Page 9 of Run
“Is that your dad?”
“He looks like he belongs in jail.”
They all start cackling.
But suddenly they stop, and I can feel why.
“Hello, ladies,” Papa’s voice sounds from beside me before I feel his hand on my neck again. “I’ve always wanted to meet some of Arlene’s friends.”
They burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Papa asks, looking each of them in the eye.
“Oh, nothing,” says Jessica. “We’re super friends, aren’t we, Arlene?”
“Yeah, Arlene,” adds the other girl with a grin. “By the way, I just love your name.”
Papa takes another drink of the beer in his hand and swallows hard. “Something wrong, girls?” He pushes me forward by my neck. “Because it seems like you’re laughing at my girl, here, and I’m sure she’s never been anything but nice to you. Ain’t that right, Arlene?”
I swallow and nod. Just as Papa’s lips start to form more words, an older girl approaches and I recognize her as Chloe’s older sister, Catherine.“Everything alright over here?”
Papa’s hand tightens around my neck as he begins to steer me away from the crowd, but not before I hear a familiar voice. “There you are,” Ethan says. He’s saddling up next to Catherine, and he follows her line of sight over to me and Papa. “Oh, hey!”he says, this time to me, unaware of the scene we just caused. “I didn’t know you were coming, Ari. We could have ridden the carousel together!”
As much as that warms my heart, I’m too aware of Papa’s hand on my neck. “We were just leaving.” I swivel under Papa’s hand and start to walk away.
“Hey, wait!” Ethan comes up behind us, and Papa and I both stop. “You, uh …” Ethan darts his eyes toward Papa, then back to me. “You OK?”
I give a tight smile, and then Papa and I make our way around Ethan and toward the car.
When we get home, Papa pulls into the driveway, turns the engine off, and opens his door. Before he shuts it, he pokes his head inside and looks at me in the back seat. “Come with me, girl. I want to teach you something.”
I follow him around to the detached garage out back. The motion light is shining down on the gravel in front of the garage as I approach and see Papa pull the cord to turn on the light bulb inside, illuminating the small, crowded space.
The concrete floor is grease-stained and cracked. An uneven workbench rests along the side wall and is topped with random tools, screws, batteries and other junk. An old refrigerator hums against the opposite wall, which is next to stacked boxes of Christmas decorations that we didn’t even take out last year. The entire garage smells like gasoline.
“Now, listen,” Papa starts in, heading to the refrigerator and pulling out a beer. “Everyone—not just boys—needs to know how to stand up to bullies.” He pulls the tab on the top of the beer can and cracks it open, then takes a long drink. “And them girls, the ones we saw tonight, they’re bullies. And I know those girls are bigger than you, but you’re scrappy. OK? You’re quick and you just gotta be one step ahead of them. Here, put your fists up, like this.” Papa makes a fighting stance.
I clench my fists at my sides and shuffle my feet against the stained concrete. “Umm …” I hesitate and look out through the open garage door. The motion light has gone off, and I can barely see the wheat field beyond the darkness.
Against the chirping of crickets, Papa speaks up. “Don’t‘umm’me, kid. Put your hands up, like this.” He shakes his fists in front of me. I try to copy him, but he rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, girl.” Standing straight up and grabbing one of my hands, he moves the thumb from the side of my fist so that it’s in front of my curled fingers.
“OK, now”—he puts his fists back up in front of him—“hands like this.”
I copy him, putting my closed hands in front of my face in a pathetic attempt to look tough.
“Good, now bend your knees.” Papa crouches down, bouncing a bit.
I do the same.
“Good!” I feel a sense of pride at his praise. “Now, come at me!” he says, waving me toward him with his fists.
“I, um … I don’t know how.”
“Come on, just take a swing at me. Just, pull back and come at me!”
I lunge at him lamely, stumbling forward but managing to keep my feet under me.
“Good grief, kid,” Papa grumbles. “You can do better than that. Try and hit me. Come on!” He lunges at me and hurls a fist right at my face. It connects, but it’s not enough to really hurt me. I take a few steps back from the shock of it, but quickly recover.
