Run

  Once they’re out the door, Colt turns to me. “You sure you wanna do this?” he asks.

  “What other choice do I got?”

  He don’t answer. Because he knows there ain’t no other choice. Not really. Going home’s not an option now. All I can do is keep running.

  After a second, he sighs. “Fuck. There really ain’t no winning here, is there?”

  I shake my head. “There never is for us.”

  He almost smiles. Then he looks down at his bare feet on the carpet. “Bo, you know I’d let you stay here, but—”

  “I ain’t gonna do that to you. You finally got out. Got away from all this. I already done enough damage making you call your dad. I can’t drag you down no more.”

  He looks up, and I wonder if he recognizes the words I just used. Repeating back what he said to Agnes last night. But if he does, he don’t show it. “I wanted to get you out of there, too,” he says. “It’s always been my plan, you know. To get settled in and … I dunno. Save some money so I could get you out of Mursey, too. Get you away from all that.”

  “Well, this is my way of doing it myself. Might not be the best way, but I don’t got another choice.”

  He looks like he might argue, but the door opens and Agnes comes back in with Utah.

  “All right,” she says. “Are we ready?”

  I stand up and tuck the book of maps under my arm. I grab our bags and head toward the front door.

  Colt follows me. He gives Agnes a hug that lasts a second too long, and I see her whisper something in his ear. After he lets her go, Colt turns to me. He puts his arms around me and pulls me in, and I damn near start to cry. He holds me tight, tighter than he has before. I know he’s worried, and I hate it. I don’t wanna hurt him. Since I can remember, Colt’s been the only person I’ve ever really loved. The only one who’s loved me back.

  Until Agnes.

  “Be careful,” he whispers.

  Then, slowly, he lets go.

  Outside, in the parking lot, Agnes uses her cane to find her way to the passenger’s side of the Reliant K. “So we’re going almost all the way across the state, right? Think there will be any cool things to see along the way? How far are we gonna be from Cumberland Falls?”

  I stop at the driver’s-side door, Utah’s leash in one hand, car keys in the other.

  When I don’t move for a second, she asks, “Are you gonna open the door?”

  “Listen, Agnes … You ain’t gotta come with me if you don’t want. It’s a long drive, and I’m sure Colt’ll take you back to Mursey if you want him to. I won’t be mad if you don’t come, so—”

  “What’re you talking about?” she asks, staring at me over the roof of the car. “Of course I’m coming. Don’t you want me to?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  More than anything. The idea of going alone scares the shit out of me. But I gotta give her an out. I’m a good enough person to do that.

  “Well, then, unlock the car,” she says. “Because you and me have a long way to go.”

  “Okay.” I unlock the car and watch her climb inside.

  Because I’m a good enough person to give her an out, but I ain’t good enough to make her take it.

  Bo wasn’t at school on Monday. At least, I couldn’t find her. I searched, looking for a glimpse of that red-gold hair. I listened, hoping to hear her voice in the halls. But instead, all I heard were the whispers.

  Word had gotten out about what I’d said in Sunday school class, which wasn’t surprising considering who I’d said it to. In all the years I’d known Christy, I’d never known her to keep gossip to herself. Especially if it might get her any kind of sympathy. I was worried everyone would be mad at me. And maybe some people were. But some were … impressed.

  “Is it true?” Dana Hickman asked when she found me in the library, sitting alone with my history book and a magnifier during lunch. “Did you really tell Christy she was going to hell in the middle of church?”

  “Um … I guess. Something like that.”

  “Damn, Agnes,” she said. “And partying with Dickinsons on Friday? Didn’t think you had it in you.”

  She wasn’t the only one who felt that way, apparently. A few others said the same thing throughout the day. Even Andrew brought it up when I ran into him out in the parking lot after school, while I was waiting for Mama to come pick me up.

  “You’re not the girl I thought you were, Agnes.”

  It didn’t seem likely he meant that as a compliment, all things considered, but it felt like one. You don’t realize how much people underestimate you until they start … estimating you. For the first time, the people at school weren’t seeing me as Agnes, the poor, sweet little blind girl.

  And I wasn’t seeing myself that way, either.

  When Mama and I got home, I decided to do my homework on the front porch. It was so nice outside, just slightly cool and not humid at all. Perfect early-autumn weather. And the house felt stifling. It wasn’t sudden. It had been creeping up on me for a while, this feeling of being caged. But you don’t always know something is choking you until it’s already too tight and you can’t breathe real well. That’s what the house felt like now.

  So I took one of my special notebooks—one of the ones full of paper that had lines so thick and dark that even I could see where I ought to write. Lines on regular notebook paper were too thin, too light, and I always ended up with sentences that sloped down the page like wilting flowers.

  But with my special paper and a felt-tip pen, I could usually write an essay that was at least somewhat legible. Today’s essay was for English, a line-by-line analysis of a poem of my choosing. Considering Bo had been on my mind all day, it wasn’t a surprise I’d chosen something by Emily Dickinson.

  I uncapped my pen and wrote the first couple lines.

  Behind Me—dips Eternity—

  Before Me—Immortality—

  I stopped and tapped my chin with my pen, thinking of what to write, what my analysis of these words were. I wondered what Bo’s thoughts on the poem would be.

  And then, like that thought had conjured her, she was there.

  There was a car with a loud engine idling in front of our driveway, but I didn’t think much of it until I heard her voice, shouting my name out the window.

  “Agnes!”

  I didn’t have to look up. My heart started beating real fast, but, at the same time, I felt relieved. The way you feel when you finally get to take your bra off at the end of the day.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  “Who’s car do you have?” I hollered back.

  “Stole it.” I must have looked horrified, even all the way across the yard. “Jesus, I’m kidding. It’s my mama’s. And she knows I got it … Or, she will when she wakes up. But that ain’t gonna be for a while, I reckon. So come on.”

  I glanced at my front door. Mama had complained of a headache when we got home this afternoon, and she’d gone to lie down. And nobody wanted to wake Mama up when she had a headache. Not if they wanted to keep their own head intact.

  “Where would we be going?” I asked.

  “Nowhere far.”

  I knew I ought to tell Mama where I was going. She might be mad if she woke up and I was gone. But she’d also be mad if I woke her up for anything short of an emergency. And Gracie used to go out after school all the time with her friends. No one even expected her home until dinner.

  But I’d never gone out after school before. Not on a weeknight. I stayed home. Every day. Every night.

  “Agnes?” Bo called. “You coming or what?”

  I looked down at my notebook and the black, scratchy writing there.

  Behind Me—dips Eternity—

  Before Me—Immortality—

  I flipped the page, tore out a blank sheet, and scribbled a quick note to Mama. I ran inside, left the note on the counter, and grabbed my cane.

  “Ready?” Bo asked when I hopped down the front steps an
d moved toward the car.

  “Ready,” I answered.

  And I climbed inside, eager to see what lay before me.

  “Wow. Bet Christy didn’t like that too well,” she said when I told her the Sunday school story in the car.

  “Nope. She’s already told everyone in school. It’s funny, though. Some people are mad at me, sure. But most people, I think, were just surprised. They can’t believe I said it.”

  “How come?”

  “Well … partly because she’s my best friend.”

  Or was she?

  I hadn’t even questioned it until just then. But it seemed almost impossible that we could keep being best friends now. And, despite everything, I felt a pang of sadness at the realization. We’d been close for years. Since we were little. She’d been my first—my only—best friend. And while I wasn’t sure exactly how things would change in the long run, I knew they had to. I couldn’t imagine us just going back to sitting together at lunch and talking on the church steps on Sundays.

  But as sad and uncertain as I felt about my friendship with Christy, I was also excited. Because Bo and I were spending more time together, and whenever we did, it was like a shot of adrenaline. A combination of anticipation and relief, an overwhelming need to spend every second with her.

  I couldn’t remember ever feeling that way with Christy.

  “And also,” I continued, “I don’t know. I don’t think people expect that out of me. Everybody sees me as this sweet, innocent blind girl.”

  “What the hell does blind got to do with it?” Bo asked as we turned onto a gravel road. I still wasn’t sure where we were going.

  “I mean … it doesn’t, I guess.”

  Or maybe it did. I always got the feeling that was why people thought of me as sweet and innocent. Because I was blind. In stories, the injured, the weak, they were always good. Kind and innocent. More than once, I’d heard the women at my church describe me as “an angel.” They’d tell Mama that God only sent angels like me to parents he knew could handle the challenge. I was a precious gift to be taken care of.

  But I wasn’t an angel. I was just a kid who couldn’t see real well.

  “I don’t think of you that way,” Bo said.

  “You don’t?”

  “As a sweet, innocent blind girl? Nah. I mean, you’re nice and all. But you’re tough, too. I think you’re kind of a badass.”

  I laughed. Because there was no way that was true, no matter how much I wanted it to be. Telling off Christy was the only badass thing I’d done in my life. And even that had made me feel bad.

  Bo didn’t laugh, though. “I ain’t kidding,” she said. “I think you’re a Loretta.”

  “What?”

  “Loretta Lynn,” she said. “She’s nice—at least, I like to think she is—but she’s tough, too. She dealt with a lotta shit, but she just keeps going. You’re a Loretta.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I always related more to Tammy Wynette.”

  “Fuck that,” Bo said. “Tammy’s all right, but she ain’t got a backbone. She stands by her man. She’s a good girl, but she only goes bad to impress a guy. That ain’t you. You’re a Loretta.”

  I still thought she was wrong, but I didn’t argue. Instead, I asked, “And who are you?”

  “Me?” She sighed. “I’m a Patsy.”

  Patsy Cline. I sat there in the passenger’s seat, trying to think of her reasoning behind this. To me, Bo seemed more like a Loretta. She was loud and didn’t take crap from anybody. But Patsy … was so sad. Her songs were about missing people, being lonely, yearning. I wanted to ask her why. Why Patsy? But, somehow, that silly question felt almost too personal.

  Besides, the car was slowing down. I stared out the window, wondering where we were, but all I could see were trees and, straight ahead of us—

  “Are we at the river?”

  “Sure are.” Bo cut the engine and climbed out of the car.

  I didn’t know what to do at first. I wasn’t sure why we’d just gone to the river. There was nothing to do here. Nothing interesting. It was the river that separated Mursey from the next town over. We’d all been there. All fished on it. There was no reason to go there if you didn’t have a boat and some live bait.

  But Bo was getting something out of the trunk, so I climbed out of the car and just stood there, next to the door.

  “I got you something,” she said, shutting the trunk.

  “What?”

  She walked over to me and held out the thing she’d gotten from the trunk. I reached out, my eyes not really processing it as more than a box. But then I understood.

  “Beer?”

  “You said you wanted to try one,” she said. “Here’s twelve. But drinking them all at once probably ain’t such a good idea.”

  “Where did you get these?” I asked.

  “My fridge. They’re Mama’s. She ain’t gonna miss them. I’ll just tell her one of her boyfriends drank them.”

  We sat on the hood of the car, our backs pressed to the windshield as I popped open my first beer. Bo hadn’t taken one, probably because she was driving. And, even though I didn’t know much about alcohol, I knew for someone as tiny as Bo, it probably wouldn’t take much to get drunk.

  I sniffed the open can. The odor was strong and familiar. One I’d smelled a million times on hot days when Daddy opened a cold can before watching a ball game. Part of me was still nervous, still worried about breaking the rules. But it didn’t seem as scary drinking with just Bo. It felt safer than the party. And, she’d just told me I was a badass.

  Slowly, I lifted the can to my lips and took a sip.

  And gagged.

  “Ugh.”

  “No good?” Bo asked.

  “It’s kinda what I’d imagine pee tastes like,” I said. “Why do people drink it?”

  “Guess they ain’t too worried about the taste.”

  “It’s awful.”

  But I took another sip. And another.

  “How come you weren’t at school today?” I asked.

  “Dunno. Didn’t feel like it.”

  “Oh.”

  She said it so casually. Like this was a choice she got to make every day. She’d wake up in the morning and choose whether she wanted to eat cereal or Pop-Tarts, to wear the pink shirt or the blue, to go to school or to not. Bo didn’t seem to have any rules. She could spend the night without asking permission, take her mama’s car, and basically do whatever she wanted. No one seemed to care.

  Well, not no one. In a way, I guess everyone cared. What with the whole town keeping an eye on Bo and all. Judging her for every little thing she did. And even some things she didn’t do.

  Still, Bo was free.

  “Tell me something I don’t know about you,” she said. It was the same thing she’d said Friday night in my bedroom, when I’d told her I’d wanted to have a drink at the party.

  I took another sip of the beer. A longer one this time. The taste was still bad, but it didn’t make me gag. “Um … Well …”

  Once again, I was having a hard time thinking of anything cool or interesting. But I remembered Bo’s answer last time. The secret she’d told me. She hadn’t tried to impress me. She’d just been honest.

  “I’ve never kissed anyone,” I said finally.

  She didn’t laugh. Or say “Awww.” Or try and make me feel better about it. She just asked, “Is there somebody you wanna be kissing?”

  “Maybe …”

  Truth was, I’d been thinking about Colt a lot since the party and that dance. The night before, I’d laid in bed remembering the way his hands felt on me and trying to imagine what it would feel like to kiss him. Then I’d just rolled over and tried to push the thought out of my head. Colt Dickinson was moving away soon. He wouldn’t be interested in kissing a high school girl. Especially not me. And, even if he were, he was still Colt Dickinson. He wasn’t the kind of boy you had a first kiss with.

  I didn’t wanna tell Bo any of that, though. I
wasn’t sure how she’d feel about me thinking of her cousin that way. Probably that I was crazy. Or desperate. I’d danced with the boy once, and now I was wanting to kiss him?

  So before she could ask who I was maybe wanting to kiss, I said, “Now you. Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

  “All right … It’s stupid and it’s pointless and it ain’t never gonna happen but … I wanna be a country singer.”

  “You sing?” I asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  I took another drink of the beer. Then, because I was feeling bolder than I usually did, I said, “Sing something for me. Now.”

  Bo just laughed.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “I wanna hear you sing.”

  “I don’t sing in front of people.”

  “You’re never gonna make it as a country singer, then.”

  “You’re right. I won’t.”

  “Come on, Bo. Please? Just a little bit of a song?”

  She sighed. Then, so quiet I couldn’t make out the words, she sang. But with each note, each lyric, she got a little louder. Until I finally recognized the song.

  “ ‘Jolene, Jolene,’ ” she sang, her voice getting louder and clearer.

  And she could sing. Real well. Her voice was rich and thick. And it even had a little bit of Dolly Parton’s vibrato.

  By the time she hit the chorus again, she’d gotten past whatever nerves had kept her from singing in front of people before. Like the music was in her, like it had possessed her, she hopped to her feet, standing on the hood of the car. Then she climbed onto the roof.

  I spun around to watch as she belted out the song, using the roof as her stage. Her feet tapped to the beat and her arms waved around. I smiled. I couldn’t help it. No one who saw this could think of Bo Dickinson as anything but wonderful.

  I finished my beer and tossed the can on the ground, making a note to pick it up later. Bo had finished “Jolene” and started in on “Delta Dawn” already, and that feeling that had dragged her onto the roof of the car found its way into me, too, because I started singing along with my not-so-nice voice.

  “ ‘And did I hear you say, he was a-meeting you here today …’ ”