The Ghost Runner (2 page)

I empty the trash behind the counter and pause by the recycle bin in the back room. In it, torn in half, is the
Othello
poster with Roman's face on it. I fish it out of the can and take it home. I tape it back together, then wonder what I'm doing.

I roll the poster up and stuff it into my sock drawer. I feel better with it hidden away, but I'm bothered by what compelled me to salvage it. Maybe I just need to remind myself of everything that happened.

Or maybe I miss him.

T
he earth will defend itself,” says the man standing at the front of the room. His name is Professor Lindquist, and I'm sitting here in his classroom—I am actually a student, something I haven't been in
a long time
.

Finally—a student again.

I don't care that it's 8:15 on a Monday morning and that most of the other fifteen students are straining to keep their eyes open. I don't care that the room is as drab as a prison, with cinderblock walls painted an uninspiring off-white.

I don't care. I'm wide awake. I'm taking notes. I'm thrilled to be a student again. What these yawning, sprawling bodies seated around me don't realize is how fortunate they are to be here. Back in Houston, I had to drop out of community college when my savings dried up and my dad said hell would freeze over before he would help.

I finally saved enough to head back to the college, working nights at a bar, juggling homework with real work like everyone else. It wasn't easy, and lots of us came and went—it was hard to make friends because no one had any time outside of school, and you never knew when you'd see your classmates again. Sometimes they'd have to quit school to get another job, as I did, or maybe they couldn't get anyone to watch their kids, or their boyfriend would get a job and they'd have to move. We all juggled a lot, all the time—but even then I knew I was luckier than most.

I thought I'd be able to make it work, to get my associate's degree, apply to a four-year college—until that night. My father, drunk and waving that handgun around. Me, having no choice but to grab it from him. The way he lunged at me, the way the gun went off, the way my dad lay sprawled flat on our living room floor.

I don't think I'll ever get past the terror of that moment.

And I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself for what happened next.

My father wasn't moving, wasn't breathing—he was dead. I didn't even know which one of us had pulled the trigger, but there were two things I did know. I knew I'd acted in self-defense, and I knew that no one would believe me. So I ran.

And college became just a memory, the very least of my worries.

But here in Lithia, everything changed. Things seemed to get better—almost normal, for a while there—and then they changed again. But a few things stayed the same: I have a job. I have a home. And I have a new father figure in David, who says he doesn't want me “shoveling shoes” for the rest of my life. He offered to pay for this class—even though he runs the store now, he'd already made his fortune in software—and then allow me to increase my class load each semester and cut back on my hours at the store, as long as I didn't get any grade lower than a B. I promised him I wouldn't.

He knows all about my father—what happened that night in Houston, the fact that an investigator claiming to work for my dad showed up here in Lithia last fall. Roman had threatened the guy, and he'd gone away. I've heard nothing since.

I wondered for a while whether it was possible my father was still alive—after all, I'd never received word that he was dead, and despite checking the papers along my journey to Lithia, I didn't see any reports. But the deaths of people like my dad often go unnoticed—few friends, no family—and by the time I got to Lithia, I figured I was safe.

I told Alex about everything, too, and, like David, he made me feel better. After all, it's been months since Roman chased that investigator out of town—months since I've heard anything at all related to my father.

And, as usual, I don't know whether to feel guilty or relieved.

But David says I have a right to move on with my life, and that is what I'm trying to do. It's July, so I'm in summer school—a good way to begin for someone with only a few community college credits under her belt. Lithia College is a small liberal arts school on a leafy campus close to downtown. I don't feel as though I fit in here—I'm two weeks into this class and haven't yet raised my hand, haven't yet gotten to know the other students. They seem to know each other already, from the regular school year. Because I'm still working at Lithia Runners, I know I'm missing out on living in the dorms and eating in the cafeterias and hanging out in the student union—all opportunities to bond with the other students. But to be honest, I'm more focused on the class than making friends. At least, that's what I tell myself.

In truth, I'm nervous. It's a humbling experience to be at a new school, to have to ask directions, to know nobody at all. I've always been a loner, but schools have a way of making me feel just plain lonely. Maybe it's the way the students roam around in packs. I suppose that, deep down, they're just as insecure as I am, but it doesn't show on them the way I'm certain it does on my own face. When I was in high school, I imagined that college would be a whole new world—a grown-up world. In reality, it's still a lot like high school, only everyone is a little bit older and there are no bells between periods. Fewer rules and more homework. But the fear of not fitting in is exactly the same.

Professor Lindquist looks like an ex-hippie: a graying ponytail nearly down to his waist, a loose-fitting hemp shirt, sandals. He wears metal-rimmed glasses that hang, just barely, onto the tip of his nose, and he likes to pace back and forth, working himself up into various states of fervor. One moment, it's the oil industry that sets him off; the next moment, it's the factory farms.

“The earth will defend itself,” he says again. “Who here has heard of Gaia?”

Nobody raises a hand.

“The Gaia hypothesis says that the earth is self-regulating, very much like our bodies. And if there is a threat to the body, such as a virus, that threat will be eliminated. And if that threat just happens to be humans … anybody?” He looks around the room for someone to fill in the blank.

A hand goes up across the room—a guy with a nose ring and a black T-shirt. “So that means, like, humans are a virus?”

“According to this theory, possibly,” says Professor Lindquist. “If humans hurt the planet, the planet will defend itself. Let's take global warming. Humans heat up the planet, which in turn leads to more severe storms, which in turn kill humans.”

I raise my hand and wait for him to notice it.

“Yes?”

“But humans aren't just warming the planet,” I say. “They're killing wildlife, destroying forests, you name it.”

“True.” Lindquist scratches his beard as if he's thinking. “But Gaia isn't just about the earth defending itself—it's also about humans defending the earth. The many organizations that work to protect animals, save the forests—they, too, may be considered an extension of Gaia.”

Another hand in the back. “I took Greek mythology last semester,” a girl says. “Isn't Gaia a goddess, too?”

Professor Lindquist is nodding. “Very good,” he says. “Also known as Mother Earth. So on one hand you've got the spiritual”—he holds up his hands, palms up, as if he's balancing the two on a scale—“and on the other you've got the scientific. The one thing these two communities agree on is that the planet is undergoing tremendous change right now. The why and the how and what to do about it is another story.”

“What if it's too late?” I ask.

“Too late for what?”

“Too late for the planet? Too late to save the polar bears and the sea turtles and the spotted owls?”

His eyes seem to cloud over a bit. Maybe he'd done a bit too good a job of trying to scare us.

“Perhaps it is too late,” he admits. “For some creatures, we already know this—but that's why you're here in this class right now. To learn how to do your best to save the ones still around.”

“What if we can't?”

“The planet was around for billions of years before humans came to be,” Professor Lindquist says. “It will be around for millions of years after humans are gone. But let's consider the next ten years, the next fifty, the next hundred.” He looks around the room. “Anyone know what an Amur leopard is?”

I glance around, too—blank faces everywhere.

“It's an endangered leopard that lives in eastern Russia,” he continues. “There are maybe forty of them left in the world. And it's all because of humans: We've destroyed their habitat through logging, building roads, poaching—and, of course, there's climate change. Is this what will happen to the polar bear? Or the humpback whale? That's why I'm here teaching this class. Because I believe there's still time to change our ways.” He pauses. “And I hope that's why you're taking this class, too. Because we need people to believe in change. If everyone believes it is too late—then yes, it is too late.”

He stops, looks around for another moment, then proceeds to assign the class homework for Wednesday, as if the whole conversation has made him angry and he wants to punish someone—a ten-page essay on the most important risk to this planet and what we plan to do about it.

I hear a murmur of protest throughout the room—and even though it's a topic I'm interested in, I'm wondering myself how I'll ever get this done by Wednesday—and then a loud sigh punctuates all the protests, putting a cross look on Professor Lindquist's face.

I turn my head, following the sigh. It came from a girl dressed head to toe in black, with pink hair, a series of rings in the curve of her upper ear, and a large hoop in her lip.

“Professor Lindquist,” she says, “that's only two days from now.”

“Very observant of you.”

“I mean, that's not much time.”

“This planet doesn't have much time either, wouldn't you agree?”

“Sure, I guess, but—”

“Then what are you waiting for?” He smiles, and when I look back, I catch the girl rolling her eyes.

“See you all Wednesday,” Lindquist says, and the class stampedes toward the door.

I gather my things and step out into the hall, where the pink-haired girl is scrolling through her phone. I'm watching her, taking in all the jewelry, thinking of my own bare neck, wrists, and earlobes, when she looks up and catches me staring.

She glares, then actually takes a step toward me, asking, “Is there a problem?”

“No,” I say quickly. I resist the urge to step back, away from her, but I'm glad that I'm wearing my running shoes—the only shoes I have—just in case I need them in another second or two.

She looks me up and down. “Go save the whales or something,” she mutters with a sneer, then turns away.

Suddenly I'm angry—what have I done to deserve that comment, except ask a couple of questions in class? She's already walking away, but I don't let it go. “At least my hair's not an endangered species,” I say to her back.

She spins around. “
What?
”

“Didn't that look go out in the eighties?” I say. “I didn't think there were any of you left.”

She steps close again, and I'm about to turn around and put my Brooks shoes to good use—and then she bursts out laughing. She reaches out and punches my shoulder in what I think is supposed to be a chummy way, but it nearly knocks me off my feet.

“You're funny,” she says. “What's your name, anyway?”

“Kat.”

“I'm Lucy,” she says. “Are you new here? I haven't seen you around.”

I nod. “This is my first class. I'm not full-time yet.”

“Lucky you. Less homework.”

“Well, I do have a job outside of here.”

“Where at?”

“Lithia Runners.”

“Up on Main Street, right?”

“Yep.”

“I've often thought about going in there.”

“I can get you a discount,” I say.

“Not to shop. No way. I just thought there'd be a lot of hot, buff guys in there.”

I smile. “Well, what if one of these buff guys wants to go running with you?”

“Me? I don't think so.” She shakes her head. “Exercise and I do not mix. Not a good look for me, running shoes and tank tops. I'm good at running my mouth, but that's about it.”

We walk out of the building and toward the quad. “Maybe we could work on that paper together,” I suggest. “Just talk about ideas and stuff like that.”

“Yeah, why not. Misery loves company.” She looks at me. “What are you doing now? Do you have to go to work or run a marathon or something?”

“No. I've got the afternoon off. To study.”

“Good. If we've got to do this paper, let's at least go get a mocha. With lots of whipped cream.”

“As long as they have soy milk.”

She rolls her eyes. “Health freak,” she accuses.

“Sloth,” I say back.

And she bursts out laughing all over again

~

Lucy and I sit at a table in an outdoor courtyard near the café, and I begin to feel almost as if I fit in as the other students pass by, carrying travel mugs and backpacks and staring at cell phones.

Lucy tells me she's a drama major. She's here for the summer because the drama department puts on a play every August. “That's the only reason I'm taking summer classes,” she says. “With less students around, the odds of me getting a part go up and, best of all, I hear the director of the Lithia Theater even attends. I'm hoping he'll notice me.”

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“LA,” she says. “You'd figure I'd go to school there, right? But my folks are purists. They want me to actually
learn
how to act before I return to LA. I keep telling them that most people in that town can't act to save their lives, and they do just fine.”

“So how did you end up in environmental studies?”

“I'm not sure,” she says. “We're required to take two science classes, and I figured this would get that requirement out of the way without me actually having to mess with beakers or numbers.”