Commencement

On a Thursday night in June, Owen fell off his swing, but Vicky was there to help him.

“What happens if I get detention, Owen?” Vicky asked.

The swing set in Owen’s backyard was made from bargain-priced wood and his father’s resolve. It was a relic now that four older siblings had tired of it. As the two children pumped their legs, the wooden structure squeaked its dissent. 

“You won’t get a detention,” said Owen. “You never do anything wrong.”

“But I might. I might accidentally"if I don’t know the rules.” 

“You’ll know the rules, trust me. They’re always going on about them.”

“But what if someone else gets me into trouble? What if it’s not my fault?”

“Come on, Vicky, stop worrying about it. It’s no worse than sitting on the wall at recess. Better, maybe, because everyone always sees you when you sit out at recess, but no one sees you in detention.”

Owen’s backyard was a sloping hill of soft grass, perfect for sledding in the winter and tumbling in the summer. At the base of the hill"the furthest edge of the property"the land dipped into something almost like a ditch. A thicket of trees stood guard beyond this small channel. From their perch, the two children watched the sun disappear behind the woods. It was a school night and already past their bedtime, but summer’s proximity made school seem unimportant, even for the adults.    

If Vicky dipped her head back at just the right angle and stretched her legs out long in front of her, she could imagine she was flying out over those faraway treetops, right into the burning sun. The moon had already risen overhead. Tiny lights"fireflies"flickered in the space between the house behind them and the trees before them. Owen appeared beside her, urging his swing as high as hers, and she remembered her grip on the rusty chains. 

“What are the teachers like?” she asked. “Are they nice?”

“They’re just like fifth grade teachers, only there are more of them.” 

“But do you get a lot of work?” 

They passed each other in midair, ascending and descending at equal paces.

“Sometimes.”

“Do you have to write a lot?”

“In English. We’re doing a research paper right now,” said Owen.

Vicky picked up her pace a bit to match Owen’s. “How long is it?”

“Five paragraphs.” He still managed to climb higher than her, even though she did her best to catch him.

“Five whole paragraphs? I’ve never written anything so long!”

“It’s not so bad really.”

“What about at lunch? Who will I sit with?” Vicky said. “Do boys and girls sit with each other?”

“Sometimes, I guess,” said Owen, “but if you talk too much to a girl, everyone will think you like-like her.”

Vicky didn’t respond. She was still trying to catch up to Owen, but he was always out of reach. She wanted them side by side, but he went too fast for her. “Owen! Would you slow down?” she said. “You keep losing me.”

He made no response, but only kept his pace.

“Owen!”

“Who says we have to stay together?” he said.

They were both urging their swings on so hard now that the wooden set suddenly leapt forward. Vicky stopped kicking immediately and let her own swing slow. When the ground was close enough, she dug her toes into the dirt beneath her and came to a complete stop. She watched the line of trees, while moving the dirt around with her foot.

“I wish it could always be like this,” Vicky said. 

“Like what?”

“This time of day"when the sun’s still kind of out, but the fireflies are out too. It’s like seeing the sun, moon, and stars all at once.”

The swing set squeaked loudly and hopped forward again. Owen slowed down and came to a stop beside Vicky.

“Owen, what if stars are really just faraway fireflies on another planet and somewhere way up there, they’re sitting on swings, looking down at our fireflies and calling them stars too?”

“Oh, come on, Vicky. You never make any sense.”

“But what about gym? I heard they make you"they make you run a mile for time and then they grade you on it. But I’m not a very fast runner and I might fail. What if I fail gym class, Owen?”

“Would you give it a rest already?” he said, kicking off the ground and getting his swing going again.   

She kept pushing the dirt into a tiny mound. “I’m afraid of everything changing. Once I go to sixth grade, you might stop talking to me.”

“Maybe.”

“You might think if you talk to me, everyone will think you like-like me, and we won’t get to be friends anymore.”

“Maybe,” he said again. He rose and fell at an even pace now, and his reply was lost in his next descent. 

“You have to promise me, Owen. You have to promise you’ll still be my friend and you’ll talk to me at school, no matter what the others say.”

“Come on, Vicky, I’m not making any dumb promises.”

“Just say it and then I won’t have to worry.”

“It’s a long way off. I’m not promising anything. What if we don’t even want to be friends next year? We might change our minds.”

“But if we say the promise now, it’ll help us follow through.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he pumped his way up, kicking his legs higher and higher. He was really free from Vicky now. Just when she thought his swing might flip up and over the top wooden bar, he leapt through the air, arms outstretched, legs tucked beneath him. It might have been a truly glorious landing, but one of his feet caught in the seat of the swing and he crashed to the earth. He managed to break his fall with his hands, but he still ended up on his stomach in the dirt. Vicky jumped off her swing immediately to help him. 

“Owen! Are you alright?”

When he rolled over and sat up, she saw that his eyes were watering.

“Are you really hurt? Do you think you broke something?”

He didn’t respond. She sat in the dirt beside him and examined one of his hands. The skin on his palm was scraped and bleeding. Little rocks and clumps of dirt lined the cuts. 

“Oh, you need Band-Aids! And some water to wash the dirt off. I’ll go in and ask your mom for some.” She was already on her feet, ready to run for help.

“Vicky, wait.”

“What is it?”

He picked a larger rock from his palm and winced. “I promise to still be your friend and talk to you at school, and"what was that last part?”

Vicky rubbed the back of her right calf with her left toe. “It doesn’t matter, really.”

“Oh, that’s it"no matter what the others say.”

“Even if they start thinking we like-like each other?”

He pushed himself up and brushed some of the dirt off his pants. “Come on, let’s go inside.” 

They were almost to the house when Owen stopped.

“Listen, don’t be scared about sixth grade,” he said. “It’s just the next thing, that’s all, like fifth grade was last year.”

They walked close together, their shoulders level with one another. Vicky had always been shorter than Owen, but she was growing faster than him now, and for this short moment, anyway, they were the same height.

Behind them, the swings still squeaked as fireflies filled the spaces where the children had sat. A frog croaked loudly in the distance and a cricket made its reply. Above it all, cicadas hummed a throaty lullaby. A low whisper kept everything in motion.  

Reviews

[Jacob Clifford]

I really like this. It's very accurate to the thoughts children have, the seemingly important decisions they have to make. It made me remember things I haven't thought about in ages. And the swings! That's an element any childhood story should have.