Red Leaves - Paullina Simons

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girl liked the picnic part and the kite-flying part on the other side of the sprawling park. It was the in-between part that made her slightly weepy. She wished they could be at the green field already, unwinding the kite string. When the kite was high in the air, the girl would let go the string and run after the boy, yelling, ‘Higher, higher, higher…’

      Fall was her favorite time of year, especially here, where the fierce salt wind blew over the red leaves of the white oaks.

      ‘You wanna head right on to the field?’ she called breathlessly to the boy, her voice catching. She stopped to put on her shoes, and he stopped, too, turned around, and walked back to her.

      ‘We are. Instead of what?’

      ‘Instead of going up to the castle,’ she said.

      He stared at her.

      ‘Okay,’ he said, shrugging. ‘I thought you liked the castle.’

      She didn’t answer him at first and then said apologetically, ‘I do like it. I’m just tired, that’s all.’

      He motioned her to come. ‘Come on, don’t be such a baby.’

      She tried not to be.

      They walked on the path between the tall, straight oaks, around to the little boathouse, to the wall.

      The boy hopped up onto it. The wall was only three feet off the ground on one side, but it separated the walkway from the water on the other. Every time the girl climbed onto the wall, she feared that she would fall into the water. And if she did, who would save her? Not he, certainly. He couldn’t swim. Holding hands was impossible. The wall was only twenty inches wide. No, she had to get up on that wall to show him she wasn’t afraid.

      But she was afraid, and she was exhilarated. She already felt moist under her arms. ‘I don’t want to do this,’ she whispered, but he didn’t hear, for he was already far ahead of her on his way to the castle. She told herself to stop trembling this minute, and, sighing, got up on the wall after him.

      Little more than the high-hilled view of Long Island Sound remained of the ruined castle grounds; the view and the tangled walls of forsythia spoke softly of the castle’s once glorious splendor.

      A castle with knights, princesses, armor. A castle with servants and white linen. A castle with secret rooms and secret passages and secret lives. I have secrets, too, the girl thought, taking tentative steps on the wall. The princess in her white dress and shiny shoes has secrets.

      ‘Wait for me!’ the girl yelled, and bolted forward. ‘Wait for me!’

       I THE GIRL IN THE BLACK BOOTS

      To our strongest drive,

      the tyrant in us, not only our reason bows but also our conscience.

      – Friedrich Nietzsche

       CHAPTER ONE

       Sunday

      The four friends had been playing two-on-two basketball for only a few minutes, but Kristina Kim was already sweating. She called time out and grabbed a towel. Frankie Absalom, the referee, and Aristotle, her Labrador retriever, both looked at her quizzically. She scrunched up her face and stared back.

      ‘I’m hot, okay?’

      Frankie, bundled up in a coat, ski cap, and blanket, smirked. ‘What’s the matter?’ he teased. ‘Out of shape?’ Aristotle panted, blowing his dog breath out into the cold air. He was not allowed to move during the Sunday-afternoon games, and he didn’t, though in a canine form of rebellion, his tail wagged.

      Jim Shaw, Conni Tobias, and Albert Maplethorpe came over. Kristina took a bottle of Poland Spring out of her Jansport backpack, opened it, poured water on her face, and then wiped her face again. It was a chilly day in late November, but she was burning up.

      Jim squeezed Kristina’s neck. ‘What’s the matter, Krissy, you okay?’

      ‘Come on! Come on!’ said Albert. ‘What are you doing? Stalling for time?’

      Kristina wanted time to move quicker, to fly till one o’clock when she was to meet Howard Kim at Peter Christian’s Tavern. She wanted to get the lunch over and done with, and she was so anxious about it she couldn’t think of anything else.

      ‘I’m out of shape,’ Kristina admitted to Frankie, ignoring Albert’s remark. She let Jim rub her neck. ‘The season’s starting next Saturday, and I’m terrible.’

      ‘No,’ Conni said. ‘You’re fine. Yesterday you were fine.’

      Kristina waved carelessly, hoping no one would notice her flushed face. ‘Oh, that was just an exhibition game.’

      ‘Krissy, you scored forty-seven points!’

      ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. But Cornell wasn’t playing all out.’

      ‘I didn’t know they knew how,’ said Jim, now massaging her shoulder.

      ‘What time is it, Frankie?’ Kristina asked.

      ‘Twelve-oh-seven.’

      ‘Come on, you guys, let’s play,’ said Kristina. ‘The teams?’

      The first game was couples against couples. Albert and Conni against Kristina and Jim.

      ‘You okay, dear?’ Jim asked, touching her back.

      She thoughtfully looked at him and stroked his cold cheek.

      ‘Nothing. Hot as hell.’

      Conni shivered. ‘Yeah, I’m sweatin’ myself.’ Squinting at Conni, Kristina smiled, thinking, she’s teasing me. Conni did not smile back. Biting her lip, Kristina said to Albert and Conni, ‘You guys want a handicap?’

      They half-mockingly sneered. ‘Get the hell out of here with your handicap. Put your hair in your face. That’ll be our handicap. Besides, we’re going to win,’ said Albert. Conni didn’t say anything.

      They lost 20-16.

      Kristina was a tall, long-legged girl with a mass of jet-black hair falling into her face and halfway down her back. She didn’t like to tie her hair back. Her raven mane was a distraction to the other team, and during the Ivy League play-offs she had been ordered to tie it up. She did, but by the end of the game the hair was all over her face anyway.

      Here on the driveway of Frankie’s fraternity, Phi Beta Epsilon - one of the least notable frat houses on Webster Avenue or Frat Row, as the Dartmouth students called it - Kristina never tied her hair. They played at an old regulation post with a rusted, netless hoop. Kristina didn’t care. Two-on-two was great practice for her. It made her quicker.

      Today, however, her hands were slippery; they kept dropping the ball, which even the five-foot Conni intercepted from her. Kristina tried to pass the ball from one hand to the other behind her back but she failed completely, and Conni and Albert got the ball and the shot. They all laughed at her, but Kristina’s mind was on Howard; she didn’t laugh back. Usually she could spin in the air as she jumped up to sink the shot. Not today, though she was clearly the best player out of the four.

      At the end of each successful shot, Kristina high-fived Jim and held on to his fingers the way she always did. He let her, but the moment she let go, he let go also.

      Kristina chewed gum as she played. Once when she came down hard on her feet, she bit her tongue. She spit out the gum and some blood with it.

      Frankie kept penalties, shouted fouls, and kept score on a Post-it note. Chewing gum, he sat on a

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