ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

anymore. Instead, the distant zips of cars as they speed at eighty k’s
into town bounce against the trees.
The ground is uncomfortable. I flatten my backpack and place it
underneath me. We used to lay our school jumpers on the ground in
a makeshift rug on the days we would skip class.
Jasmine and I were the instigators. Convincing the others wasn’t a
hard task.
‘I have street smarts,’ Hugh would say. ‘My education happens
outside of school.’ Jasmine would laugh, Franny would roll her eyes.
I’m perched on the backpack, legs splayed out in front of me. When
here alone, the hideout doesn’t have the same effect. It’s empty.
Jasmine was entertaining us with stories of her friends in the city;
her crazy, creative, filmmaking friends. Hugh laughed, hanging on
her every word. I was embarrassed to witness the look on his face.
Franny was moving the scraps of her food around on her plate with
her plastic fork. Her elbow was propped on her knee, palm of her
hand cradling her chin.
I knew of a few of Jasmine’s friends. When she mentioned Steph or
Justin she would look to me for a nod, a confirmation.
I felt my attention was being stolen. I was locked in this
performance, a reenactment of situations I hadn’t been involved in
but had some loose connection to.
I didn’t have any new friends to gush over, no outlandish nights
to retell. The differences were opening like chasms between us.
My only worthy contribution was to laugh when I was supposed
and ask questions that fueled somebody else’s story. I didn’t feel
sufficient enough for this company anymore.
I stand and stretch.
Backpack on my shoulder once again, I walk down the slope, trees
thinning out, back to the lake.
I start to walk around it, shoes crunching on the man-made red
gravel path. Stones flick off the heel of my shoes and hit my calves.
A cool wind lifts off the lake.
I start to feel the pressure of limited time, the pressure that comes
from being idle. Messages to my old friends are formulating in my
mind. A slow burnout is harder to handle than an implosion. Maybe
I should keep something alive. A flame that falters always possesses
a small glimpse of hope over a flame snuffed out.
We started to pack up.
Franny collected the paper plates, plastic cutlery and cups and put
them in a bin by the barbecues.
Jasmine rolled up the rug, brushing off the food crumbs and pieces
of grass and dirt that had gathered.
Hugh struggled while fitting the fold-up chairs back in their covers.
They, like covers for sleeping bags, had the unique quality of never
seeming big enough for the object they housed. I felt something
similar: was I too small for my body, or was my body too big for me?
Hugh exhaled in frustration and I smiled. Frown lines were setting
in around his eyes. A slight sheen of sweat covered his forehead.
I watched him struggle a moment longer, then in three strides was
by his side and grabbing the cover from him. I held it open as he
smiled with gratitude that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He lifted the
chair and slid it into the bag, the legs scraping my fingers. Little
bursts of warmth flared up where the skin was sloughed away by
the metal frame of the chair.
I pulled the drawstring and closed the top of the bag. Hugh brushed
his hands together, as if to brush away dust, the remains of hard
work. He shouldered two of the chairs.
I heaved the other two into my arms, slid my sandals on to my feet,
the straps bunching underneath my heel, making me slide my feet
along the ground in order to keep them from tripping me up.
We all made our way back to my car, back to before.
I have lost track of time. I guess that I am a quarter of the way
around the lake.
I reach into my pocket, pull out my phone and turn it on. The screen
is bright and the time flashes onto the screen. It is later than I
thought. I turn on my heel and start heading back to my car. I am
walking with speed now. I want to miss the peak hour traffic upon
hitting the city, but I think I have missed my chance.
The path around the lake has filled. I overtake old couples and
parents with prams and manoeuver my way around little kids
on bikes with flags and training wheels. They trundle along the
path, weaving this way and that, like a line of ants interrupted by
a foot, ringing their bell not for a warning but because they have
something to make sound with. I smile at their parents as I dodge
them, but feel irritation growing inside of me.
I reach the car park and the sweat that had cooled has returned
with a fury. The afternoon sun has come out in full force.
I hurry into the car, throwing my backpack on to the seat beside me.
As I close the door my fingers get caught lightly in the frame. The
beds of my fingernails are purple with blood and my fingers lightly
shake. I suck on them to cool them down.
I wait for a moment, waiting for the sting to pass, watching the
breeze sway the tops of the trees. I want to be moved like that.
My hair is the same length as the day the four of us were here for
the last time. I think I’m even wearing the same shoes. The sense of
finality that day was palpable. The flame was snuffed.
There is no sense of having outgrown each other; we have
overgrown one another. Like mint overtaking the herb garden,
we’ve all become too big for the hideouts we used to share.
I turn on the car, reverse out of my spot. There is a car behind me
waiting to take it.
With the lake in my rearview mirror, I make it to the freeway, on my
way back to before.
ReadFin Literary Journal 25