Page 5 of Run
I keep staring at him and he lets out a dramatic sigh. “Dang, girl. You gotta lighten up. It’s another nickname. You’ve got fiery hair, like your attitude—red.”
I look down and then plod across the rocks toward the grassy floor of the outer woods that lead back to the wheat fields. I don’t even wince as the stones prick my bare feet. Ethan is only a step behind, and seems grateful when we walk along the edge of the field instead of running straight through it like we did before.
“You OK to go home?” he asks when we get to the edge of the yard.
I sigh. “Papa will be asleep by now. I’ll go in and start making dinner. That will make him happy.”
As I start to take a few steps away from Ethan and toward my house, he puts an arm around my shoulder—causing me to stiffen—and says, “Let me just show you something.” He pivots us and points toward the back of his house. “See the third window?”
I look back at him for a second, then at the house. I count one, two, three windows as he starts talking again. “The first two windows are to the kitchen and dining area. But the third window is to my bedroom.” He turns to me and puts both hands on my shoulders and with our height difference has to bend down a little to look me in the eyes. “You ever need me, you ever need a place to hide, you come knock on my window. OK?”
I nod.
Ethan pulls away, then ruffles my hair with one of his hands. “See you later, Ari.”
After he disappears into his house, I turn and head toward mine, but instead of going inside, I go around the front and sit in the yard for a little while just to make sure Papa is sound asleep before I enter. And as I sit here, I find myself reaching a hand up and running my fingers along my smile. It’s a smile I haven’t had in a long time. Maybe since Dad died.
A friend. I smile some more at the idea. I have two nicknames from my first real friend.
CHAPTER 2
ETHAN
“Damnit!” I grit through my teeth and slam the wrench down, squeezing the fingers I just pinched.
Fonz laughs from the other side of the garage.
“Yeah, laugh it up.” I’ve been trying to get the chain back on my bicycle gear for an hour now. “I thought you were coming over to help me.”
Fonz licks orange dust off his sticky fingers before plunging them back into the Doritos bag and shoving more chips in his face, then says around a mouthful, “Yeah, but it’s so much fun watching you struggle.”
I throw the wrench in his direction, purposely missing him.
Fonz—well, Alfonso—and I met a few days after my family moved here. I had ridden my bike about a half a mile down theroad when I came to another few houses and saw him dangling from a tree branch in his front yard. He landed in a crouch, like some kind of jungle cat, then shot his head up and looked right at me. “I’ve been working on that landing for weeks,” he shouted. “How’d it look?”
“Uh, good, I guess,” I yelled back.
“My mom says I’m gonna break my neck one of these days,” said the boy with the tanned skin and short-cropped auburn hair. I guessed he was my age.
I was right.
Fonz joined me on his bike that afternoon and we became fast friends. We take turns riding to one another’s house, or going on adventures out in the countryside. That is, we did, until my damn bike chain snapped and caused me to go tumbling onto the gravel on the side of the road this afternoon. I had to walk it back to the house, and garage, where we are now trying to fix it.
Or at least I was trying to fix it.
Fonz hops off the stool he’s been perched on and goes to adjust the radio sitting on the workbench. “Touch that and die,” I say without even turning to look at him.
“Oh, come on! You’re killing me with this country crap.”
“Don’t knock the country.” I pull the chain over the gear and try to line up the holes and grooves.
“Oh, why? You think someone is really going to thinkyour tractor’s sexyyyy?” Fonz teases as he swivels his hips like Elvis.
That has me laughing. There is something ridiculous about a Spanish kid dancing like Elvis to a country song. In fact, it has me laughing so hard I start swiveling my hips, too. Hands on my waist, I sing along.I do a twist-jump, and stop dead in my tracks when I see Ari standing in front of the open garage door. Her hand is on her mouth, attempting to hide a giggle. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail again, and she’s wearing cutoff jean shorts and a blue T-shirt that’s about three sizes too big.
I’m not sure what she reads on my face, but whatever it is, it makes her freeze. “S-sorry,” she stammers nervously, probably thinking I’m mad.
And she knows what happens when she makes someone mad.
