PERMISSION
The owners had driven to their hunting lease for the weekend, but their daughter stayed home. Marnie was a vegetarian. After they left, she pulled the lever to drain her parents’ new kidney-shaped pool. Then she texted Chase: “Gate’s unlatched. Bring friends.”
Chase and I skated together sometimes. His parents were doctors, like Marnie’s, which is how he knew her. They were sixteen, two years older than me, and attended a Christian school. I didn’t think we were real friends. It took an hour to skate to their neighbourhood. My feet vibrated from all the pushing.
The pool was a dark flawless blue – elliptical transitions, rounded brick coping, stairs like a wedding cake. That first day our wheels streaked the plaster with chlorine dust; the tracks reminded me of jet contrails marring the sky. When I arrived the next morning, the walls were dripping with crimson spray paint – obscenities, mostly, and misshapen band logos. I figured Marnie would make us spend the weekend scrubbing graffiti, but she was in the shallow end painting a massive pentagram.
On Saturday, some kid snapped an ankle trying to boardslide the stairs. It sounded like a balloon bursting. After the ambulance departed, Marnie dowsed the coping with lighter fluid. Chase and I slashed through the flames. My shoes got charred. Strangers lay passed out on the deck that reeked of vodka puke. Leaving, I heard someone say: “Let’s tattoo him!”
The gate was latched on Sunday. I couldn’t hear anyone skating, but the front door was open. I rang the bell. I knocked. The Saltillo tile was mud-smeared; the air smelled of spent firecrackers. I wondered if Marnie was dead, if burglars had roped her to a chair while they bagged her mother’s diamonds. I wiped my feet before entering. Creeping through the rooms, I expected to be assailed from behind. I clutched my board like a bat.
Marnie was outside, legs dangling over the deep end. She wore slouchy velvet boots. She was refilling the pool with the garden hose. The water reached her heels. It undulated, caught the sun, and threw shimmering light in unexpected angles. I said, “Your front door’s open.”
“Parents’ll be here soon. I wanted them to feel welcome.”
“I can help clean or…”
“Did you have fun?” she interrupted. “Was skating here less thrilling because you didn’t have to hop a fence?”
“I like permission pools,” I said. “You don’t have to worry about getting busted.” “Permission,” she said. “Sounds boring.”
“You should call the cops next time,” I said.
Marnie smiled like I’d solved a riddle. She patted the coping: an invitation.
I put my board down, gave a single soft push, and rolled towards her. Marnie shifted the hose for me to sit by her side. Her boots were submerged now, ruined. I hung my feet over the edge, too.
A truck rumbled into the driveway. The engine shut off. One door opened and closed, then another. Marnie corrected her posture, raked her hair. When her father called for her in the house, she kicked her boots in giddy excitement. Water sloshed over my charred shoes. Her father yelled her name. I sat up straight. Beneath the rippling surface, the graffiti was pulsing like blood from fresh wounds. Marnie’s hand stole into mine. I squeezed.
Bret Anthony Johnston (1971, US) is the author of the internationally bestselling novel Remember Me Like This and Corpus Christi: Stories (both published by Random House). He has been skateboarding for over 30 years, and is currently the Director of The Michener Center for Writers.