Wonder World by K. R. Byggdin

Author:K. R. Byggdin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fiction
ISBN: 9781773370743
Publisher: Great Plains Publications
Published: 2022-04-12T19:01:26+00:00

Growing up in a place where everything shuts down by nine p.m., you have to make your own fun. I don’t know how many times Neth and I crisscrossed Newfield by bike or foot as kids just to fill those elastic hours between supper and bedtime. As soon as I got old enough to borrow Abe’s car we bolted for the big city, making late-night runs to McDick’s or catching a flick at the cheap seats on McGillivray.

Then there was the really stupid shit we’d get up to, like car tag. Neth and I invented the game one night when we were too short on cash for a trip to Winnipeg, and it quickly caught on with the rest of our grade. To play, everyone would divide into groups and pile into a couple of cars. One team was it and the other would go hide somewhere around town. The object of the game was to corner the other car so one of your passengers could get out and tap their hood before the opposing driver could peel away. It was stupid and totally dangerous, but at least it kept our boredom at bay.

From Sunday to Friday, I had to shoehorn myself into the kind of person I was supposed to be, practising the piano and getting good grades. But Saturday nights? That’s when I let loose. I was willing to try anything that could help me shake off my humdrum life and feel truly alive. The thrill of independence was short-lived of course. At the stroke of midnight our curfews would kick in and our carriages would turn back into beetroots. I hated those drives back to town. Felt like reporting to prison for a crime I didn’t commit.

At last, the saggy bald tires of my bike thump-bump over the railroad tracks marking Newfield’s western edge. I used to watch the trains going by on their way from Winnipeg to North Dakota with grain cars hauling wheat and graffiti. I wanted to spray paint my own message on them. SOS. Stuck in Mennoland. Will trade borscht for beer. But nothing stopped here. The outside world rumbled right on past, forever out of reach.

After giving my all to get into town, I decide to grab a snack at Oma’s Kitchen before heading over to the thrift shop. There’s a waitress having a smoke out back when I pull into the parking lot. Her neon red hair clashes delightfully with the café uniform, a stiff white apron and orange dress hemmed a chaste length below the knee.

“Nice ride PK,” she says with a snicker as I lean my shitty bike against the building.

I flip through my mental yearbook to try and place her. PK, short for Pastor’s Kid, was my nickname back in high school. I hated it and tried to make Treblemaker stick instead. I thought it was a nice nod to the piano and my reputation as a weekend partier, but everybody else said it was super dumb. Neth did give it a try for a week before switching back to Funk.

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