Run

  Bo’s hand closed around mine. “Let’s go, Agnes.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mrs. Dickinson said. “Is that why she’s here? You fucking her, too? Gone through all the men in town, so you gotta start sleeping with girls, too?”

  “Come on,” Bo said to me. She tugged my hand and started leading me away, down a hallway I hadn’t even noticed before.

  “Don’t you walk away from me!”

  There was a loud thud and the sound of glass shattering behind me.

  Close behind me.

  Bo yanked me harder, and we started running toward the trailer’s back door.

  “You leave, you better not come back tonight! You hear me, you little dyke?” Mrs. Dickinson hollered just as Bo threw open the back door and we tumbled out, down another set of cement stairs, with Utah at our heels.

  Bo didn’t even bother shutting the door behind us, so we could still hear her mother yelling as we ran, fast as we could, into the woods.

  Our shoes slapped against the frozen ground and the December wind stung our faces as we bolted through the woods. We didn’t stop until we reached the clearing, the place where Bo had come across me lost in the grass the day my parents drove Gracie to college. So much had changed for Bo and me since then that it felt like a lifetime had passed, not just a few months.

  Bo let go of my hand and I slumped against a tree, panting to catch my breath. It was light out, but the sky was overcast and gray. Still, I could see Bo standing a few feet away, unmoving, arms wrapped around herself while Utah sniffed at the ground around us.

  We were quiet for a long time, just standing there, shivering. I felt like I ought to say something, but I wasn’t sure what. I had lots of questions, lots of concerns about Bo and her mom, but it felt wrong to ask. Still, the quiet was getting to me. So I said the first thing—the only thing—I could think of.

  “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

  She hesitated, and I wondered if maybe she’d get mad at me for trying to start our game at a time like this. But after a second she said, “You first.”

  “Um … Sometimes—not too often, but sometimes—I trip people with my cane on purpose, then act like it was an accident, like I didn’t see them, so they can’t get mad at me.”

  She chuckled. Just a little. Short and quiet.

  “I did it to Isaac Porter last week.”

  Her laugh was a little louder this time.

  “In church.”

  She really cracked up then. It only lasted a second, but her giggle filled me with relief. And I told myself it was gonna be okay. As long as I could make her laugh, make her smile, everything would be okay.

  “You’re going to hell,” she teased.

  “What? No. Don’t you know? Poor little blind girls never go to hell. We’re all angels.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I must’ve forgot.” She walked over to the tree and leaned against the large trunk, her shoulder brushing my arm. “Guess it’s my turn now, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “I … have been in foster care before.”

  I turned to look at her, surprised. “Really? When?”

  “Summer before eighth grade. Mama got arrested. Possession, I think. Don’t really remember. But social workers came and got me in the middle of the night. I begged them to take me to my dad, but they said they didn’t know where he was at. I ain’t sure how hard they really looked, but … they took me to this house about an hour from here … I was only there a couple weeks, until she got out on bail, but … it was awful.”

  I felt the dull ache of dread in my stomach, and I groped for her hand, squeezed it. It was bare and felt cold, even through my glove.

  “There were a lotta kids there. Some, like me, were only there a few days. Some had been there for years. There were a couple babies, too. They cried all the time. And the older kids were always fighting. I saw one of them pull a knife on the other. But the foster parents didn’t do nothing about it. They wanted nothing to do with us. Well, except the dad. He was always walking in on the girls while we were changing or …”

  She trailed off, and as awful as it sounds, I was glad. I didn’t think I could hear any more. I already felt sick, just trying to imagine what living like that might be like. And, deep down, I felt guilty. Guilty because I’d always had a safe home, because I’d never had to worry about knives or creepy dads. And I’d never even thought to be grateful for that before.

  “Living with Mama’s no picnic, but I’m so scared, Agnes. That’s why I’m always listening to that police scanner. I’m always waiting to hear her name. I’m so scared she’s gonna get arrested again. If she does …”

  When she didn’t finish the sentence, I pushed. “What?”

  “I can’t do it again,” she murmured. “If she’s arrested again, I’m taking off. I ain’t gonna stick around and wait for CPS to come get me.”

  “Oh …”

  We were both quiet again, then Bo said, her voice shaking, “You know … what she said … about me and you. Agnes, I don’t—just because I like girls, too, don’t mean I—”

  “I know.”

  “I just don’t want you worrying that I—”

  “I don’t,” I assured her.

  And it was true. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about Bo’s secret. We hadn’t talked about it since that first night in my bedroom. But as uncertain as I felt, this was not something that had ever crossed my mind or made me uncomfortable. I knew her better than that.

  “I just—”

  “Bo, you don’t have to explain to me. Ever.”

  “Good.” She sighed. “That’s just another reason I can’t tell nobody but you. Everyone around here already thinks I’m a slut. If they got wind I liked girls, too, they’d think I was going around trying to fuck everybody. Even my own mama thinks so.”

  “Bo …”

  “It’s all right,” she said.

  But it wasn’t. It definitely wasn’t all right.

  Bo was always so strong, so tough, that hearing her voice shake like that, hearing the pain and the fear, just about killed me.

  I wanted to hurt everyone who’d ever hurt her. I wanted to go back to that trailer and cause her mama the kind of pain her words had caused Bo. I wanted to hunt down and punish every goddamn gossip who’d ever spread the rumors about her, called her names, made her feel ashamed and alone. Even if that was just about everyone in Mursey.

  Even if it included me.

  The thought made my heart drop into my stomach. I’d only been friends with Bo for a few months, but the memory of standing with Christy on the steps of the church, being one of those town gossips myself, felt like a different lifetime. And now, the idea of her going anywhere, of her leaving me, was about the scariest thing I could imagine.

  “Bo … would you really run away?” I asked after another long, quiet stretch.

  “I don’t want to,” she said. “But … yeah. If I got to, I’ll run.”

  There are sirens blaring by the time we get back to the car. I toss Utah into the back while Agnes dives into the front seat. It ain’t a second later that our tires are squealing and the car is speeding into the dark.

  For a while, the only sound in the car is our heavy breathing. And as I drive, I can feel my eye starting to swell.

  “Well,” Agnes says after ten minutes or so. “What’s next?”

  “That wasn’t enough for you?”

  She laughs. “That’s not what I meant. But it’s late and we can’t just show up at your dad’s house in the middle of the night. We ought to park somewhere and find some place to sleep.”

  I almost argue, because we ain’t gone very far today, but I don’t. Not because showing up at Daddy’s after midnight is such a bad idea—it don’t really matter what time I show up—but because, even after what just happened, I ain’t ready for all this to end just yet.

  So I find a gravel road that seems real deserted. It weaves like a thread through a thick patch of woods. I follow it a
bout a mile in, the car bouncing along, tossing us around a bit, before I pull off to the side. We park beneath a small patch of moonlight that’s bleeding through the leaves.

  I shut off the car and we lean our seats way back. Utah shifts in the backseat, trying to get comfortable.

  “Bo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Fight that guy.”

  I turn my head to look at her. “You heard what he called you.”

  “Yeah, I know, but …” She pauses, then rolls to face me, too, even though I know she can’t see nothing in this dark. “People call you names all the time. And you don’t do anything about it. I used to think it didn’t hurt you at all, but now …”

  I swallow. She ain’t gotta finish the sentence.

  … but now I know you’re weak.

  Maybe that’s not how she’d say it, but it’s the truth. I might be loud and crude sometimes, but I bruise easy, and I don’t heal real well. But I told her that a long time ago—that I was no Loretta Lynn.

  “The only times I’ve ever seen you get into a fight—or get close—were when people said rude things about me or your mama. How come?”

  “I dunno,” I say. “Guess it’s just easier to fight for people I love.”

  “Do … do you love your mama?”

  I’m surprised by her asking, and I think she is, too. Because she immediately starts talking again.

  “Sorry. That’s an awful thing to ask. Of course you do. I just—”

  “I … love her when she’s sober,” I say. “Lately that’s not real often, but … she’s not always so bad.”

  Every so often, Mama would stay clean for a week. Maybe two, if I was lucky. And things would start out good. She’d offer to take me and Colt to the movies in the next town, even though we barely had the money to pay for electricity. She’d start a new job at the grocery store or doing telemarketing, and she’d come home all happy and excited about it. She’d even cook and ask me to help, the way Daddy used to, and we’d sit on the sofa together, watching our old black-and-white TV with the bad reception.

  And for a day or two … or three, we’d be a real mother and daughter.

  I loved that side of Mama.

  But when she was using, when she called me a slut or asked my best friend for money, she got a little harder to love.

  “Well,” Agnes says, “thank you. No one’s ever really fought for me before. Except Mama, I guess.”

  “Your mama’s gotten into a fight?”

  Agnes chuckles. “Not like that. Not with fists or anything. You know … like if the school isn’t helping me with the stuff I need or if some restaurant don’t have a braille menu—that’s when she fights.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  I hate myself for asking, because I ain’t sure what I want the answer to be.

  Agnes thinks for a while. “Yeah. I do. This is the longest I’ve been away from her or Daddy. So it’s just kind of strange, you know? To be away from them. Even if it is what I wanted—what I still want.”

  I don’t say anything to that.

  For a minute, the only sounds are the cicadas and the soft hoot of an owl overhead.

  “Hey,” Agnes says. “You brought that book of poetry, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you read one?”

  I almost laugh. “It’s not bright enough to read.”

  “Really?” She sounds surprised. “Wow. I guess sometimes I’m still confused by how much y’all sighted people can see. Maybe just as confused as y’all are about how much I see. So moonlight’s not enough to read by?”

  “Maybe if it’s full moon. And a clear night. But usually not.”

  “I guess I learn something new every day.”

  We both laugh, then Agnes yawns.

  “Probably for the best. We ought to get some sleep.”

  “Yeah. All right.”

  “Good night, Bo.”

  “Night.”

  But while Agnes starts snoring within a couple minutes, it takes me a while to fall asleep. It ain’t my first time sleeping in a car, but it never gets easier. Not because it’s uncomfortable—I can handle that—but because it’s too quiet.

  I ain’t gone a night sleeping without the TV turned on in years. I think I started keeping it on after Daddy left. The voices, even turned down low, just made me feel safer. Less alone.

  But now there’s no TV. Just Agnes’s snoring and some crickets chirping, and it ain’t enough to help me sleep.

  I think of turning on the car, playing the radio, but it’d kill the battery. So I just have to lie here, in the quiet, trying to ignore that familiar ache of loneliness and the guilty voices in my head.

  We had our first fight on New Year’s Eve.

  It was only a couple days before Colt would be moving out of Mursey and starting his new job, so Bo had suggested the three of us go to Tanner Oakley’s party. The only trouble was, there was no way Mama would agree to me staying out until after midnight. Not at a party. Not anywhere.

  I’d pretty much written off the idea until the Thursday night before, when Daddy had asked, “So, honey. I know y’all have had your differences lately, but are you staying at Christy’s for New Year’s? It’s sort of your tradition, right?”

  “Uh, no, I …” But then it hit me. If my parents thought I was staying at Christy’s, I’d be able to stay out all night without worrying about a curfew or anything. So I cleared my throat. “I mean, yeah. We worked things out. I, uh … I think she’s volunteering at the church that day, so if you could just drop me off there, I’ll leave with her.”

  “No problem,” Mama said. “I’m glad you two worked it out.”

  “Me too.”

  Good old Christy—doing me more favors now than in the ten years we’d been best friends.

  Bo and Colt picked me up at the church, then we headed over to Tanner’s. The plan was for us to ring in the New Year there before heading back to Colt’s place. We were gonna have popcorn and watch movies and stay up all night.

  Unfortunately, things went downhill before we got to any of that.

  It was close to midnight, and Colt and Bo had stayed sober. Colt was the designated driver, but Bo, I realized, never seemed to drink. Me, on the other hand, I’d had a couple already. And while I wasn’t quite drunk, I think the combination of alcohol and me being sadder than I expected about Colt moving away was partly to blame for some of what got said that night.

  “We could go in February. You can get a few days off, right, Colt?”

  We were standing in Tanner’s kitchen, leaned up against the counter while George Jones’s “He Stopped Loving Her Today” played on a radio in the corner. Not exactly party music. I took another drink from my red cup, trying to hide the frustration I was feeling.

  Bo hadn’t given up on that road trip to Nashville she’d suggested months ago. I’d tried to tell her more than once since then that I didn’t think it could happen, but I guess it wasn’t sinking in, because she just kept at it. She made all sorts of plans about the places we’d see and the route we’d take and how good it would feel to get out of Mursey.

  And I wanted all that. I wanted it so bad.

  Which was the reason I was getting so annoyed. It was bad enough to be trapped here, but worse when Bo kept acting like there was some chance of escape.

  I just wanted her to stop.

  “Don’t y’all have school?” Colt asked.

  “Since when do you care about school?” Bo asked, laughing.

  “Agnes might care.”

  “Agnes wants to get out of town as much as I do.”

  “Agnes can talk,” I said.

  “Good,” Bo said. “Then tell him why we gotta go to Nashville.”

  “No.”

  “What?” Bo sounded surprised, but I didn’t know how she could be.

  “I’m not going to Nashville with you, Bo.” It came out harsher than I’d meant
it. Apparently, a couple beers made me a little mean.

  “Why not?” she asked. “This was our plan.”

  “No. It’s your plan,” I said. “There’s no way my parents will let me. You know how they are.”

  “You ain’t even asked them yet,” she pointed out, still sounding confident. “It’s just Nashville. It ain’t that far.”

  “Bo, I had to lie to even be here tonight,” I reminded her. “They’re never gonna let me go to Nashville for a week, during the school year. Not with you. Not with anybody. It’s never gonna happen.”

  “You ain’t even asked them,” she repeated. And now she sounded like the one who was frustrated.

  “All right,” Colt said, his voice tinged with a hint of nervous laughter. “Maybe we should—”

  “I don’t gotta ask them. There’s no point.”

  “You’re always talking about wanting to get out of Mursey.” She was getting mad now. Her voice raising just a little bit, but enough that I noticed. “Well, here’s your chance. Why’re we arguing about it?”

  I slammed my cup down on the counter, sloshing beer onto the sleeve of my sweater. “Because not everyone can just take off for a week and leave the state, Bo. Not everyone can just decide when they wanna skip school in the morning and know no one’s gonna punish them. Some of us actually have families that give a shit about us.”

  I knew the second I said it that I shouldn’t have.

  I could blame it on the beer if I wanted. Or on my weird, secret crush on Colt making me crazy and clouding my judgment. But deep down, I knew it was mostly me. Me and my jealousy. Not of Bo’s situation with her parents—I didn’t want that—but of the freedom it gave her. Of the fact that she really thought she could just go to Nashville for a few days. No worries. No consequences. I didn’t have that. Nothing close to that. And the more Bo talked about these plans, the more angry and jealous I got.

  But now, I’d crossed the line.

  For a minute, no one spoke. There was no sound but the radio and some drunk boys singing in the next room.

  Then Bo pushed herself away from the counter. “Happy fucking New Year,” she muttered.