The Ink Well Prompt
I walked along the railroad tracks with my wireless earbuds still in, though I had turned the volume down. My eyes observed the messy, dried-out brush and bramble that weaved their way through the trees scattered along the tracks. I laughed to myself when I realized they looked like my hair; unbrushed and tied back in a low pony-tail with my extensions matted and tangled. A hat covered the brown roots that had started to take over the blonde. In the distance, across a field, stood a tall water tower with the town name Sheridan painted in all-caps black font across the top; as though I needed a reminder of where I was to remind me why I was there. The butterflies in my stomach continued to dance as I adjusted the cheap bra that squeezed my torso. I forgot my sports bra on my trip and had to stop at a Wal-Mart to buy one. I worried it would squeeze my breast implants out of shape.
“Whenever you feel nervous, just reframe your mind to say ‘I’m excited,” my therapist would say. Except, I wasn’t excited; I was full of dread. All morning, I felt the impending doom when I heard the G-mail notification on my phone. It turned out to be e-mails for Saks Fifth Avenue and Lancome sales. Next, a request from the Park Hyatt to review my recent stay. Then, an Xfinity bill. Each time, my stomach dropped, and I expected to see the Google Alert for my name. My gut told me Reuters would be the first to publish something about what I had done. I messed up badly. I screwed people over and it was going to be all over the news. Which is exactly why I was walking along the tracks in my hometown; the same ones I walked along as a kid. I needed to get out of the city and get away from the chaos that was soon to follow my wrongdoing.
I came to an opening among the trees where cars could drive over the tracks on a gravel driveway. It led to a baseball field and soccer field in the distance. The memory hit me strongly, as I was already in a vulnerable state. There were only two of us left to choose from: myself and Katie Becker. Both of us stood there, in our cleats with our oversized sports t-shirts, tucked into our jersey shorts. We looked around helplessly as the more extroverted girls debated our fates and whispered among each other.
“We’ll take Katie.” One of the head girls finally said, with an exasperated shrug. Katie walked over to her soccer scrimmage team and, by default, I was left to the other team. I was too young at the time to know the effect this memory would have on me. I didn’t understand the concept of rejection at that age, but I do remember having an impulse to run. I remember looking over at the railroad tracks and the trees, thinking of the bike I’d found near the garbage pile farther north. I don’t know who the junk pile belonged to, but I used to take the bike and ride it in the grass along the tracks up to the stone arched tunnel. I would climb into the castle-like drum tower that jutted out of the side of the tunnel and pretend I was Rapunzel. Sometimes, a train did go by on Saturdays when it did scenic routes for the locals. I would wave to the strangers who were passing through, feeling comfort from their unfamiliarity and lack of rejection. Then I became more mindful of the present moment and wondered to myself, “is this why I ran away to New York?” A city so cold and unfamiliar.
I shifted back to daydreaming about my memory of the soccer scrimmage, remembering the urge to run to the tracks, but not actually doing it. I went along with my team, shamefully, as the last-chosen player and sat on the sidelines most of the time. When my chance did come to play, the ball was easily taken away from me. And the bike? Well, I remember I eventually had to hide the bike somewhere among the trees since some other kids started playing near the tunnel, and I didn’t want them stealing it. So, after playing in my castle, I would ride the bike back and store it upright in a safe spot among the trees. It was bittersweet to think of how I grew up, and there was a last time that I hid the bike and never went back. When did I stop playing near the tunnel? I was starting to approach the area where I remembered hiding the bike. Was it still there? Part of the woods had been cleared out to build a house, but I still recognized the distinct carvings in the utility pole along the tracks. I went down a slight hill into what used to be a path into the trees. It was now overgrown with shrubs and thorns, but I managed to cut through. I knew I was in the right spot when I saw the willow tree. It was the oak tree that had a large rock right next to it right near the willow tree; that’s where I hid the bike. And there it was; mostly rusted and engulfed in weeds and vines that held it down. You could still see the pink rubber handles and some of the faded design on the holograph frame pad.
I continued walking along the tracks until I reached the stone arch tunnel; it was now boarded up. I climbed onto a stone ledge of the drum tower and hoisted myself through the arched window. The small space inside was filled with residue of rotting leaves, forest debris that had been blown in by the wind, and slimy texture from rain water seeping in over the years. It wasn’t the castle I remembered from years ago. I stood there blankly, taking it all in, as my eyes started to fill with heavy tears. I looked down and saw my hair extensions had collected some of the residue on them after I’d leaned my head against the wall. My phone pinged. There was nowhere to run. I knew it was time to climb out and face the problem.
I climbed off the ledge of the drum tower. As my feet hit the ground, I stood up to see two small girls walking toward me. They wore similar soccer uniforms with the same school colors as when I played.
“Ruby! Meg!” Someone called after them and they stopped and turned around. It was most likely their mother, from the tone of voice. Then I saw a woman about my age approaching them. “There isn’t any time to play. We have to go,” she said, as she walked toward them to catch up. There was some inaudible disagreement from the girls as I saw them pointing toward the drum tower, but eventually they obeyed. Then their mother looked up at me and stopped talking mid-sentence. She walked toward me with a bewildered, yet pleasantly surprised, look on her face. “Veronica Willard?” She now had a huge smile on her face, but I could tell she was still wondering what I was doing out here.
“Katie Becker.” I smiled genuinely, in amazement, as I realized how happy I was to see her; though my eyes were still red and puffy from crying. She introduced me to her girls as I walked with them along the tracks back to the soccer field for their scrimmage. Neither of us openly acknowledged the memory of being chosen last for soccer team, but it was something we intuitively knew the other remembered; something that would bond us for our adult lives.
