Will they be read by anyone? The sheriff or Serena?
Fighting the urge to stop, I turn around in the mostly empty parking lot and find myself farther from the cottage.
Taking a side road, I come to the entrance to Brooks Park.
While it never became the town jewel that it was intended to be, Brooks Park was a place where high school students congregated when I was a teenager. As the sun lowered, we’d gather to make plans for the evening festivities. The vicinity has numerous secluded areas to disappear if you wanted privacy as well as abandoned fields for bonfires if you wanted a crowd.
Summer brought coolers of cheap beer, recreational marijuana, and even stronger drugs if that was your thing.
Back then, there was an old barn up the road. I also wondered if Mr. McKenna, the owner, ever suspected that at least half of the town’s teenagers lost their virginity in that barn amongst the old straw and musty blankets.
Thinking about it now makes my skin crawl.
God only knows how many mice and spiders also called that barn home.
My first visit to McKenna’s barn didn’t end the way I intended. At fifteen years old, I decided it was time to find out what all the fuss was about. Mostly my goal was to get sex over with. Listening to the stories of other girls, I was certain I was one of the only virgins left on the planet—definitely the only one left in Mills County.
I didn’t lose my virginity that night, nor did the boy I was seeing.
We both thought we wanted to. After each drinking a beer, which made my stomach queasy, we climbed the tall ladder to the hayloft. The others down on the first level knew exactly what was going to happen. The boys below cheered when we reached the top. The girls wore smiles, but I knew some were jealous that it wasn’t them. Others looked on with bitchy indifference.
Falling onto the wool blanket, Justin Sims and I fumbled and pet, neither of us sure what to do next. He unbuttoned my top and after unsuccessfully undoing my bra, lowered the cups. Nothing about his touch was enticing or erotic. The loft was dimly lit, the only light coming from the moon through the slats in the walls. We were hot and sticky from the late spring’s humidity with stale beer on our breath.
Time passed and the jeers grew louder from the floor below. Finally, we whispered our agreement, and the rest was a production. Perhaps it was the beginning of what would be my career. By the time we made our way down the ladder, the others thought they knew what we’d done. They didn’t know we’d both chickened out.
The next school day, Justin and Jillian were all everyone could talk about.
I should have minded, but I didn’t. According to Blue Gil’s high school code of conduct, I was then one of the many—an insider, without having to do it. Justin, the sophomore who claimed to have taken me, was also part of the in crowd. It was a lie we both willingly perpetuated.
To keep up the charade, we continued to see one another. Our friendship lasted until his senior year.
Last I heard, after college, Justin Sims moved to Grand Rapids.
I pull the car into the parking lot at Brooks Park alongside multiple others as well as bikes filling the two bike racks. The playground equipment has been updated since I was younger. The monkey bars are now replaced with colorful, safer structures. The new slide won’t deliver first- or second-degree burns on a sunny summer day. The ground is no longer hard-packed dirt but a softer, processed surface.
Despite the sunshine, as I open the car door, a cool breeze blows my hair.
Tucking my hands under the sleeves of my jacket, I make my way toward the open mowed fields where an impromptu football game is in progress. I don’t recognize any of the players on the field, differentiated by the well-known distinction of shirts versus skins. My attention goes to the metal stands. Only five rows high, there is a group of girls, some cheering, others posing for selfies, and the rest talking to one another.
Later in the summer, the fields will be linedwith white chalk for softball games played by the men and women of Blue Gil of all ages. I believe my father is still in an over-fifty league. The games are only the prelude for drinks later at the Walleye Tavern.
I remember sitting in those stands with my friends and watching either a game of football or baseball. It’s then that I see a familiar face, lighter red hair like our mom’s and big blue eyes like both of our parents. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my youngest sister in person, but our mother has been good at sending pictures, and of course there is the ever-present social media. I’m struck by how thin she appears. I hadn’t noticed that in any of the pictures.
Julie hasn’t spotted me. She’s busy talking and laughing with other girls as the boys continue to run, throw, catch, and tackle, their yells, curses, and plays filling the air.
I contemplate if I should walk up to Julie—the dilemma of the out-of-touch sister. More than likely, she doesn’t know I’m in town. And if I accept my mother’s invitation, I’ll see her tomorrow.
Standing about twenty-five yards away, I lean against a tree and watch as I try to recall what I was busy doing before my high school graduation. I can’t help but wonder if one of the boys currently taking part in the football performance was one who found their coach dead in a ditch.
Were these boys and girls crying yesterday?
Today as they continue their lives, is it an act of sanity or have they moved on?
“Miss Thorne?”
I turn to the deep voice, surprised by the uniform. I don’t need to read the gentleman’s nametag to know the man beside me. “Sheriff Manes, you still recognize me.”
Nodding, he replies, “It’s been a while.” He turns toward the girls on the metal stands. “You here for your sister’s graduation?”
