Page 3 of Run
The girl nods to another big rock, and I take the hint and sit down, pull off my sneakers and socks, and start scooping waterover my legs. Everything below my athletic shorts—everything that was exposed—burns like the dickens.
“Is that from the wheat?” I ask.
She nods.
“It’s like getting freaking whipped!”
Another nod.
“Gahhhh!” I shriek again. Red lines start to appear on my arms, as well. “Why on earth did you run through it, then, if you knew this was going to happen? And why did you make me come with you? And …” I look down at her bare feet and around the ground near where she’s sitting, “where are your shoes?”
She looks up at me like she wants to smile, but doesn’t. It’s like she can’t. Scooping up more water and dribbling it over her legs, the redness is already starting to go down. Good. Maybe my legs will stop burning soon.
“You do that a lot?” I ask, and she just shrugs her shoulders.
Realizing I’m not going to get much out of her, I try a different approach. “Arlene? Is that your name? Is that what your dad called you?” She stills and shakes her head. Little wisps of red hair cling to the sides of her face. “You’re not Arlene? That’s not what he called you?”
She doesn’t look at me.
Exasperated, I stand up and—as delicately as possible—make my way across the jagged rocks toward the girl. Stepping on a particularly pointy one, I hiss, “Sonofabitch!” The girl giggles, and it’s an adorable sound that makes me whip my head in her direction. I get closer, crouch down, and place a hand on her shoulder, which causes her to rear back and almost fall off the rock she’s sitting on.
“Whoa! Calm down.” I pull back, realizing she’s scared. Like a spooked horse. “I wasn’t trying anything. I was just …” and then I see bruised skin on her neck and shoulder where her shirt gottugged away. “Your dad do that to you?” I nod my chin toward the bruises.
She just stares at the water in front of her, and her throat moves with a swallow.
“Well”—I start pulling my T-shirt up—“guess it’s only fair that, since you showed me yours, I show you mine.” I pull my shirt over my shoulders, leaving it around my neck, and turn around so she can see my back and shoulders. I hear a harsh intake of air.
Yeah, girl. I get it.
ARI
The nice boy has bruises just like me. Our eyes lock as he pulls his shirt back down and turns around again. His shaggy brown hair almost covers his eyes—eyes that are chocolate brown and, despite their dark color, somehow warm and … kind. There’s a scar on his upper lip. It goes from his left nostril down to his mouth, and I wonder if he got it from his dad or if he was born with it.
He shifts on his feet, probably because the rocks are poking into them, and grunts a little. Then he gestures to the side of the rock I’m sitting on. “You mind if I sit?”
I scoot over a few inches.
“Thanks.” Leaning his elbows on his knees, he’s angled away from me. “So, I guess you don’t talk much, huh? It’s OK. I get it. I bet you aren’t treated too nicely when you speak, huh?” I snap my head in his direction, but he’s not looking at me. “When you can never seem to say the right thing and you get hit for it, you learn real quick not to say too much. Right?”
Suddenly, words breach my lips. “He’s not my dad but he insists I call him Papa.”
The boy’s shoulders tense in surprise. “So, who is he, then?”
I twist my fingers in my lap. “My mom gave me up when I was born, so my dad and his wife took care of me.” The boy’s eyebrows pinch together. “My mom wasn’t married to my dad. He was married to someone else. Papa always says my mom was retarded, and I tell him that’s not a nice word and he shouldn’t say it. Well, I used to tell him that. Now I just don’t say anything.”
A minute passes in silence.
“So, then whoisPapa?” the boy asks.
I stand when I spot a crayfish and take slow steps into the ankle-deep water, then quickly dip down and pluck it out of the stream with my pointer finger and thumb.
“Geez Louise!” the boy exclaims. “What the heck is that thing?”
“It’s a crayfish.” I examine it closely, then place it back in the water, turn, and walk back to the rock to sit. “Papa is my stepmom’s boyfriend. My dad died.”
The boy nods and shifts a little on the rock, causing our shoulders to touch. “That’s complicated.” I nod. “That’s …” He blows out a breath. “Wow.”
Another nod.
