Deep Water

-three-

I had no idea where I was going on the ride here, but I snapped out of my thoughts as the bike pulled into a familiar spot by the lake. The lake my dad owns, well, my dad used to own; now it's mine. By my right angle, I say the tripwire I put there last spring after I found out kids would come here to party and do God knows what. It was still intact which told me the "No Trespassing" signs did the trick, but I knew that because I haven't heard of anyone dying recently by electric shock. 

Walking down the path was like walking down memory lane. Dad used to bring me and Luca here to run wild. I haven't been that wild since, says the girl who breaks into houses to play pranks on the neighbors. I laugh at the memory of Luca and I getting lost in the two hundred-something acres. He screamed like a girl. That night marked the only time I ever heard him want his father, or run to his zombie of a butler. We liked each other back then because both of our parents were gone a lot. At least I had Dad.

 I came to the "camp" the three of us built the August before kindergarten. It was really just a crude shelter for the "guards", a tent made of bright blue tarp, and a circle of rocks where my dad amazed us by making fire out of sticks and birch. I couldn't believe it was here, looking untouched by age and decay. Not daring to go close, like one wrong move could cause it to crumble down, I kept walking, going to the last place I saw my best friend. 

It was the night of my seventh birthday, fall was in full swing. I had begged my parents to come here and begged my dad to build one of his fires. He told me to go collect sticks nearby. I literally ran right into him. He looked so different, as grown-up as a seven-year-old could be. He told me he was sorry for leaving me. In the time I glanced behind me to find the source of a loud crack, he was gone. Leaving me to stare at our initials in a tree. 

Staring at those initials now, I wonder what happened in that year of him being gone that made him mature at such a young age. And I never for the life of me could remember when we carved our initials into that tree. Leaves rustling and a loud crack sounded behind me. Years, heck months ago, I would have turned around hoping to see him standing there, reading himself to explain to me why he left me for so long, but after more than a decade of waiting, I have to get used to the fact that I'll probably never see him again. 

With that thought lingering in my head, I started back toward my baby. I love how my feet never make noise when I walk on the dead forest floor. Another thing to thank my dad for. 

***

I pulled my bike up to its garage door as quietly as possible. I don't want to be up all night waiting for Mr. Cresil to fall back asleep after I wake up the lightest sleeper on the block with my baby's roar. Okay fine, I pushed up the block, no biggie. 

Grabbing the wagon from the gardening shed and greasing the wheel so it won't squeak, I silently make my way over to the neighbor's house.

***

 So apparently some football/soccer game was on which had kept Mr. Cresil awake and alert. This means that I had to complete my "mission" with the victim in the next room shouting about a player not making the stupid goal. At least I got in and out without being shot at... yeah, I should stop lying to myself. 

I climbed the tree in the backyard slowly, then reached for my bedroom window. I know the house is empty but I don't want to set off the motion sensor light out front, and I like climbing that tree.

Once in my room, I shrug off my black leather jacket, change into giant pajama pants and an equally oversized tee-shirt, and head straight for the fridge, knowing full well it's stocked with a year's supply of Turkey Hill ice cream. Not bothering to scoop some into a bowl, I just grab a spoon and blindly navigate - and eat - my way to the living room. I grabbed the TV remote from the side table and fell into my usual spot on the oversized LazyBoy recliner. 

As I'm about to turn on the TV, I realize I am not alone.