The basketball court is deserted, and a dingy old ball that someone, one of Sylvester’s minions, no doubt, has pumped full of air is lounging near a puddle of water. She picks it up, dribbles it once, twice, and tries to make the shot. She is too small and her arms are not powerful enough, and she misses the basket-less hoop entirely. Infuriated by this and unwilling to admit defeat, she picks it up and tries, again and again, relishing the sound that only that basketball can make against cement, a deceptive ringing that makes her feel like a winner, like she could take on some older boys or something, and not fail. After a while, she abandons this, because her arms begin to burn, and while she loves that burn, she has grown bored. A rustle in the bushes and a glimpse of white skin and ratty shorts gains her attention and she sets out.
She pretends she is a hunter and that whoever is out there is a gazelle. She makes sure to travel quietly, not to rustle any bushes or snap any twigs. When she treads, she is feather-light, and she silently congratulates herself on not even breathing audibly, because this makes her harder to hear. She is pushing aside branches and the terrain is getting rougher, but soon, she breaks through the trees to find a small clearing in the center of which is a gigantic weeping willow. The long slopes of its peaceful branches are hiding something, someone, and she brushes them away to find a boy about her own age sitting there. He looks up and in that moment, they are both caught, and frozen for a single, everlasting minute.
To Nate, it is like a nymph has come out of the woods. When he was on his way here, as he has been for the past two days since he got to Sylvester’s, he did not hear her. And if it wasn’t for her bright pink sneakers and modern clothes, he would have believed she was a pixie or a ghost as he first thought she was when she found him, her long hair tumbling down her back and face. Except that magical creatures rarely look this angry, and she looks guilty. She probably didn’t expect to stumble across him; maybe this was her hiding place, too, and he just found it?
“Who’re you?” she blurts out, after a minute, and now he knows she’s real. She’s small, and his eyes snag on the two small rounds underneath her Cowgirl Princess T-shirt, and he forces himself to drag his eyes away; he doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. Before, he always used to look at girls’ hair, how soft it was, how pretty in braids and with all those bows, but recently, he’s found himself looking at their chests and between their thighs and it makes him feel dirty and excited all at the same time, as if he’s made a giant mess and he doesn’t know how to clean it up.
“I’m Nate. Is this your place?”
“No,” she says slowly, bravely making a step into the clearing underneath the trees. “But it’s not your place, either. This whole place is Sylvester’s, everybody knows that.”
Nate shakes his head, unsure of how to explain. There’s something commandeering about her that he responds to; it reminds him of his grandma. She’s the only one he feels all right with; his parents like to have their fights in rooms where the door is closed, but he hears them all the same. His grandma is the one who tells him it’s not his fault and that he can’t change years of upbringing no matter how much he wants to. When his parents make up, though, it’s particularly noisy, and it’s the falseness of their reunions that he cannot seem to stand.
“I just…it’s my parents. I don’t want to listen to them. They’re so loud. So I come here,” he tells her lamely.
She considers him for a moment, the sad dirty blond hair, so unsure of itself it can’t even decide on a true color, the way he looks so sad in his bright and clean plaid shirt and cargo shorts, like he cannot even imagine how he got into them in the first place. She thinks about what it would be like if it was her on the ground with someone standing over her, and so sits down on the ground with him.
“They’re fighting, huh?” she asks. “I know about that. My parents fight all the time. It’s the worst.”
“No, they’re not fighting,” he tells her, unable to look at her, even though he likes her green eyes. “They’re…doing something else, and I don’t want to hear it,” he trails off, a bloom he can’t control staining his cheeks.
Christina feels that feeling in her chest again, that tightness that’s associated with shame, her body, and all the strange things she’s begun to experience around men in general. She knows what this boy is talking about, and it makes her angry that grownups have once again behaved in the way that has made children want to run and hide. In a gesture that is way beyond her tender years, she takes her hand to Nate’s face and turns it towards her. It’s surreal to him, what she is doing, because he’s only seen this kind of thing in movies; when their eyes meet, he knows that she is as surprised by her action as she is, but if she is being bold, then he must go along with it.
“Fuck them,” Christina tells him, relishing the filthy sound of the forbidden word in the innocence of that clearing in the middle of nature. “Do you hear me? They don’t get to make all the rules. We can invent our own stories. When did you get here?”
“Two days ago.”
“So you don’t know anything yet. Come on, get up.” They both stand, but it is only Christina who dusts off her shorts. “I’m going to show you around and we are going to play together. Okay?”
Do not be fooled. As she says this, her heart is pounding. She has never trusted anyone before, and even though she is a child, she can feel that this is a pivotal moment. She’s seen the movies, and her young little heart lives by the Golden Rule. If she does right by this boy, then he will be her friend forever and nothing can change that. She doesn’t have the world figured out yet, but this is one thing she knows holds true. What she doesn’t know is whether or not Nate will play the game the way she wants to; she can only play it if it’s by her rules. Will he be content to follow?
Nate looks up at her—the few inches of height she has on him will soon be gone, although neither of them will notice it for a few years yet—and for the first time since they met, he smiles. From the way his blue eyes light up, Christina feels her whole steely resolve melt. She knows it when she sees it—he will go with her anywhere.
“Okay,” says Nate, and does not resist when she grabs his hand and leads him out of the willow trees.
* * *
One year later, Christina is incredibly excited. She’s hoping that Nate will not notice the new bra she’s had to wear ever since she got her period. After the way last summer went, she wants nothing to change.
After the incident underneath the tree, Christina took Nate under her wing. For the rest of that summer, they explored every inch of Sylvester’s together. She told him about pretending to be a soldier in her head, and he told her about how his dad tagged along whenever his mom went out with her Russian girlfriends just so he could hear them talk. She snuck out to visit his bungalow at night and they sat on the veranda together; Christina told him about her dreams of tea and having a big house and he told her about the time he walked in on his mom and dad doing it.
Every morning, she would wake up and go to the swings, and the best part about it was that in a few moments, Nate would join her. It was the best feeling in the world; she never had to ask. It was like he was reading her mind and he agreed with her on everything. He was warm and fuzzy and sweet, and the best part about it was that whenever she challenged him to do something, he would do it.
Thinking about this, Christina knows he simply cannot wait to see him again. Her mom and his mom got on the phone together and said they were renting the same bungalows as last summer a week before they drove upstate. There’s this anticipation in her as the car pulls up to the faded sign that reads SYLVESTERS, COME AND JOIN US that makes her absolutely certain that the minute she runs in there, Nate will be waiting for her by the swings. Surely he knows exactly when she is coming and is as excited as she is.
Except there’s nobody by the swings. Their wood is bloated and looks as sad as she feels. Where is he?
A further investigation into Nate’s disappearance leads Christina t
o his parent’s bungalow where his father tells her offhand that Nate is probably out in the woods somewhere, playing. A moment of brief anger passes through her as she registers his nonchalance, but she runs out into the greenery anyway. First she stops by the willow, which is empty, but magical because of last summer. Then, she passes through the gazebo’d pool table and is attracted to further up the hill by the sound of raucous male voices.
She follows the sounds up to the basketball courts where she finally sees Nate, a look of wild merriment and exertion on his face that is wholly unfamiliar to her. She calls out to him, but is stopped short by the appearance of another boy on the court. He is tall and lanky, even though he is their age, and the sweat in his light blond hair sticks it together in a way that makes it look as though he has done it on purpose with gel. He’s wearing a tattered little wife beater and jeans, and Christina finds her eyes lingering on his arms, where the slight pull of pre-adolescent muscle is already making a statement. He dribbles the ball once, twice, shoots, and score, pumping those arms in the air and the smile on his face makes her feel filthy, especially when she spies the dimple in his cheek.
Christina is rooted to the spot, unable to move. Later, in the depth of her hidden room in that summer’s bungalow, she will bless everything that is holy that she is standing just off to the side of the trees where they cannot see her. For now, however, all that she is experiencing is a piercing feeling of betrayal. Nate is her friend; who is this interloper? Christina finally unglues herself from the spot and runs away to the bungalow. She cannot compete with another boy, and judging from the way the two boys crowed together, this new person will not be on board with her particular style. He does not seem like he has any heart, any tenderness.
She is sitting on her camp-style bed and stewing in these thoughts when Nate bursts into the room.
“Privet!” he calls to her, excited. “Your mom told me you came hours ago, why didn’t you find me?”
What does she do? Does she pretend she didn’t see him? Does she allow it to lead to a place of certain awkwardness where he feels like he cannot play with her anymore, like he has to choose? But she does not get a chance to say anything, because Nate is talking again.
“I met this new kid, Alex, and he’s pretty cool, you’ll like him. Come on, I told him about you and he said you sounded cool, too. He said his dad knows how to set up a bonfire and we’re both invited.” Nate babbles on and on, and Christina is somewhat appeased by the fact that they don’t seem to want to exclude her, after all. Still, lunch is a torrid affair as she wages the battle within herself—does she stay or does she go?
The bonfire is exclusively a boy’s club, but she feels right at home, as she always does. Alex is nice enough, but there’s just something that makes her uncomfortable about him. Maybe it’s that glint in his eyes, the easy way that he helps his dad build the fire, or his resourcefulness with the matches. Maybe it’s the way he builds Nate up without needing to tear him down. Or maybe it’s the way he talks to her, a way that makes her feel as if she’s the only person in the entire clearing who matters in that moment.
Because that kind of thing is dangerous. Of all the things that eleven year olds talk to each other about, sex is the one thing that they don’t usually bring up, unless it’s to tease each other about their changing bodies. But at Nate’s prompting, Alex tells her all about his girlfriend, who is fourteen and with whom he makes out. He talks about it in a way that makes Christina wonder to herself what it would be like if she were alone with Alex. Something inside her cues her in to the fact that he would not make fun of the way that she now needs to wear a bra or the musky smell between her legs. But then she hates herself for that feeling, so she pushes it aside and concentrates on trying to hate him instead.
It’s a quietly seething feeling that persists that whole first week. Nate can tell she’s upset, but he doesn’t know how to smooth it over, because the way he feels about Alex is the same way that Christina does, except he doesn’t have a name for it yet, it’s too soon to tell. Right now, all that he knows is that there is something about Alex that is magnetic as all hell; maybe it’s that he charges into streams, ponds, and dirt, and does not worry about getting his clothes wet or filthy. Maybe it’s that grownups and little kids both seem to like him without him having to try particularly hard, and that’s never been something Nate feels like he could master. He knows it’s something you’re born with. And there’s nothing he can do about the moody little look on Christina’s face.
To her, he is an intruder, raining down hell on her perfect summer. It’s not the first time she’s been taught the lesson that the good moments of life a rarely repeated in exactly the same sequence, but it is the first time she’s been taught the lesson through friends. She knows she and Nate will not have that perfect summer she was waiting for all year, although she can’t stop hoping for it. There are many more solitary walks than she was anticipating. At least it gives her some time alone to process the changes in her body and mind, although she doesn’t think of them that way. She is still a huntress, still a soldier.
She is still playing games the day she discovers Alex in the forest, off to the side of the weeping willow tree. She is a fairy, and a human has invaded her habitat, which is strangely just how she feels about Alex himself. She was not expecting to find him there, since he and Nate have been glued to each other’s sides for the past week, but the rustle of lean legs against tree leaves alerts her and she alights, ephemeral, to the nearby clearing. She has had no reason to rid herself of the habit of being feather-light on her feet since it is a habit that lets her sneak out unnoticed when the yelling at home begins and before the slaps do, so he does not hear her at first. He kneels on the ground, scooping something in his hands, talking in low tones, the lull of his voice soothing and gentle. He strokes something with his finger, and when he turns, she spies a damaged baby bird in his hands. His nut-brown eyes are downcast and his lashes are casting shadows across his high cheekbones, and he is naked from the waist up, cradling that bird like it is a child of his own. He is whispering comfort to it, and as he smooths its rumpled feathers, she sees the bird breathe its last in peace.
It all changes in that moment. Christina no longer wants to hide. She sees Alex the way that he is. He is handsome, but does not know or perhaps simply does not care. Yes, he looks like her father, but her father would never do what Alex is doing right now. Her father has never cared for something in this merciful way in his entire life, Christina is sure. She wants not to choose Alex, but her heart does the talking for her. Because he looks dangerous, the kind of danger that she avoids always because familiarity breeds contempt, she has assumed that there is a falseness to his charm. But when she steps out of the branches, they wordlessly join forces to dig the little dead bird a grave. After they pile dirt to cover the body, they scramble up, relishing the dirt on their knees as a signal of what has come to pass, they stand silently in front of the grave. Christina feels a tremor start inside of her, because this moment is both small and enormous simultaneously; there is pity for the bird, the one that never truly got to fly—she knows what this is like, to never really fly—but there is a seeking heart inside of her that is not completed.
And then Alex takes her hand. Innocently, without malice or underlying intentions. He takes her hand because they are blood siblings now, because it is now that she knows his true heart.
* * *
Nate supposes that changes are normal when you get to be a teenager. At least that’s what his dad told him after the night his mom stopped looking him in the eye because he woke up in sticky sheets and she had to wash them. More cultural differences; now that he was a man, he had gained distance from the female sex, related to him or not. He’s not quite sure how to feel about it all.
All he knows is that he’s glad he’s going back to Sylvester’s.
Sure, his parents offered to take him somewhere new now that he was older, but he always has such a great time with Chr
istina and Alex that he can’t imagine going anywhere else. And this year, it’s going to be even better because they’re going to have their own bungalow. It took some finagling by his dad because in Russian, there’s no word for privacy, and his dad was raised with the “strange” idea that teenagers should have some. But in the end, he managed it. Nate thinks it’s because even though Christina’s dad is mean to her mom—he heard him yelling on the phone, and besides, Christina never hid that from anyone—and even though Alex’s parents are largely disinterested in anything that their son does, all the parents are happy that the three kids have found each other. They’ve finally become the trio.
This fifth summer at Sylvester’s is seriously going to rock.
When his mom’s car finally pulls into the gated parking lot, he’s relieved to find that Sylvester’s never changes; every year, it grows in its shabby charm, with peeling paint jobs and rickety porches. The inside of the room he’s going to be sharing with Alex and Christina is bright, airy, and spacious, with three neatly made beds piled high with white pillowcases and uncomfortable mattresses. The wood-paneled windows are partially open, and there are a few flies buzzing around the room. He takes off his shoes and feels the rough-hewn wood floor beneath his feet. He loves it already.
Now, where are the other two, already?
Nate doesn’t need that answered; he feels the pull of the weeping willow as surely as if the tree has come alive and taken him by the hand. He is heavier now, denser in muscle and with dark blond hair coming down to his shoulders, and leaves and twigs crunch under his feet as he approaches the tree. He hears whispered voices coming from it, and it is bittersweet to know how audible they would have all been these five summers past to anyone who had walked by the tree, and they would have never known.
ROMANCE: His Reluctant Heart (Historical Western Victorian Romance) (Historical Mail Order Bride Romance Fantasy Short Stories) Page 102
