She was of rounded belly and short muscular legs that carried her swiftly wherever she wanted to go. I was stick-thin and dreamily swayed with the breeze, eyes turned towards the far-off clouds and stars, wondering what laid beneath them so far away.
Our hands and feet, soft and tender from their winter coverings of shoes and gloves squelch through the early spring driveway mud, searching suitable ingredients for magical pies and witches puddle stews. Newly hatched Daddy-long-legs and caterpillar toes tickle our forearms as earthworms raise their blind heads to the surface, then quickly retreat into their cozy dark brown home.
Days become longer, and released from wooden desks and linoleum covered floors, we dive full-time into our backyard playground. Shoes are discarded, and with sensitive soles we pluck our way over gravel land mines lining the driveway dividing her house from mine. In time, callouses grow to cover our soft spots and we march over the jagged rocks, feeling only pressure instead of the sharp bite of pain. Summer rays pink our noses and shoulders, our winter brown hair now gold as the sun.
In the evenings, we catch as many fireflies as we can, imprisoning them in glass jars with holes poked into the metal caps. Trying to capture their beauty as our possession. I watch them fly dumbly around, searching for a way out. I sense their unhappiness and let mine out. She keeps hers, only to discover most of them dead at the bottom by morning, exhausted by their fruitless pursuit of escape. We stopped using the jars after that, but still enjoyed their beauty by briefly cupping them in our hands, then release them to their own journey.
During the day, we thrust our hardened soles now deaf to the teeth of our bike pedals, riding our chariots as fast as we dared to go. To the school, its playground, fields, and parking lot empty just for us. There was a drop off in the path- we flew, airborne—weightless for a few fleeting exhilarating seconds, legs extended, butts hovering above bike seats shaped like an antelope’s skull. Knees kiss pavement, leaving DNA specimens behind, revealing glistening raw patches. But we do not run home—they might make us stay in.
Instead, we find the spigot and rinse the gravel and dirt away and carry on to the woods behind the school. We stop at the dirt trail entrance that extends into a forest so dense it barricades the bright sunlight. Do we dare to go in? We do.
We hear the cruel laughter that only comes from big boys. The delicate hairs on the back of my neck rise as a chill whisper on the earthy air. “Danger, Will Robinson!” Fills my brain as my eyes focus on a boy peeing on a tree. He turns to us, willy in hand. “Want some lemonade, girls?” He asks with an evil grin. Hardened soles, short quick legs and skinny dreamy girls are no match for this. We hadn’t been told about boys yet, but a primal signal flares, and we flee, pedaling faster than we ever flew.
Back home, but not in—sensing our pale sweaty faces and bloody knees might put an end to our feral wandering, replaced by inside days fogged with adult grayness. In all kinds of ways, we’ve been taught our gender needs protection more than freedom. We creep into her backyard hiding our bikes behind the shed.
The heat and exercise have made us thirsty; a siren call of sweet Hawaiian Punch HiC beckons from inside her house. Is it a gray day inside? One of splayed paperback on chest, all day nightgowns and uncombed hair? Or in the other house next door, mine. Will it be tense silence singed with older half-brother menace? Or naps behind closed doors while Sinatra croons on the stereo? Where girls aren’t taught how to play chess or work on cars. If you’re lucky enough to be beautiful, you can be a cheerleader or Miss America. If you’re smart, a teacher.
We’re not ready to find out.
We drink from the green rubber hose lying like a snake in the grass. The first rush of water is warm, then turns cold, bitter minerals laced with the tang of rubber wet our tongues.
Traipsing down the hill unfurling like a green furry tongue from the backyards of our houses, beyond the edges of our properties, we stop at the fence of unknown neighbors. We’re met by a yappy dog with a strange pendant dangling from its collar. It looks like a tiny speaker. Possibly the dog is a Russian spy or an agent of some far-flung nation or planet. Is it a friendly one? We don’t know. The dog itself seems harmless and is penned in by the fence. We take turns speaking into the mysterious pendant, convinced it’s a portal to another world, assuring whoever is listening we come in peace. We are here—contact us if you wish, we will be waiting for your message. We leave it at that, satisfied our mission is complete, and we’ve been singled out for a new adventure.
We contemplate the allure of the sweet nectar of Hawaiian Punch against the possibility of being taken out of our playground of moss-covered forest, sweet hilly grass and lazily rolling clouds that could be dragons, or cats on horseback. Down between our dirty bare feet, our soles now as hard as a Nigerian barefoot marathoner, lies a lone luscious red strawberry, the size and shape of a baby’s heart. We drop to our knees, ripped open and scabbed over many times. We gaze at it for a moment, this wondrous surprise, the red gleaming like a beacon amongst all the green. We pluck it with our grubby small hands, taking turns inhaling its juicy ripe scent. So different from the sharp tang of fear, the rich loam of soil and bitter iron smell of rocks.
Cradling the berry as if it were a baby bird, we decide to take our prize to show her mother. Today is a good day inside. Her smile like sunshine, her off key voice sings, warbling but sweet. She takes the strawberry, marveling at its perfection and splendor, and puts it on her best china plate. She cuts it precisely down the middle with a sharp silver knife.
We each take our half, a most beautiful pinky-red: our strawberry, presented to us at its peak of perfection. Warmed by our summer sun, nourished by the soil of our perfect, most magical backyard playground.
Helen Hennessy resides in the loveliest small town in Central New Jersey where she tends to her fitness clients, three adult children, husband, mother, a big white dog and a voluptuous cat. She is hard at work on her debut novel, Walk Tall, a supernatural coming of age psychological thriller set in the late 1980s.