Ignite

I sat on one swing, threw my sandals off and dug my feet into the sand. I felt the humid air all around sucking me dry, but I didn’t care. I waited patiently for Jaxon to emerge from the shadows. His routine meant crossing the park on his way home.

I reflected pleasantly on how different he and I were. We didn’t like the same foods, didn’t have the same taste in music, and I hated all of his no-good friends and he hated the few I had. It was alright this way, though. It meant hanging out was something we did just the two of us, and I longed for any alone time with my good friend.

He’d tell me he was going to be out of Gosnells one day and would never look back. That he would be rich and own the fastest cars and have models for girlfriends. When I asked him once what he would do for a living, he just shrugged and said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to make money any way I can.”

His ambitions reflected a lot of his insecurities. He wanted women because he didn’t know what a relationship even meant. He wanted money because he was brought up having none. He wanted to get out of town because he felt too small in it. I never told him that I thought this of him in fear of wounding his ego, but I also didn’t think it was impossible.

Deep down, aside from the stupid law breaking that thrilled him and the girls that came and went, he was actually very smart. He could remember anything he’d ever read from years past and recite it back word for word. He was great at mathematics and was always doing my math homework for me (after I begged him for three or so hours with a ten dollar note on the side).  He enjoyed reading when no one was around, and the books on his bookshelves in his room were worn out and tattered from overuse. Yet when it came to school itself, he just didn’t care. He skipped most classes, didn’t touch his assignments, and passed only by the hairs of his chinny-chin-chin.

I talked too. About everything. I could tell Jaxon what life was like at home. I could tell him what my father used to do to my mother. I wasn’t embarrassed to say that I still slept on a mattress on the floor and that my mother was still leeching off the government to make it by, and that she still cried almost every night because she was lonely and missed my father. That she hardly ever talked to me. Hardly cared if I was around. In fact, sometimes she looked at me like I was to blame for my father’s absence. That look only drove me further away from the house.

“You’ll get out of here too,” he promised me. “Even if I have to steal you from Gosnells, you won’t be like your stupid mom and you won’t live in this stupid town. We’ll go to Winthrop and you’ll get a good job and be happy. I swear.”

I smiled and relished at that thought.

“You okay, kid?” I jumped at the sound of a guy’s voice from behind me.

My shoulders tensed and my heart beat frantically against my chest as I turned my head around and made out a tall man heading over to the swings beside me. How had I not heard him earlier? I mentally kicked myself for musing so intensely. I hated strangers, and I especially hated strangers in the dark while I was alone at a park much more.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” his baritone voice then said, taking a seat on the swing next to me. His large frame made the swing look ridiculously tiny under him. I wondered if it was going to collapse under his weight.

He was an adult, early twenties. He was donning a black leather jacket, and the emblem of a jackal’s ferocious snarl on the back of his jacket in white ink was inescapable under the full moon’s light. A bikie. I’d never talked to one before. I’d always been told to turn the other way and never under any circumstances get near them. The warning alone had frightened me into obedience. Yet here I sat next to one, and he’d been the one to engage in conversation.

I looked up at his face. He was looking down at his boots, kicking the sand idly. I could make out a sharp, straight nose, and a black beard coming in. I absently thought he looked funny having more facial hair than on his head which sported a buzz cut.

“It’s okay,” I muttered, fighting to steady my shaky voice.

His dark eyes danced about my face for a few seconds before he broke into a wide smile. “I ain’t gonna do nothin’, kiddo. You got nothin’ to be ‘fraid of. Alright?”

I nodded slowly, taking in his friendly smile, and relaxed at this gesture.

“So what’s your name?”

“Sara.”

“You live ‘round here, Sara?”

“Yeah.”

He removed a cigarette from behind his ear and then dug the lighter out of his denim jeans. I intently watched him light it with his hand cupped around the lighter. The cigarette came to life, its orange glow framing the bottom half of his face, making his pointed chin stand out more prominently than it already did.

“What’re you doing in the dead of night outside in a not so well place, birdy?” Birdy?

“Waitin’ for someone,” I answered, entranced by the strange aura that flowed out of this bikie. For my fourteen year old self, he was virile, alluring and so off limits. All these things that had me gulp the humid air to stop myself from dribbling. I wasn’t aware that I was leaning toward him, my legs diagonally positioned as the swing moved closer to his. The smell of his smoke dulled the warning of my senses which were screaming to back away and find an excuse to go home.

If he knew of my feelings – which I didn’t do well concealing – he didn’t show it. He smoked his cigarette looking over at me in consideration.

“How old are you now?” he asked. “Sixteen?”

My cheeks flushed and I was glad it was so dark so he couldn’t see it. “I’m fourteen.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Shit, still a baby.” What did he mean still?

I scowled at his term. “I’m not a baby.”

He laughed in response. I felt a hand tug at my hair before it was swept behind my shoulders. “It’s the hair,” he remarked. “It makes you look older than you are. You’re gonna be a knockout, birdy. You aware of that?”

I shook my head slightly, watching his lips take in more of his cigarette. “You should,” he said, looking impassively over my shoulder as he blew out a thick cloud. “This world ain’t pretty, Sara. I can’t say I like you, a girl at fourteen, sitting on these swings on your own in this neighbourhood. Why ain’t your parents here draggin’ you back to your room?”