A KIND OF BLUE

Boys are playing basketball on the asphalt behind me. The ball slaps on the gravel and echoes around the empty park, on into the silent streets of Springfield, carried by the gentle wind towards bedroom windows left open in the heat of this early summer morning. The sound isn't loud enough to be heard by the dozing residents of the town; instead it becomes part of another lullaby, the soothing song of a Sunday morning, the first of the school vacation.

The boys shout at each other, but their words are lost in excitement, and sat on this swing I can't hear what they're saying. Maybe the boys are still drunk from last night? I watched a TV show a few nights ago, one of those dumb investigative things, and that creepy Kent Brockman guy said the local police were expecting a lot of kids to celebrate the end of the school year by getting drunk in the parks. I don't know whether that was true or not, because no-one cool enough to go buy beer with fakes Ids would ever be seen dead talking to me.

I'm a good girl.

I brought my yearbook along with me. You know that bit where everyone signs everyone else's book? Well, I did better than last year: a few people signed my book this time. One person thought I was called Norma Spencer, and somebody else wrote a poem about how I smell of gasoline, but at least they signed my book. If the second grade has taught me anything, it's the importance of popularity: when people look through your yearbook, they don't care if there's a picture of you with the school's Spelling Bee trophy, or an article about your performance in the Mathletics tournament in Capitol City, or any of that crap. People look through your yearbook to see how many friends you had, and the contents of my autograph page are revealing. I didn't even finish reading the poem: finding out what I smell of, and that I have teeth that are big and green, was enough for me.

Part of me wants to turn around and have a look at the basketball boys, but it's not a very brave part of me. If I look around they might notice me, and they'll probably recognise me from school, and I suck at dodge ball. As long as I keep myself to myself, they should just ignore me. But when I think about those boisterous, drunken shouts, and the ominous dry thud of the ball, I feel my back tense up and my hands tighten around the chains, so that I might not end up in the dry sawdust beneath the swings.

Most people ignore me. Sometimes I wonder about people - adults, mostly - who I walk past on the street. I guess most of them don't even notice me and their lives just carry on without me knowing: they do their jobs and then go home to watch TV and then do all icky adult stuff I don't even wanna know about. But maybe some of them notice me. Maybe they wonder afterwards about the girl with the weird spiky hair and the funny dress, the girl who always has her hands full of books and her head pointed downwards towards her sandals. Maybe they wonder why that girl is always on her own.

This is the first time I've come to the park this early, just to sit here on this swing and think. I thought for sure that I'd wake mom up. I was gonna bring my saxophone, but now I'm glad I didn't. Those boys would probably try to stuff their ball down it, after they took it from me.

I did wonder, as I crept through the front door beneath the cover of purple-grey dawn, whether anyone would wake up to find me gone. I don't think anyone will be worried, since I'm a good girl, a sensible, responsible, mature girl, and it's not as if I have any friends who'll put me under peer pressure. At times like this, I wish I hadn't gone so far out of my way to convince mom and dad how much of an adult I am.

If Bart did something like this, it would be a different story. Of course it would. It wouldn't surprise if me if Bart had done something stupid (again!), and nobody even knew I was gone.

The streets were so peaceful this morning. The sky was painted in colours I'd never seen before, lavender stained with streaks of orange slashed across purple clouds, colours that should never work together, so when you see them above they stun you with nature's audacity. God's art gallery. The air was scented with grass and the promise of warmth. The road was empty of cars, nobody was shouting yet, the world was a gift to me but I was just a ghost, lost in the emptiness. Alone.

From here, I can see the sun rising, huge and orange, over the hills, over the power plant cooling towers, and I wish that there was somebody here to see how beautiful it is. The sun feels so close in these empty morning hours, and the town seems so distant, like a painting in a gallery. In a few hours, when I'm long gone, this park will be full of kids playing with their friends, and none of them will know anything about this.

There's meant to be a party next week. It's Alex Whitney's birthday, and her parents said she could throw a really big one, and you know it's gonna be big because even I heard about it. She was talking about it on the last day of school, and I put my book down and tried to join in the conversation, but it's tough to think of something good to say, especially when all the girls ever talk about now are their cellular phones and new dresses and whatever pop singer boys they're in love with. I tried to follow everything, but by the time Alex had started to invite people, I'd started reading again. I wouldn't know what to do with myself at a party, anyway. I guess all the other kids will still be talking about it when school starts again, and that'll probably be the first time I hear anything about it, since I don't think I'll be seeing anyone over the summer.

I push myself forward in the swing so that it starts to move. I'm too big for the swing in the yard at home, but when I was little, I could sit in it for hours, just thinking and dreaming about things. Maybe that's my problem: Bart goes out and does things, and so do all the other kids, but I just think about them over and over.

The yearbook slips from my lap and drops into the sawdust beneath my feet. I'm building up speed now, and I think about how easily my fingers could slip, and how easily I could fall. If I landed badly I could break my arm. If that happened, the cast would be off before the new school year and nobody in class would ever know about how I was hurt.

I'm reminded of something I asked Bart once: if a tree falls in the woods and nobody hears it, does the tree really fall?

If someone is hurt but nobody else notices, does that pain matter?

I look down again at the yearbook, and it occurs to me that I did have last year's book signed, eventually, by Erin and her friends in Little Pwagmattasquarmesettport. I think I still have the friendship bracelet she gave me the night we all sat out on the beach, looking out to the huge dark sea, huddled together in the warm light of our fire, together on the soft summer sand.

Something hits the frame of the swing and nearly knocks me down. The sound, loud and brutal, shudders through me and I feel a sudden shiver rise up my back. A basketball bobbles through the sawdust. I feel like running, but it's not easy while the swing is still going. I turn around and see Nelson Muntz coming towards me.

Nelson Muntz!

'Hey, Lisa,' he says.

I try to stop myself, but it's tough. I don't dare to reach out for the frame, and my feet won't reach the floor.

'Nelson?' I say. 'What are you doing here?'

'I dunno. Gotta be somewhere, I guess.'

'But . . . it's so early.'

'I know,' he says. 'This is the best time to steal from the Kwik-e-Mart. That Sanjeev dweeb always falls asleep at about five-thirty.' He rummages inside his pocket. 'Hey, I took some beef jerky. You want some?'

'No thanks.'

Finally, I get the swing under control. Nelson comes to stand in front of me, and he takes the basketball from under my feet. I turn around and now I recognise the other boys: Jimbo Jones and Kerney. Without their ball, they have nothing better to do than look over at us. They make me feel nervous, but Nelson doesn't. I had a crush on him for a while, and out of all the boys in Springfield, he's the one I'd most want to be talking to now.

'Hey, Nelson,' I say, 'I thought you - oww!'

Nelson suddenly bounces the ball against my elbow. It doesn't hurt much, but it surprises me. Then he shouts out, 'Haw-haw!' into my face.

'What was that for?' I say.

'Sorry, the guys would hate if they thought I was talking to a girl. Pretend you're being bullied.' And then, for extra emphasis, he laughs in my face again, this time louder and more pronounced, for the benefit of his guys: 'Haw-HAW!'

Jimbo and Kerney cheer.

'Whatcha doing here?' Nelson says quietly.

'I had to come and think about stuff,' I say.

'What kind of stuff?'

And it's funny, but I find it hard to put into words. I could tell Nelson about the sunrise, and how small I felt walking through the deserted town, but that wouldn't help much. I could complain about the party, but the truth is I didn't really want to go, so I can't say much about it. I don't know what to say.

'I dunno . . . Nelson, do you ever, you know, worry about stuff?'

'You mean like being worried the cops will find your prints someplace?'

'No, I mean, do you worry about what sort of person you are, or what people think of you, or how your life is turning out?'

Nelson's face drains blank of expression. He thinks about this for a good ten seconds. I hear birdsong around me. Somewhere in the town, a lone car hums across warm tarmac. People are waking up.

Nelson speaks. 'I guess not,' he says. 'As long as there are racoons to shoot with air guns and Mr Windass still works at the school, I guess I'm pretty happy.'

'I thought so.'

He chuckles. 'Good old Windy-ass.'

Nelson goes quiet again, but this time he looks over at his friends. He bounces his ball against me again, and I hear Jimbo cheering.

'Hey, Lisa,' he says, 'I was wondering, are you going to that party over at Alex Whitney's?'

I pause for a second now. 'I dunno, maybe,' I say.

'Well, me and the guys are planning to gate-crash it, y'know, cherry-bomb the bedrooms, write rude stuff on the walls, spike the fruit punch bowl, all that fun stuff. It'd be cool if you were there.' I think this is Nelson's way of asking me out.

'I'll . . . see what I'm doing,' I say.

'Cool,' Nelson says. 'I'd better get bak. We're going over to the church. The choirboys won't give themselves wedgies. Wanna come?'

'No thanks.'

'Okay. Smell ya later.'

He walks away, and I turn to go the other way. I won't be going to the party with Nelson - I don't want to spend the summer in Juvie Hall - but I guess it's nice to be asked.

A car drives past. A police car. I see Ralph Wiggum sat in the back - he and his dad, the chief, are probably on their way to Krusty Burger. I've heard that Chief Wiggum turns on his sirens whenever he gets stuck in a queue at the drive-through.

Ralph waves at me. I wave back.

I gather up my yearbook and flick through it. I read the gasoline poem, this time all the way through; I couldn't finish it yesterday; the first two lines were hard enough, sharp enough to hurt and spring tears. This time I force myself to read it to the end, and I take in the last line, and it changes so much:

"Heehee! Only messin! Luv u lots, have a good summer, Janey xxx"

The sun has risen now and cleared to a cloudless baby blue shell. Roads shimmer before me like mirages in the heat. More people are starting to come outside, forced into the open by the undeniable brilliance of the day: adults mowing lawns and washing cars. Kids in the streets, some riding bikes and some already starting games of baseball and hide and seek, joyous at the possibilities of the summer ahead. The sun is warm on my back and casts a shadow that stretches far across the road.

I stop on a familiar street to hear a sound I know even better. The fat, warm, honey-rich sounds of a saxophone drift from out of a window. The breeze carries the music like a lazy bee carrying pollen. I know the song - "So What," by Miles Davis - well; in fact, I taught it to Allison, the girl playing it now. I stand outside her bedroom window for a while and listen.

It seems amazing to think that Allison is in her bedroom, thinking she's alone, when she's actually sharing herself with so many people. A man sits on his porch across the street, reading his paper, and I notice the way his head bobs slowly to Allison's music. After church, maybe I should come back here with my sax so we can play together. And I can tell Allison about this.

The music dies off as I walk away, clutching a yearbook that suddenly feels so much lighter. I think of Milhouse, poor Milhouse with his cola-bottle glasses and crazy crush on me, and I wonder if I'll see him today, out walking that crazy little dog of his, the weird little yappy poodle his mom bought him when she split up with Mr Van Houten. That dog always makes me laugh, and I start to giggle to myself in the street. An old man looks at me funny as he passes me, like I'm some sort of crazy girl, but it doesn't bother me.

The last drops of Allison's sax are drowned out by the noisy ticking of a car engine. It sounds like our car, which hasn't been right since dad took it to be serviced at Nick Riviera's garage: he wanted the free fluffy dice.

In fact-

'Lisa! There you are!'

I turn around and see mom in the driver's seat, pulled up right to the sidewalk. Suddenly I feel guilty as I piece together what must have happened: good girls like me don't normally leave the house at the break of dawn without warning, and mom knows I've been a little blue lately, so she must have been all looking all over town for me.

'Hi mom.'

'Get in.' She has a strange look on her face: not angry, but like she's weighing me up. Something in the engine rattles and groans. The fluffy dice shake in the window.

Nervously, I get in. We drive away.

I'm hardly ever in trouble with mom. It occurs to me now that Bart is, a lot, and this is why he gets so much attention. I don't want this sort of attention.

'I'm sorry, mom,' I say. 'I didn't want to worry you.'

'It's okay, Lisa.'

'I didn't want to worry you-'

'Really, Lisa, it's okay. I'm cool with it.' That's mom: she's always trying to use words that she thinks are popular with kids. 'Is everything okay?'

I hesitate. 'Yeah.'

'Lisa, sweetie,' mom says, warmly, 'I know you. I know when things aren't right. I'm not so wack I can't tell when my favourite girl is unhappy.'

It's true. Whatever else has happened in my life, my mom has always known what to do. I look up at her and she smiles down. I can't put the things that are troubling me into words, but sometimes I don't have to.

'Do kids still use that word, Lisa? Wack?'

'I guess so.'

'Oh . . . good.'

I still feel bad about running out like that. I don't think I should get off so lightly.

'I should have told you where I was going,' I say. 'I only went up to the park-'

'I know where you went, Lisa,' mom says. 'Did you think I'd let one of my babies go out alone?'

'How do you mean?'

'I heard you go out this morning,' mom says. 'I wanted to stop you, but I thought it would be better to give you some space. When you'd gone I followed you up to the park, just to be sure you were safe.' She giggles. 'I've still got a few mom-tricks up my sleeve, Lisa.'

'Wow.'

Springfield becomes a blur in my window. The places where I've lived out my life drift past, all of them as important as each other, each one of them holding the key to a memory. The school. The Jebidiah Springfield statue. The bridge where I met Bleeding Gums. 'I know you've been down, honey,' mom says, 'but you know we're always here for you, don't you, Lisa?'

I see Sherri and Terri playing hopscotch on a sidewalk. They wave, and I wave back. We're all intertwined: the town is a part of me, and I am a part of the town.

'I know, mom.'