me to.” I hope she doesn’t call my bluff. I’m not leaving her alone while she’s like this.

“Nah, you’re ok, Lollie.” She starts to twist up the chains, turning herself round and round until her toes are only just touching the ground. When she can twist no more, she releases the swing, spinning in a mad rush, head thrown back in dizzy delight. Her laughter has a hysterical, maniacal throb to it, and I can’t tell if she laughs with joy, or terror, or sadness. Laughing with sadness is the worst.

“You ok?” I ask once her swing stops spinning wildly and is swishing from side to side with the remains of its mad momentum.

“I’m fine.”

Yeah, right, she’s fine! I call bull. There’s no reason for her to be here after dark if everything was fine.

“I’m not stupid, Maria. I’m your friend—which some might think makes me stupid…” she whacks me from her swing and I pretend to fall back, catching myself on the chains as I laugh. “…but I know you. Don’t fib me.”

“Oh, Lollie.” She stops still, her whole body poised, like an animal ready to flee. “I’m pregnant.”

Shit!

I’m gobsmacked. I’m not an idiot. I know how babies are made, but I just can’t imagine Maria doing ‘that’ with anyone. Halting my swing, I stare at her pale face in the moonlight. She’s not looking at me, her whole body as still as mine.

I want to know who she did it with, but then again, perhaps I don’t want to think about that. I want to know when and how and where and why and so many other huge questions, but I don’t ask. It doesn’t really seem that helpful and I’m sure she doesn’t want to tell me.

“Oh God, Maria. Your dad’s gonna kill you!” Perhaps that wasn’t the right thing to say either, but it just exploded from my mouth.

“I know.” The hopelessness in her voice eats at me.

“What cha gonna do?” I have to know if she has a plan.

“Dunno.”

“What about the dad? Does he know?” I don’t want to know about him, but the devil inside prompted me to ask.

“Nah, he’s long gone.”

“You got a phone number? You could call him.”

“Lollie, I don’t even have his last name. I got nothin’.” She begins to twist the swing again, wrapping the chains tightly until she can twist no more, then setting the swing in motion to spin madly as she laughs, a sound that is suspiciously like a sob.

“You could have mine,” I say softly once the spinning has come to its inevitable end.

“What?”

“My last name.” I say a little louder, with more bravado than confidence. “You could have it. If you was married, your dad couldn’t kill you.”

She stops swinging and turns to look at me; her face incredulous. “You’d marry me?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d raise someone else’s kid?”

I shrug. “It’s not someone else’s kid, it’s your kid.”

“We’d kill each other, Lollie.”

“Better that than facing your dad. And we could always divorce later on.”

“No way. If we married, and then you divorced me, my dad would kill you.”

“Or we could just stay married. A marriage based on friendship. Not a bad way to start.”

“Lawrence McKenzie, are you flippin’ serious?”

I look at her, sitting there in the moonlight, her dark hair flowing in tangled knots, her pale face and wide brown eyes. She is my everything, and life without her is not an option. I sink to my knees in the dirt below the swings.

“Maria De Rossi, will you marry me?”

“I… I…” she stammers, clearly taken aback. It’s quite humbling to realise that she doesn’t see me the same way I see her. “I don’t know…”

“Say ‘yes’.” Please say ‘yes’, I beg silently.

“Ok.” It’s enough for me and my heart leaps. Not sure if it’s with joy or terror. I feel like I could be sick, and my stomach flops about like a fish out of water. I stand up and pull her up from her seat on the swing. She is short, barely up to my shoulder.

“Shall we seal it with a kiss?” I’ve never kissed anyone. The only person I’ve ever wanted to kiss is standing before me.

“Ok.” Her voice is hesitant, and she tips her head back so that I can see her eyes. “I suppose we should. If we’re going to convince everyone we’re getting married, we should practice.”

I lean down; she stretches up on tiptoes. Our noses bump awkwardly and she giggles, so my lips land on her smiling mouth. It’s warm and soft, and my stomach lurches again. This time I don’t feel like I will be sick. This time I feel like I can fly.

We pull apart awkwardly. She sits back on the seat of the swing with a thoughtful look on her face. I hope that they’re good thoughts, hope that I haven’t royally screwed up the kiss, my very first one ever. I comfort myself with the knowledge that they can only get better, everyone begins somewhere, don’t they?

“Will you push me?” she asks, her wide eyes gazing at me with a soft smile lurking in their depths.

“Yeah,” I say. “How high do you want to go?”

“To the heavens.”

Yeah, I can manage that.