The Playground

Okay, this is how I remember everything.

It was a beautiful day. I remember it, even though I was just turning twelve. We always went out in the summer to find a park and have a picnic, and that time was no different than any other. Well, I didn't think so. Why would I? Like I said, I was just a little kid at the time (almost thirteen), and it was a great day.

Well, why great? We were going out to have a barbecue with the Stephens (I mean, Stevens). We had known them our whole lives and they now lived close enough - almost next-door neighbours - for us to hang out together whenever we wanted. I could go there - we could go there - for lunches, birthdays, picnics, vacations (that was rare, but it did happen). If I think about it now, it was the fifth time I can remember going to a picnic area for a shared cookout. The same spot and everything the way our families liked it; that was what I thought about as we loaded up our car and led the way.

The Stephens - Stevens, sorry - have a boy my age named Ryan. We really did not have much in common except video games (first one I knew to have his own system at home). He was okay. And then there was his sister; his older sister. Rita. Only two years older than me - three years older than Ryan - but she seemed so much like an adult. And she was the first girl that I really liked. I mean really liked. I never talked to my family about this (probably a good thing now), but they should have noticed. Maybe it would have been a better time for all of us if they had.

I don't blame her. The playground was old and we had already been told that we were too old for it and that it was dangerous for us to hang out on that rusted metal park. But really, what did they expect us to do once we were there? Play cards? Set up the grill and have a few drinks? Get nostalgic? It was a picnic site with a man-made lake that was already crowded and forests that I knew as well as my own home. We quickly left our parents and found that the playground was completely abandoned. And you could see why. No one had done any repairs or bothered to even paint it over the years. Ryan ran to the top of the stairs leading to the slide. He was kind of our lookout. I ran up the slide until I fell and slide down, feeling the burn of sun and metal down my legs and back. Rita, wiser than any of us, was on a tire swing, just hanging in the breeze. There was a free swing next to her and I jumped up and flew up and down with the chain and rubber. So, no damage.

Until I tried to kiss her.

Ryan was still on lookout, and she dared me to try to do it. I pumped my legs and sent my swing crashing into hers, sending us both too far and too loose at the same time. And I planted one on her cheek. Of course, she did too, but not with her lips. She punched me in the chest; I fell out. And I did not notice the raw piece of metal sticking out of one of the struts holding up the swings (never saw it before; strange). When I landed on it, I felt a white hot liquid pain that I had never felt before and I could not stand up. Still, for a first kiss, it was not that bad. At least I would remember this.

The cookout ended as soon as I got back somehow. Your nursing skills helped when you wrapped up the top of my right arm. Dad was the one who ignored her instructions as he slowly opened up the trunk of the car and began to pack. The Stephens - sorry, Stevens - did not say much except 'What happened?' and 'Why?'

Rita just looked red and embarrassed as she ignored the last question. Ryan looked angry, but it was not really at me, I think. He just didn't want to go home. And then the final thing happened that seems important to talk about now: we left at different times. Yes, we did have separate cars and things to pack, but we always came and went to these places together. That was the first time I can remember us going our own ways. My arm was in a towel. My dad shut the trunk. You sat in the driver's seat wiping your face and adjusting the rear view mirror. I thought you just wanted to keep an eye on me, but I looked up at the reflection at the same time as you did and saw all of the Stevens just staring at us. I don't even remember saying good-bye. I just have the look on their faces in my head; the Stephens. I mean, Stevens.

*

The first argument happened very quickly. You probably didn't know that I could hear almost everything from my room. You invited the soon-to-be Stevens over to talk about what happened. Mrs. Stevens was speaking to you about things and how unfortunate it was that the accident happened. That was what I heard as I lay in bed with my arm wrapped in gauze and cotton (the stitches still itched). Your best friend came over to talk to you.

And Rita was there, too.

It was an apology. I could hear it. It was very quiet, but I could hear it. And then there was some very hard silence before the next noise.

A slap.

I could not remember the last time you hit me that hard. Dad was at work and I heard that all the way up in my room, thinking that he could have heard it in his office (a terrible joke, but I had to think I misheard things). Were you really hitting the child of your best friend in front of her own mother? What was it she said to make you so angry? I just wanted to know. What followed was just screaming and chairs shoved out of the way, screen doors slammed and furniture kicked and pounded. I stayed in my room until it ended. But it never really did, right? It never did.

*

Four years...

After all that time with you and the Stevens not talking to each other, one of us had to crack. Ryan was walking out his front door and I was going inside our own very near home. I could tell that his parents were out - no car in the driveway - and it was another beautiful day. I really thought that this had nothing to do with our relationship.

'Hey.'

'Hey.'

We both stood there for a moment in front of our homes. I somehow felt the wound in my arm itch as I tried to think of something to say. Ryan kept moving from foot to foot. We both wanted to get past the last four years.

'How did this get so stupid?'

Well, at least he laughed. That was door that I could push open. We had that. I laughed, too.

'Y'know, I told them that it wasn't a big thing. I got better and it's okay. Gotta a cool scar, too.'

'Right! And my mom won't even talk to your mom anymore. Doesn't even wanna say her name. Doesn't want us to talk.'

'So stupid. Just talk. Like adults.'

This was good. This was a chance.

'Ryan.'

I heard her through their door. Never saw Rita step outside, but it was her. Her voice flew past our talk with force.

'Ryan.'

He turned and looked inside, almost embarrassed with the effort.

'Mom says you have to get dinner started. Says it's all in the fridge with instructions.'

I didn't hear her say anything after that, but I did see his face. Ryan was truly sad. I would have said he was going to cry, but he was not the type. But he was sad as he walked back to the door, waved slowly at me, and disappeared. I still don't remember if I waved back.

Now, you would think that it could not get any worse with us, but you know it did. There were arguments about leaves commingling on our lawns, debts owed that were once forgotten, items to be returned after having been left over for too long. You almost came to blows once after a blizzard when you could not find a shovel and demanded to know why the Stevens suddenly had a new one just in time for the bad weather. There were ugly looks if we left the house at the same time; these were looks that you pretended not to see or share (just the parents; I did not care that much if they scowled at me). And that could have been how things ran for the rest of our days in that neighbourhood with them. But something happened with Rita. Ms. Rita Stevens.

I keep talking about their name, their family name, so I better say something about it now. That slap I talked about? For a long time, you would not say a thing about it. I had not heard what Rita said. But then, you slipped up. I heard you on your cellphone as you walked around the house putting things away. Now, if you had been on the landline in the kitchen, I am sure I would have missed this. But I heard what you said:

'What else you expect? From them? No. And that youngest one telling me it was Stephens, not Stevens. 'Use a ph,' she said. 'Remember for him.' Remember for him? I just slapped the goddamn taste out of her mouth for her...'

And then you went downstairs.

I heard your words, but I wonder it I really understood it all then. I mean, I thought that it was some sort of bad joke: Stephens, not Stevens. Why did that even matter? Why had you talked about it after I had to go to the hospital and they did a blood test to see if I had any infections...or anything else that anyone needed to know?

I swear, even after all of that time, I could feel the itch of that cut in my arm. And so, I got up, waited until you were in the basement, went over to their house and talked to the people you no longer called friends. They had to give me some answers I did not even want to have.

Rita was at home. She was the reason why I decided to write this to you. She was the reason why I have made choices I never thought I would make. When she first saw me, she did not want to open the door. She looked at me through the screen and stood there with her beautiful and very familiar eyes wide and scared. So, I said it:

'Stephens, not Stevens.'

She slowly opened the door and then explained as much as she knew. She got slapped for more than just an arm and a bill, or for her apology. Sorry, it was not really an apology; it was a revelation. She knew why our families were such close friends for such a long time. Two families that always felt like one tribe. We saw it that way. I even felt it that way. Maybe I did not feel enough.

Anyway, all the photocopies you see here are real. Rita is studying law now and knows how this works. Her family did not stop her when she started to dig a little deeper into what was so obvious even I should have noticed. Ryan, when things were explained to him, was shocked, but he has come around and things are better with us. Again, that's a start.

Mom, please do not try to figure out where I am. I am leaving all this information with you so that you can see this after work and discuss it with dad. Tell him that I am okay and that nothing has changed no matter what you see. I understand now, better than I did before: Rita, Ryan and me. Wow. You must have some interesting times back then. You could have told me about all of this before it got so bad. Now, I guess, I truly am on my own, even if I do have this...family.

Your son,

William Reed Stevens (not Stephens)