Radiation

She got stoned in the park, like stoned - high. At least she did when I knew her. She was the kind of girl that you wanted to be around, not because she was the hottest thing around - which she was - but because she made you feel good. She had a way of complimenting people that was sincere and discerning. She knew things about people, just by looking at them, that would take most people months to figure out. Once, when Robby Gruntler had walked into the park, never having seen her before, she told him that he had a really beautiful heart, a thing that was rare in a person. You wouldn't have known it by the looks of him, with his misshapen phrenology head and shark's smile, but a few months later he ran into Janet McEary's burning house to save her 10-year-old Great Dane. Robby came out all covered in soot and stained with smoke, his hair ashen and his face black, coughing madly and laboring under the weight of old hound as he brought it to safety. Some folks wondered whether Marlene's way of seeing through to a person was of the self-fulfilling kind. Seeing something in a person, whether it's true or not, has the power to make them see it, too; to make them change.

On this particular day it was hot, had to be some time in late July, and Marlene and Jenny and Sarah were all sitting on the benches behind the old baseball field on the right side of the park. The field was old and poorly maintained, unused, save for the kids all drunk and playing baseball with meaty tree branches and a dozen apples. A whole day could be spent in the park getting stoned and drinking beer, telling stories and chasing one another around like dogs off the chain.

Now, it was a known fact that Marlene rolled the best joints, period. No one else was even close. Even the rough neighborhood boys, proud and prideful as they were, admired her skills. They defended her fiercely if anyone ever questioned the integrity of a Marlene Slow Burner. She rolled one that burned for 15 minutes once, and it would've burned longer if Joey's dad hadn't seen them from his car. The story goes that Marlene knew they were going to get caught that day - because she saw Joey's dad parking his car while she was licking the joint - but because she could sense it was going to be the finest joint she'd ever rolled, there was no way she wasn't going to smoke it. That's the kind of girl Marlene was. She had determination, unwavering resolve, an envious optimism paired with an adventurous whimsy. Her presence was contagious and beatific; she always smiled, even when she was sad.

But she wasn't sad that day when Joey's dad took them all home and told her parents what they'd been up to. She wasn't sad when she was grounded and had to sneak out at night in order to make an appearance at Paul Brewman's houseparty when his parents where on vacation in Costa Rica. She wasn't sad when she got caught fooling around with Marty Martin in the back of his mom's Coupe De Ville, either. Come to think of it, the only time I ever saw Marlene sad, was the time she met me.

It was December, just before Christmas, while we was all out on winter break. In those days, winter break meant you had two weeks off; two weeks to play in the snow, two weeks to shovel it, to get the money to stay out late and drink with your friends. Marlene had arrived to the party late that night, like she usually did. It was the first time I'd been invited to their side of the park. Typically, I would stay on the side where the normal kids hung out, because I wasn't quite as cool as the kids on Marlene's side. But it just so happened that Richie Curutti found me to be hilarious. He said I wasn't like anyone he knew, that I said things people normally wouldn't say, and in ways they wouldn't think of saying them. The story he always liked to tell was of the time I had taken issue with something Mr. Lacosta had said in English class. Mr. Lacosta had set some really severe restrictions on a creative writing assignment he was handing out to the class. After he'd handed all of them out, he asked if anyone had any questions. I looked around and saw no one else did, and I raised my hand. I think there's been a mistake, I told him, I thought this was a creative writing class. All the kinds chuckled and Mr. Lacosta asked me if I was being smart. I looked at the sheet and saw he wanted us to avoid using S's and M's for our assignment, so I said "well, given we've taken out the S's and the M's, could I add an F," and I flatulated, long and wet like. Richie Curutti laughed so hard he pissed himself.

So here I was, standing on Marlene's side of the park, the cold moon in the air above us all frostbitten and blue, little puffs of clouds floating up from our open mouths, talking about ghosts and haunted houses. Marlene said she didn't believe in ghosts. When I told her I did, she asked me why. I'd never been asked why I believed in ghosts until that point, so I had to think of an answer on the spot. I said:

"Well, because I guess there isn't good enough reason for me to believe they don't exist. It seems reasonable, to me, to think people give off a kind of energy, like a star giving off light and heat - radiation. And if people do give off energy, then that energy radiates outward in all directions all the time, getting absorbed by everything around it, right? Ever see how the sun fades a photograph in a window? What if a person's energy could affect a place in a similar way, staining it so it becomes a kind of trapped echo?"

Marlene looked at me and her face went blank. She didn't say anything. Her friend Jenny came by and took her hand, pulled her away to talk to another one of their friends. I figured she didn't like what I said and I hung around talking to Richie for a little while. Then I walked over to the swing set in the middle of the park. No one was there and the quiet was nice, so I sat on the swing, swinging, staring up at the moon. From behind me I heard footsteps, and when I turned around I saw Marlene. She sat on the swing beside me, barely moving, not saying a word. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything, either.

"You really believe what you said before," she asked.

I told her I did.

A pensive look spread across her face, and a slight furrow appeared on her brow like it was trying to scratch an itch at the top of her nose. It went away and came back again in quick twitches.

"I don't know if I believe that," she said.

"Well," I told her, "I'm not lying."

"No," she said, "I mean, I believe that you believe it, but I don't know if I believe it."

After a brief silence she added, "or maybe I don't want to believe it."

Another silence.

Then she asked, "do you think even little kids, like really little kids?" I started to reply, but she opened her mouth in that way someone who is about to say something opens their mouth, so I stopped. She did too. Her eyes started to well up with tears, and with her lip slightly trembling, she struggled to get a word out.

I won't forget how her eyes looked, like beautiful blue marbles made of ice and melting. She forced her lips into a smile and looked up at me and said:

"No, you're right - you're right. Even little, really little kids; I can feel it."

She paused one more rime.

"I can still feel it inside me. Even though it isn't, anymore."