Run (6 page)

It wasn’t like it was unusual. Most people in Mursey were married before they turned twenty-one. It was just the way of things. It’d probably be my way, too, if any guy ever actually wanted to marry me. If I didn’t get married shortly out of high school, I’d be stuck in my parents’ house forever.

Those were your only choices around here. Go to college, which hardly anybody had the money to do, or get married. And Grandma had already told me I ought to be looking now. “You’re gonna need someone to take care of you,” she’d told me more than once. The idea of me taking care of myself had never come up.

But the thought of dating just one boy, of being with just one person from the time you were a teenager until you died …

Maybe Bo Dickinson had the right idea, sleeping around the way she did.

“Why can’t you take the bus?” Christy asked.

“My parents don’t want me walking home from the church alone.”

“Are you kidding?” she asked. “Don’t you make that walk every Sunday? It’s not that far.”

“Yeah, but they’re worried.”

Christy was quiet for a second before she said, “I like your parents, Agnes. But they really are overprotective sometimes. You’ve got to stand up to them more.”

“I know,” I said. “But they’re not that bad. And I can’t really blame them. I’d probably be worried, too, if I had a blind kid.”

“I don’t know,” Christy said. “I think they’re being ridiculous. And I think you ought to just take the bus home anyway.”

“That’s what I want to do. But Mama would be furious.”

“Who says she has to know?” she asked. “You’ll be home before she is.”

Which was a good point. And it wasn’t like I had any other options. Most of our friends didn’t have cars—they rode the bus, too.

“Look,” Christy said, “if she asks, tell her I drove you. I’ll cover for you if I need to.”

So that afternoon, I made my way out to the parking lot and climbed on the school bus for the first time in my life. That little spark of rebellion was flaring up again, and I felt almost giddy. Riding a bus wasn’t exactly breaking the law, but it was definitely a bigger deal than my wandering in the woods that day. At least in my parents’ eyes. That had been an old rule, one that had faded and blurred over the years. This one was new and sharp and clear. And I was going against it anyway.

Trouble was, I hadn’t really thought about what I would do once I was on that bus.

Everything inside the bus blurred together. Kids in blacks and browns blended into their seats, making it hard for me to tell which seats were taken and which were up for grabs. It wasn’t the first time I’d wished camo wasn’t such a popular fashion choice in Mursey. I blinked, hoping the sunlight coming through the windows would help once my eyes adjusted, but that was taking too long for the driver.

“Sit down,” he said. “We gotta go.”

“Okay. Sorry.” I started to move toward a seat near the front that, as far as I could tell, was empty.

“In the back,” he snapped. “Front seats are for the middle schoolers. High school students sit in the back.”

I gulped and started walking, my cane snagging on the edges of people’s shoes and backpacks. I hoped the back seats would look clearer once I got closer, but they were still blurry. The only difference was, I could hear people whispering—probably about me—in some of them.

The bus driver honked the horn and hollered back at me, “Sit down.”

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should’ve just called Daddy and made him leave the store for a minute. Or Mama could’ve gotten one of her friends from church to come. Or I could’ve begged Christy to put off losing her virginity just half an hour longer so she could drive me home.

“Agnes.”

I almost didn’t hear her over my own panic. Her voice wasn’t loud at all. But when I looked to my right, the sun was pushing through the dirty glass just enough to glint off a mane of strawberry-blond hair.

“Sit down,” Bo said.

“I can’t see where—”

“Sit here,” she said.

“Oh.” It wouldn’t have been enough to say I was surprised. Sure, she’d helped me out in the woods, but the bus was school grounds, and Bo Dickinson and I weren’t friends. If anything, I’d have thought she hated me the way she hated Christy.

But the bus driver slammed his hand on the horn again, and I was left without a choice, so I sat.

“What’re you doing on here?” Bo asked. “Don’t your mama usually pick you up?”

“How did you know that?”

“I’ve seen y’all in the parking lot a thousand times. Not all of us are blind, you know.” She nudged my arm in a way that was almost playful. After a second, though, she said, “Sorry. Was that a bad thing to say? I ain’t always sure what’s … what do you call it? Politically correct?”

“You’re fine,” I said. “Honestly? Sometimes I forget other people can see stuff like that.”

“Makes sense. You’ve never known no different, so …”

The bus started moving, and for a few minutes, neither of us said anything. I thought the whole bus ride might be that way, and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved about that or not. But before I could figure it out, Bo started talking again.

“You didn’t answer,” she said. “What’re you doing on here?”

“Oh. Um … my parents were both busy this afternoon. So I’m taking this to the Baptist church and walking home.” For a second, I considered telling her I’d been told not to, like Bo might be impressed by my rule-breaking streak. First the woods, now this.

But Bo was the kind of girl who cussed in front of teachers and stole her mama’s whiskey to bring to parties and went down on other girls’ boyfriends. None of my little rebellions would be at all impressive to her. If anything, she’d probably just laugh at me.

I wasn’t sure why I cared about impressing Bo Dickinson, but the idea of her thinking I was some kind of loser really bothered me.

“Hey,” she said. “You read that poem for English yet?”

“The Dylan Thomas one? Yeah. I don’t get it, though. I mean, it sounds pretty. ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’ It’s nice, but it doesn’t make sense to me. What is the good night?”

“Death,” Bo said. She didn’t say it the way Christy would, like I was some kind of idiot. She just put it there, an answer.

“Death,” I repeated.

“He’s telling somebody to keep fighting and not just die,” she explained. “I read somewhere that he wrote it about his dad.”

“Wow. You’re really good at poetry stuff.”

“Nah. I just … I like it. Poetry, I mean. I wish I could write it, but I’m no good.”

“Write it?” I laughed. “I’d be glad if I could just understand it. I like fiction. I like a story. But I have to read every poem a thousand times, and I still never really get it.”

“It’s not a real useful skill,” she said. “Not like math. Now, that goes over my head. Junior year, and I’m taking algebra for the third time. Who cares if you know what the hell Robert Frost is talking about after high school? Math actually matters.”

“I could help you with algebra.” The words came tumbling out before I could stop them. It was just instinct. Habit. I’d been good at algebra freshman year and I’d helped half my class pass Algebra II last year. I’d offered to help a lot of friends with their math. But Bo Dickinson wasn’t my friend.

I didn’t hang out with girls like Bo.

And she didn’t hang out with girls like me.

“Maybe,” she said. “And I could help you with poetry.”

“Maybe.”

Another long pause while the bus bounced along. The roads in Mursey hadn’t been fixed in a long while. Some hadn’t even been paved yet. On the streets that weren’t dirt or gravel, you still had to deal with huge potholes and uneven concrete.

“Hey, Bo!” a boy yelled from a few seats back. “What’re you doing this weekend?”

Bo didn’t answer.

“Wanna hang out?” the boy asked. “I’ll give you ten bucks and some whiskey if you’ll come over and suck my dick.”

Bo spun around in the seat, almost knocking me into the aisle. “Fuck off, Isaac.”

Isaac Porter. The quarterback. I was surprised to hear him talking that way. He sat in the pew behind us every Sunday with his grandparents. He’d always seemed real polite.

“What’s the problem?” he asked. “You do it for every other guy in town. Why not me? Is my dick too big for your mouth?”

I could hear some of his buddies laughing. I cringed. I wasn’t naive or anything. I’d watched plenty of R-rated movies with Christy and we’d talked about sex and stuff before. But I’d never had a boy talk to me the way Isaac was talking to Bo. Hell, I’d never heard a boy talk to any girl quite like that before.

“Keep telling yourself that, asshole,” Bo said. “Fucking redneck.”

“All right, well, I’ll just ask your mom, then,” he replied. “She’ll do it for five.”

I thought Bo was gonna climb over the back of the seat then; her sharp elbow jabbed my shoulder as she lunged. But the bus came to a screeching halt, throwing everybody forward and sending Bo slamming backward into the seat in front of us.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Fine.” She took a minute to right herself while people walked past us, toward the door. “Come on,” she said. “We’re here.”

“You get off at the church, too?”

“Yep.”

I slid out of the seat and Bo followed.

“Bye, Bo,” Isaac called. “See you at my place tonight.”

“I hate the people around here,” Bo said as we stepped off the bus, onto the sidewalk in front of the church. “People like him and Christy—fake motherfuckers—I hate them so goddamn much.” She paused and took a breath. “Sorry.” I thought she meant about bringing Christy into it, but then she added, “I probably shouldn’t say
goddamn
in front of the church, huh?”

“Probably not.”

The bus pulled away, and everybody started walking home. But Bo and I just stood there, staring up at the cross above the door. It was big and white, and even I could see it pretty clearly.

“Can I ask you something?” But, again, she didn’t wait for my answer. “Do you believe in all that stuff? God and Jesus and all that?”

“Yeah,” I said, taken aback. “I mean … I think so. I guess I’ve never really thought about whether I believe it or not. What … what about you? Do you believe in it?”

“I want to,” she said. “But then I think … if there is a God, he’s done forgot about the Dickinsons.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

After a second, Bo turned and started walking, and I did, too, my cane clicking on the sidewalk behind her. It was a sunny day, but a little cloudy, which meant it was just the right amount of brightness for me to see at my best. I could make out more details than usual—like the empty kiddy pool in one of the yards we passed and Bo’s short, scrawny frame, slouched as she walked along in front of me.

“You live over here?” I asked.

“Yeah. The trailer down there on the corner.”

“Oh.” Suddenly it all made sense: her walking past the church that day, her in the woods. She lived in the trailer my grandmother always pointed out on the way to Sunday school. I knew Dickinsons lived there, but I hadn’t realized Bo was one of them. “We’re practically neighbors.”

“Sorta,” she said. “If you go straight into the woods from my back door and head a little to the left, you can be right behind your house in ten minutes.”

“It scares me that you know that.”

She laughed and slowed down so that I could walk next to her. “Told you—I spend a lot of time out there. I also know how to take the trails to Sally Albert’s house in fifteen minutes. I’ve been skinny-dipping in her pool at midnight before. She’d shit herself if she knew.”

“Skinny-dipping with who?”

“Everybody, if you believe what people say.”

“Should I?” I asked. “Believe what people say?”

She took in a breath, like she was about to answer, but then, out of nowhere, she just stopped. I’d taken a few steps before I realized she wasn’t walking with me. I looked back.

“Bo?”

“Shit.” Then she moved past me, faster than before, toward her front yard. It was still a couple houses down, so I wasn’t sure why she’d taken off like that. Not until I heard her holler, “Mama!”

I hurried after her, thinking something was wrong. I almost tripped a few times—it was hard to use the cane properly when you were moving too fast—but I managed to reach Bo’s house just a second after she did.

“Mama,” Bo said, moving onto the grass. “What’re you doing?”

I squinted, scanning the space in front of me, trying to get a better focus. Bo’s trailer with its rickety wooden front porch. An old car in the gravel driveway. A lawn mower sitting next to a huge oak tree. And that’s when I saw her—Bo’s mother. She was so skinny it was no wonder I’d missed her, even on a bright day like this. She had dark brown hair pulled back into a low, scraggly ponytail, and she was wearing a black tank top that made her skin look almost paper white. Maybe they looked more like each other in the face—I couldn’t make out details like that—but from what I could see, she hardly looked like Bo, with her strawberry-blond hair and tanned skin.

That’s when I remembered that Bo’s mother had married into the Dickinson family, and I had no clue who she’d been before that.

“Bo,” Mrs. Dickinson said. “Good. You can help me. I’m gonna fix the lawn mower.”

“When was the last time you slept, Mama?”

“I’m fine. I just gotta fix the lawn mower.” She waved her hands in the air, and I noticed she was holding something silver. I glanced down and saw several more little silver objects at her feet, reflecting the sunlight. Tools, I guessed.

“It ain’t broke, Mama.”

“I can make it run better,” she said. Her voice was shaky and quick, like she was anxious and excited all at once. And she couldn’t seem to sit still. It made it hard for me to keep focus on her. “I can take it apart and put it back together and—”

“You ain’t even used that thing in years,” Bo said. “The county has to come and do it half the time. Mama, let’s just go insi—”

“Shh!” Mrs. Dickinson snapped. “Wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“They’re watching,” Mrs. Dickinson whispered. She took a couple steps toward the oak tree and looked up. “They’re up there. They’re watching us. Can’t you see them?”