Run (27 page)

“We’re not happy with what you girls did,” Mr. Atwood adds. “But … Agnes told us everything. About your mama and you looking for your dad … And …”

“And we’re sorry, too,” Mrs. Atwood says.

“Don’t be,” I say. “All the time I spent here with y’all and Agnes was … was about the only good memories I have in this town.”

They look at each other, and I know they ain’t got a clue what to say to that.

A car pulls up out front. I can see it through the window. It’s white and clean, and a tall, skinny woman in khakis climbs out of the driver’s side.

“That must be the woman from CPS,” Mr. Atwood says.

“Yeah.” My heart jumps into my throat, but I try to keep a straight face. I don’t want them to know how scared I am.

The skinny woman knocks on the front door, and Agnes’s folks go to answer it.

I crouch down and open my arms to Utah, who’s sitting a couple feet away, watching me with those big brown eyes. “Come here, you mutt.”

She runs over and starts licking my face. Even putting her paws on my shoulders, almost knocking me backward.

“All right, all right. Cut it out.”

She sits, tail still wagging, while she looks at me. Her mouth’s open, like she’s smiling. She ain’t got a clue what’s going on.

“I gotta go now,” I tell her. “But you gotta stay here. I ain’t sure when I’ll see you again, but …”

I don’t know when I started crying, but my face is real hot and wet now. Utah sits forward and licks the salt from my cheek.

“Quit it,” I say, but I don’t stop her.

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Atwood says behind me. He’s come back to the kitchen to get me now. I look at him over my shoulder, and he gives a soft smile. “We’ll take good care of her. I’ve actually always wanted a dog.”

“Well, you ain’t gonna find one better than Utah.” I turn back to her. “You hear that, girl? You’re gonna be all right. But you gotta be good, okay?”

I wait, like she might answer. But of course she don’t. She just keeps wagging and dog-smiling.

I give her one last scratch behind the ears and stand up. I have to wipe my eyes and take a deep, shaky breath before I follow Mr. Atwood to the living room. Agnes’s mama is in there, talking to the CPS lady, who looks over at me.

“You must be Bo.”

I nod.

“I’m Judy,” she says. “I’ve picked a few things up from your house, but I see you have some stuff here, too. So that’s good. Are you ready to go?”

I nod again. Because I know if I open my mouth to talk, I ain’t gonna be able to hold in the sobs I feel trapped in my throat.

Judy picks up the bag by the door, and I start to follow her out.

“Wait,” Mrs. Atwood says when I’m halfway out the door. “Shouldn’t we wake up Agnes? Don’t you wanna say good-bye?”

But I shake my head. She and Mr. Atwood look surprised.

But I can’t do it. If saying good-bye to the dog has me this much of a mess, saying good-bye to Agnes might kill me. I swallow. Twice. And slowly, carefully, manage to squeeze a few words past the lump in my throat.

“Tell her … tell her I’m sorry, too. And I love her.”

Then I turn and follow Judy out the door, to her clean white car, putting Agnes’s house behind me for the last time.

Just like always, I’m leaving before she even wakes up.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Agnes—”

“I’m coming,” I insisted. “I’ll pack my stuff now. We can take Gracie’s car. I know where my parents keep her keys.”

“Agnes …”

“That’s why you called, isn’t it? You know you can’t just call and say you’re leaving and expect me to stay here. What did you think I was gonna say?”

Bo didn’t answer. Because she knew as well as I did that there was never a chance of me staying behind. If she’d wanted that, she would’ve called from the road, from a pay phone miles away, where I’d never find her. That was the only way I wouldn’t follow her. She knew that, and she’d called anyway.

“Meet me behind the garage,” I said. I could feel my pulse, like a drumbeat throbbing in my chest. It hurt. I clutched the phone with palms that were slick and shaky. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. Couldn’t believe what I was saying. “I’ll wait for you there. I’ll grab some money, too, if I can.”

“But your parents—”

“I’m coming,” I said again. And this time, it was my voice that broke. “I can’t stay here without you, Bo. You’re the only thing that makes life here bearable. My parents are never gonna let me leave Mursey, and if you go, I’ll be trapped and miserable and alone. I’ll die.” There were tears in my eyes, and I wiped them away with the back of my hand. “Please. Take me with you.”

“Okay,” she said. It sounded like she might be crying, too. “I’ll meet you behind the garage. Don’t pack much. Just what you got to.”

“Got it.”

“And, Agnes …”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

I took forty dollars from Mama’s purse.

A hundred from Daddy’s wallet.

And I had twenty-six of my own leftover birthday money.

I put on some jeans and tossed a few random T-shirts into a bag. My cane was lying, folded up, on my desk, and I grabbed that, too. Then I headed downstairs, moving as fast as I could without falling. The house was dark, and I didn’t bother turning on any lights. My shoes were by the front door, and I stepped into them just before putting my hand on the knob and—

I stopped.

I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t just leave in the middle of the night. The way my parents worried, they’d think something more sinister had happened. That I’d been kidnapped or murdered or something. I was so angry at them for the way they’d kept me caged. Furious that they treated me like a child. But I couldn’t let them think I was out there dead somewhere.

I left my bag by the door and stumbled back to the kitchen. I flipped on the light over the counter and felt around for the notebook and black marker we always kept by the phone. It took a second, but then I felt the marker beneath my right hand.

With the paper in front of me, I realized I had no idea what to say. How do you tell your parents you’re running away? That your best friend is in trouble, and you know if you don’t go with her, you’ll rot here, miserable and alone? How do you break your parents’ hearts?

I didn’t have time to think about it. Bo would be in the backyard any second. So in large black letters, I wrote the first thing I could think of.

Mama and Daddy—

I took the money and Gracie’s car. Please don’t worry about me, and don’t call the police. I’m safe. But I had to go. I know you don’t understand. I know you’ll be mad. I’m sorry. But I have to do this. I love you.

—Agnes

I left the note on the counter, next to my cell phone, where I knew they’d find it in the morning. I could imagine their reactions already. Mama would yell. Daddy would go quiet. And I’d be long gone. But at least they’d know I was okay. At least I could give them that.

With my bag slung over my shoulder, and my cane unfolded in my hand, I walked out the front door for what I knew might be the last time for a long while.

It took me a few minutes to get to the backyard in the dark. My cane wasn’t a whole lot of help in the high grass. Daddy hadn’t mowed in a couple weeks, too busy with the store. But I finally managed, sliding my hand along the edge of the garage as a guide.

“Bo?” I whispered.

But there was no answer. She wasn’t there yet.

I leaned against the garage, my heart pounding even though I’d been walking pretty slow. She’d be here soon. And then …

We’d run.

“Hello?”

It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice in months.

Five months, three weeks, and a day.

And hearing it now, on the other end of the line, has me damn near crying. I knew I’d missed her, but I had no idea how much until just now. And I realize it’s a miracle the ache ain’t killed me yet.

“Hello?” Agnes says again.

“Hey.” It comes out a croak. I swallow and try again. “Hey … It’s me. It’s Bo.”

She gasps. The way you might if you saw a ghost.

And I’m the ghost.

“Can you talk?” I ask. “If it’s a bad time, I can—”

“Where are you?”

“Oh, um … Paducah. With my foster parents.”

“Foster parents,” she repeats.

“Yeah. Joe and Lucy.”

“I’ve been looking for you,” Agnes says. She sounds like she might cry, too. “Me and Colt both have. We’ve been so worried. He’s made calls, but we could never find out where … Are you okay?”

“I’m all right,” I say, even though the guilty feeling in my chest stirs. It’s been there for a long time—since the night in June when me and Agnes took the car—and it’s only gotten bigger, heavier over time. “Joe and Lucy are nice. Kinda strict but … maybe that ain’t a bad thing. It … it ain’t nothing like before. The other place. The first time Mama … Well, it ain’t like that.”

“Good.”

“Yeah. I really like Lucy. She’s—”

“You didn’t say good-bye.” She don’t sound like she might cry anymore. Instead, she sounds mad.

I swallow, already feeling guilty. “I know.”

“After everything we went through, everything I did … I woke up and you were just gone. I made my parents drive hours to go get you, even after you lied to me. You cried in my lap while you were drunk and sick, and I was scared to death. And then you disappear and I don’t hear a goddamn word from you for months. What the hell, Bo?”

“I know. I’m … I’m sorry.”

I don’t give her any kinda answer. I don’t tell her why I ain’t called, because truth is, I don’t know. I’ve dialed her number a hundred times, but I always hung up before anyone answered.

When I first got here, after the CPS worker dropped me off … it was real bad. I was mad and hurt and scared. I cried at night. Yelled at Joe and Lucy during the day, even though they ain’t never done nothing wrong to me. I even threatened to run away again.

I was a mess. And I didn’t want Agnes knowing about it.

Then, come August, I started at a new school. A big school, where no one had heard of Bo Dickinson. I didn’t have to think about Mursey or Mama or the trouble I’d caused. And as much as I missed Agnes—as many times as I’d heard a country song on the radio and got tears in my eyes because it was one we’d heard together, sang together—I knew calling her would open that door. It’d mean looking back at everything that had happened. And I wasn’t ready for that yet.

I ain’t even sure I’m ready now.

“Have you called Colt?” she asks. “He’s been worried sick, too.”

“No … not yet.”

“Well, you should.”

“I … I will.”

“God, I’m just …” She lets out a long, harsh breath. “I’m so glad to hear from you, but I’m so mad at you right now, Bo. I thought you were my best friend—”

“I am,” I say.

“Really? Because first you lied to me, and then you left me.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “You called me a coward and you were right … but I’m calling now.”

There’s a long stretch of quiet, and I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have called at all. Not that I thought this would be easy, but … Fuck, I don’t know what I thought.

“Well,” she says finally. “Better late than never, I guess.” She don’t sound happy, though.

I take a deep breath and try to get her talking about something else. “So, um … how’re you? How are things with your folks?”

“Fine,” she says, hard and cold. But then, with a relenting sigh, she softens. “Better. It was bad at first. They didn’t wanna let me go anywhere for a while. Guess I can’t blame them for that. But we’ve been doing a lot of talking, and they’re starting to ease up. They’re actually letting me go visit Gracie at college after Thanksgiving.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Just for a weekend. She’s gonna show me the campus. And Daddy’s driving me up to Louisville to look at U of L, too. Money’s gonna be tight, but he says we’ll do whatever we got to—take out loans, financial aid—he and Mama are gonna help me if I wanna go to college.”

“That’s great.”

“We’ll see what happens. I don’t wanna get my hopes up just yet. And I still got nearly a year in Mursey to survive … but it helps knowing I might have something to look forward to.” She hesitates. “And I might introduce Daddy to Colt while we’re in Louisville.”