Terabithian Tracks

We come here a lot- but not usually in the middle of the day. Usually we come at night, when it's deserted: hop the chain-link and enter our private, dilapidated kingdom. Like those kids in that book they made us read in middle school, the sad one where the girl dies swingin' on a rope? They had their own place, their magic place where no one could touch them. Well this is our magic place, but our magic ain't green and growing like theirs- it's rust-red and decaying. Our magic is like death magic. Maybe that's why we always come in the shadows, in the nighttime.

Except it ain't nighttime now.

We walk in through the front gate like any other people on a weekend excursion. It's weird, because for a minute I can't remember where the entrance is- but he knows. Who knows- maybe he comes here sometimes during the day, without me, when I'm stuck in that stupid, snooty school. I don't like that thought, but hell- he does a lot of stuff I don't like. He's doin' one of 'em right now, lightin' up a cigarette. Damn cancer-sticks reek worse than anything.

I don't say nothin', tho'. It's bad enough we're here in the daylight, without me adding to things by bein' a whiny little bitch about it.

"It looks better at night, don't it?" He lets out a lungful of smoke, eyes narrow and scanning the now too-visible garbage blown into various corners.

"Yeah, you can see a lot more detritus-" I start, and immediately want to bite my stupid, snooty tongue off. Most guys around here get pissed off when I flaunt my vocabulary- but he just laughs.

"You and your big words, kid. But check me out, usin' context and shit- your detritus is like trash, right? So now I can sound like a St. Francie's kid, too, eh?" I give him a weak grin and he punches my shoulder. "C'mon," he says. "Let's take a little walk and pick up some of this detritus."

So we do, 'cos we always do what he suggests. We follow the ol' ore cart tracks as we go, and I can't help but stare at him, wondering what's goin' on inside his close-cropped head, why he's brought me here to this place- our place- when it's been robbed of all the best of its magic by an unforgiving sun. Why he's made us trespassers in our own kingdom. I'm feelin' sick to my stomach, and I don't think it has much to do with the damn cancer stick.

He flashes me a grin that's too white in the harsh noon light, and I try to smile back.

You'd think, after three years, I'd be more sure of him. But I ain't.



(Tracks)