"So I just left it out there on the road," she said casually as if that was something she did every Monday after school.
I furrowed my brow in confusion.
She sighed before turning around to face the other way and saying in a defeated tone,
"You don't believe me, do you?"
Joy had a new story to tell me every week, sometimes two, three times a week, when she was feeling particularly risky. Every time, she told great, elaborate tales of how she had jumped off from the top of the playset in Meyerland Park and landed perfectly on one of the castles that had been built in the sandbox, or how a burglar had broken into her home and tried to eat her dog, leaving me to decide whether or not what she described had actually happened. These otherworldly tales, which shed much light on how boring my life was, were told in such meticulous detail, that it was often hard to believe that it didn't happen.
This week, she told me of how she had kidnapped the wedding cake from her mother and her (to-be) stepdad's wedding right from the venue (without being caught, mind you), stole her mother's car and somehow drove it (we were both only fourteen years old) to the intersection at Valerie and Rampart Street, and left the poor cake out in the scorching summer sun just the day before. This was not the most far-fetched of stories she had told, but it was still rather hard to believe.
However, this week's tale was much different than the usual stories she had told- for one, I could confirm that some part of the story was indeed true- I had actually been invited to Joy's mother's wedding, but had to miss it due to a piano recital. And for the fact that Joy was insisting that it was true and that it had actually happened- she usually doesn't.
As we sat, side-by-side on the swing set (as we usually do, with me on the right swing, and her on the left swing), I was unsure of what to think of this week's story.
"But why, though?" I finally asked, cutting through the silence as easily as one might cut through a wedding cake, "I thought you said you approved of your mother's boyfriend and encouraged the wedding."
Joy kicked the mulch under her feet angrily, the small sound creating a jolt of disturbance in the otherwise silent park. The silence in the park was something that came with Joy's fantastical tales- it was as if the entire world had stopped just to listen to her. The birds stopped singing, the playground equipment stopped creaking, the bugs stopped buzzing, and only Joy's voice, bubbling with unbelievable adventures and outlandish journeys echoed throughout the universe. It was so deathly silent that it could even be believed that the world stopped turning to listen as well. While I drowned under papers and grades that would be worth less than a penny in the future, making me seem older and tired than I was- Joy did not age. Her steps were lighter than those of butterfly wings, and often I was scared that she trod so lightly on the Earth that she might fly away with the wind.
I suppose leading an exciting life had its perks.
Joy sighed again, kicking me out of my rather pointless thoughts,
"Well, I have to go now- I can't risk getting into any more trouble than I might get into if someone figures out that I was the one who took the cake."
She jumped out of the old and creaking swing, leaving me without so much of a goodbye or a wave (per usual) as she sprinted into the late afternoon sun. I remained in my swing, watching her as she got smaller and smaller, until she was a speck of dust in the distance, and then nothing at all. The universe started again as she left, the sounds of the park slowly tuning back into reality as if it had never stopped.
Joy's habit of not saying goodbye was something that had been happening ever since I could remember. It was her way of saying that we'd meet or talk again soon to continue our conversation by leaving halfway through it, a kind of comforting gesture that most adults viewed as rude or annoying. The habit suited Joy's personality well.
Finally, I got myself out of the old swing that I had been sitting in almost every week for my entire fourteen years of life. The once bright blue paint had faded, cracked, and was now peeling off and the once sleek and shiny silver chains rusting and turning into the rough red and brown color. But still, the swing was something comforting to me, something that had stayed with me as I grew up while the rest of the playground had been remodeled. So I always found myself coming back to it, despite the rush and hurry of life. Staring at the swing set as if it would disappear the moment I hopped on my bike and headed away from the park, I left without telling it goodbye.
***
