the park ° lgbt+ original

The Park

a not so fictional non-fiction piece

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It had started out innocently.

——

There was one girl over the course of my youth. One girl who stood out, and one girl who dared to give me a chance. Now, that can be interpreted in several ways. This, of course, I know. So I'll make it just that much easier for you when I inform you that all I am about to tell you is fake - fiction, wishful thinking, make-believe. One would call it fantasies, and that one would probably be the most accurate, if I'm telling the truth. And, if I really am keeping myself honest, I'd also say it would likely be more than one defining this as such. If said girl knew of this, she might react similarly; or, I believe she'd react far worse. I'm positive that she wouldn't exactly take the path of dissection, attempt to figure out just why she was the target of a below-average-height-dyke's "fantasies". Come to think of it, I rather like that title. It comes to play with Bowie, as we'll call her. She was far too special for me to utter her name, let alone write it. If fits, anyway. Rock 'n' roll Suicide, and all that jazz. She was a piece of work.
A beautiful, complex piece of artwork that I have very little ways in literary skills to describe. But, I do know that what sets her apart from all those other girls is that I loved her. I think I still do, no matter how deeply it's buried and how long it's been since I've seen her face. Despite everything, it's still there and I know it, just as I know there's no point in denying it. We were pretty good at denying, though, the two of us. I'm fairly certain the entire relationship I built up with Bowie and our companions was formed on fervent denial. We knew it was a terrible idea for us to mix and we knew it would only end terribly (which it did) and we knew we would be emotionally scarred for the rest of our lives. But we did it anyway, because we pretended we didn't know; we denied it, and I think maybe it was still worth it. See, I'm good at denying. Because I know it was worth it. Or, when all things are considered, perhaps I am just a liar.
Only someone of questionable morality would produce a disastrous piece such as this.
Now, welcome to the pitiful fiction.

——

Everyone is here today. It's such a rare occurrence that I'm not even sure how to process it properly. Of course, Andi isn't here. She never is, but by now she's no longer a part of the everyone at the park. With parents like hers, the only way she can be a part of the everyone is at school, and school isn't exactly the place for four stir-crazy teengagers and myself to let loose our tensions by cordially screaming our fucking heads off.
That's why we chose the park.
We never really refer to it as it's given name, but rather always resort to the generalization of "the park". I'm not sure why, but it seems a lot more special, and perhaps even reserved to us and only us. Anyway, it's far less campy and stupid than Knott's Berry Farm. It's impersonal. Whoever Knott is, he's probably dead. I hardly believe he'd be bothered by our renaming, considering he's still in limbo; I mean - heaven? hell? - where do you put a guy who was that obsessed with berries? It's pretty strange, if you ask me.
"Which voice are you talking to in your head right now, Dee?" Devin slings his arm around my shoulder, and though I am not looking, I know there's that endearing chubby-cheeked smirk on his face. Bryce laughs and Yara, unsurprisingly, rolls her big brown eyes and crosses her arms over her considerably larger chest. I pretend I don't notice Bryce steal a furtive glance.
"Which one do you think?" I counter, reflecting his expression as I gently shrug him off. Yara and Bowie are whispering about us as usual, which I'm still not sure how I feel about. My eyes only leave them as they've finished backtracking in line to the snack shack built into the very winding torture device. I think both Devin and Bryce pretend not to notice that, too. Devin shrugs and looks to Bryce, who by now has gotten too bored of us, resolving to play some military strike game on his mobile. "It's probably one of your serial killer ones."
"But is it Manson or Dahmer?"
"Who the fuck are those people?"
Our laughter, a cacophonous melody of sharp breaths and wheezing, is far too loud not to be noticed, and I make eye contact with Bowie shortly. The expression on her face isn't new to me, but it bothers me that it's decided to show up here. Her mind is giving her trouble. Hell, mine is as well, because a fucked up part of me suggests that maybe it's about me. My selfish mentality insists that this has to be about me. Maybe she hates me or is just so done with me that she's reevaluating how the hell she ended up here with me. Maybe that rumor about her liking Devin is true, and she thinks that the rumor about Devin liking me is true. Maybe she's creating rumors to stress over in her head this very second, as she always does. As the both of us do. As I am doing right now. Or maybe, the deepest, darkest, most secret depths of my mind supply, maybe she likes me. Maybe she likes me how I like her. Maybe she-
"Hey, spacey, you never did tell me if it was Manson or...Homer? What did you say?" I laugh at that and it feels pretty real, so I don't think my fears of ruining our Park Day may come true just yet. Bowie and Yara are back to ordering shit tons of sugar and sodium. "Dahmer," I correct, "he-"
"He was some homo who ate people out - like, literally ate people out," Bryce adds, never looking up from his phone, but ever the comic. That's exactly who Jeffrey was, but I can't help but feel unnecessarily exposed by his description. Like, oh, one of her favorite serial killers was a fag so she must be one too. It's stupid, and I should probably find new interests because of how stupid it is. But, Bowie and Yara are into it too, and I feel a kind of sense of importance when I can tell them how many people Ted Bundy was said to have killed on record. I know it's concerning, but I get by.
"What, like cannibalism?"
Bryce scoffs at the question, humored, and locks his expensive, rich, white kid phone before stuffing it in his expensive, rich, white kid jeans. "Yes, like fucking cannibalism, Zhao. Right, Dee?" When both of the boys' attention is on me, I have to quickly act like I'm not tripping balls. "Yes, assholes, like 'fucking cannibalism'. Great job at respecting the dead." I can hear Yara's heavy steps and booming laughter as she and Bowie jog to meet us once we turn the corner. Questionable waterfall mist bites at my cheeks, calling my attention to the rushing water of the "log ride" as the majority simply calls it; the same gushing chemical spill I've seen at least seventy times.
"Is Dee trying to convince you to try to resurrect Abberline with her again? Seriously, babe, we're never going to identify the Ripper; let it go."
Everyone laughs, but the only person I really notice is Bowie. She has this surreal laugh that you can only know as genuine. She doesn't have a fake laugh, unlike the rest of us. We don't use them, but we have them.
She is simply incapable of having one. She won't laugh if she doesn't find something funny. She won't laugh if she isn't happy. She'll just go quiet. And I can tell something is bothering her. But, she isn't quiet, and she's laughing. I don't care if it's at my expense, as long as she's laughing. We'll all be alright if Bowie is laughing.
"Jesus Christ, this is a long line," comes Bryce's impatient huff. "Remind me who decided we should enter this god forsaken labyrinth." Bowie does that little giggle-wheeze I'd learned to deeply admire before she places her hands on her lap to keep her billowy teal skirt from lifting as she sits on a rather uncomfortable-looking rock. I ignore that observation and sit down right next to her. No one thinks or says anything when I let my knee bump hers. Even she doesn't say anything.
Bowie is a self-proclaimed haphephobic, but that proclamation seems to fall apart whenever I dare to get closer to her. She even holds my hand sometimes, but I don't think any of us really knows what it means, including Bowie.
We sit in a surprisingly comfortable silence, Devin and Yara sharing some off brand sour strip candy while Bryce fishes for some coins in his pockets to toss in the already contaminated water in front of us. Only is it interrupted when Bowie takes a gentle hold of my hand, gingerly tracing its lines and tiny scars from cats and lead pencils and birds. "My aunt takes the whole gypsy heritage thing pretty seriously," she quietly states, causing my heartbeat to do some weird shit I didn't know it was capable of. I've always loved how she says "aunt". She pronounces it like she's French, even going as far to mimic a silent 't'.
"She has this little palm reading booth she opens every Saturday at the farmer's market of her public park. I saw her in action once, when I visited her. Long Beach is a pretty cool place."
"Oh yeah?" I ask, not sure what else to ask. "Yeah," she nods, just as carefully relinquishing my hand as she had taken it.
"She manages this little butterfly sanctuary, too." I swallow a lump I didn't know was chilling out in my throat. "That makes me think of that Barbie movie." She struggles for words as her eyes progressively crinkle into laughter eyes. Out comes said laughter once she sees a smile has reached my face, my nerves slowly seeping from me. "Barbie: Mariposa?" We're laughing uncontrollably now, but no one says the things they'd say about us if I was a boy. But I don't I wish I was a boy. Maybe I wished Bowie was a boy. And something in me hopes that she wishes I were a boy too. It's not supposed to be two girls, so it won't be, is what I tell myself. I hope she's telling herself that, too. But at the same time, I hope it's just me who's fucked in the head.