Playground

I wonder what might have happened if I hadn’t climbed out my window when they called. I’ve been over it in my head a million times, though, and I just don’t think I could have avoided it. They were so mysterious and cool, with their wanna-be-leather jackets and their cigarettes glowing in the dusk.

When I was little, I used to love that my bedroom window looked out over my school’s playground. I felt like the guardian of the playground, and it made me feel like I had a secret. The school was that weird cinder block looking beigy color, and was very low to the ground. We only had K-5, and since Sharton is a small town, everyone knew everyone else. But the playground was spectacular. There had been some kind of fund-raiser, and they got top of the line everything, so the swingset didn’t squeak and everything was circus striped with (lead free) bright colors. Every evening, before I went to sleep, I’d look out over the monkey bars, swings, and that whirly thing I could never remember the name of. Just checking, you know, to make sure nothing changed.

Now, though, I realize an empty playground is like a dead child. No laughing or screaming or fighting. All the swings, empty. It’s worse when the wind blows, because it’s as if the playground is trying to remember what it’s like when there’s playing.

My mother has long been convinced that all children, until they are sixteen, must have a bedtime of eight o’clock. Therefore, in the summer, it was light out when I had been sent to bed. They could force me to go, but they couldn’t make me sleep. And so I stood, fuming, at my window, watching over my playground.

That first night was hot, so sleep was impossible at any hour but particularly so at eight thirty, when the sun was still setting and everything was full of the days heat. I was wearing clothes, barely. Shorts that could’ve been panties and a tank top, and even that was hard to wear since I had gotten sunburned at the pool the day before. Second day sunburn is its own kind of hell. Steam was rising from the street when they arrived, and I could almost hear the movie soundtrack. Immediately I knew that this was the “rough crowd” my parents occasionally whispered about.

The red-head came first, leading her pack with the mesmerizing sway of her hips and the swing of her hair. She had breasts and hips and knew how to dress for them. The two men were next, pimply, greasy-haired, and lanky. They were interchangeable to me, although one was blond and the other had dark hair. The couple brought up the rear, but at first I thought they were one very fat man, so in sync were they in action and appearance. All had cigarettes, and the two men were carrying bags. For whatever reason, they didn’t make me feel protective