Our Brief Hours of Play
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Of lives that intersect, then go their way . . . It's been years since I've written anything personal. Sad how mundane things—like cranking out sports articles, paying off college loans, and fixing all the broken things in this East Chicago apartment—crowd out the emotions I once had. This would pretty well summarize my life, except for something ordinary and overdue that happened last week: going back to Deepwater to get my final boxes of stuff out of the house. I've been out of college for two years now, Mom tells me, and I have my own place for keeping my accumulated junk. So, I sit up in the attic on a Sunday afternoon sorting through old term papers, basketball drill sheets, trophies, goofy photos and trivia, when I come upon it: a black leather-bound notebook, scuffed and worn on the edges. I open it up and there's the scrawly, self-conscious handwriting of a teenager I barely remember, and I remember all too well. Me. I start skimming the pages, recalling a time and place that seem both far away—and as close as my skin. For the rest of the afternoon, I'm alternately laughing and (I must confess) crying—reliving the watershed turmoil of high school. But the real ache comes in thinking about Misha. I feel it again so acutely it's as if I've ripped open an old wound that really hadn't healed in the first place. Her departure from Deepwater was so shrouded in "adult professional concern" -- juvenile court hearings and social services and such -- that when the so-called floodwaters receded, I found that I'd been left behind. And she was gone. I realize now that I somehow let her slip across the horizon without any life raft to bring her back. She needed a new start, I was told. So looking back, it wasn't the Grand Canyon that created the divide between us; it was the current of time: distance apart, change, and possibly the unresolved fact that we were always trying to bridge two separate worlds. Or maybe it was the result of an intensity that couldn't be sustained by two teenagers during that awkward season of life. While I was trying to navigate all the emotions and insecurities and longings I felt about her, her whole life was imploding. And I didn't know it. When I finally got a clue, it was too late.
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About the Book
Our Brief Hours of Play is the story of two young people attempting to navigate the unsettled currents of adolescent friendship. Told in the format of two separate journals, the novel begins when Mark, a rather sheltered upper middle-class“jock, rescues a mysterious classmate of his named Misha from a pool because somehow at 14, she does not know how to swim. In offering to teach her, Mark becomes intrigued by her enigmatic view of life. Her subtle quips add to the mystery: "It costs nothing if you've got nothing to lose." Mark longs for their friendship to become something more, but Misha responds, "no, please, just be my friend. That way I don't lose you." Their friendship blossoms until the fall when they must go their separate ways–he to a private high school, she to a large urban school. Although this puts a strain on any time together, their relationship continues until one day Misha simply disappears. Months later, their paths cross again, but the encounter is stilted and awkward until Mark discovers why. Finding her journal accidently left in his car, he reads it and learns about the desperate world Misha is a part of, where she has experienced abandonment, eviction, sexual assault, and where even now, she is considering suicide. Mark attempts to rescue her again, but the effort this time is far more difficult than diving into a pool. Mark must learn to live with ambiguity and loss, even as Misha seemingly disappears from his life again. Ultimately the story is about a hard-won hope, and the miracle of a friendship that stands the test of time.
About the Author
Jennifer Cromartie is a day-dreamer, kayaker, and middle school humanities teacher who believes that the friends that last are the ones you learned to laugh, cry, fight, play with – and sacrifice for. She is inspired by the many who have gone the distance with her – from her childhood classmates in South Korea to her former students now scattered across the globe. Jennifer is grateful for her amazing kids – Ethan, Eric and Heather –who have supported her through it all.