“Fence” by Piper Bau At seven the girl and the boy chased each other along the east fence of the hay field. It was chipped and weathered and the girl would get splinters when she slid between the bars. The boy never got splinters. They would sit on the fence and the boy would help the girl pull the tiny bits of wood out of her legs and hands. She would laugh and push him off the fence, splinters still sticking in her skin. Then the boy would chase her back between the bars of the fence and across the field. At ten the girl would sit on the fence with the sun on her back every Sunday afternoon. She’d swing her legs back and forth and pick at her loose white tee-shirt while she waited. When the boy came she would pull her hair elastic off and tussle her copper hair and smile. She’d tap her little sneaker clad feet on the bottom bar of the fence until he jumped up on her right, his khaki shorts sliding up half an inch. He’d hook his feet on the fence and say hi. Then she’d say hey. And she’d smile, glad that she had a best friend. Eager for change and responsibility, the boy would act like he was sixteen rather than ten and ask how the family was. And she’d pretend right back and say that her father’d said his stocks were down in value. The boy would grip the fence like he was afraid of floating away and listen as the girl told stories with wild gestures. Then the boy would tell her how crazy her stories were. She’d insist that they were real, looking right into his eyes. So it was every Sunday until they were half past eleven. At half past eleven the girl just said good. Her hair was still up. She was still. Her eyes wandered to the trees. The boy could see the change, but he tried to ignore it. Later she would blurt that they lived in a bubble. That nothing changed and that no one got hurt. That she had no
way of knowing what life was really like. That this place was boring. She yelped and frustratedly plucked a splinter out of her hand. The boy asked if she was okay and she nodded. So, rubbing his foot up and down on the bottom bar of the fence, he started his own story. She didn’t speak again until the bye. At almost twelve the fence is still chipped and weathered. The boy went and sat on the fence. While he waited for the girl he watched bugs buzz lazily past. As the hours ticked by the boy gripped the bar tighter and tighter and his head slowly began to lower. When the sky turned dark and the smell of burning barbecue began to float across the field the boy slid off the fence. Then he walked off, slightly embarrassed, pausing only to pluck a single splinter off the base of his hand. The boy could have wondered why she’d said it, but he didn’t. The girl could have wondered why he’d left, but she didn’t. The girl’s name was Emma. The boy’s name was Simon. They don’t know each other anymore. At twelve the fence is lonely.
