Running Lean (30 page)

Forget it. Her parents knew everything now, and they were calling the shots.

Calvin shoved Tyler’s phone into his pocket and jammed his helmet back onto his head. He grabbed some throttle and skidded the bike onto the trail. An easy trail. But he rode it hard and fast. This could be his last ride of the summer. Maybe his last ride forever if, like Dave suggested, the Yamaha really needed an engine rebuild. That alone was reason enough to be angry. Losing Stacey too … He might as well beat the bike as much as it could stand without falling to pieces in a mud puddle.

M
orning sunlight bled through Stacey’s eyelids, making sleep impossible. Her vision foggy, she peered at her bedroom, met by the white furniture, her dresser top, and the shelves neatly stocked with little-girl memorabilia. A utopian illusion.

Chilled in spite of the sun, she tugged her quilt up to her face. Could she stay here? Disappear under her blankets? Would anyone miss her?

Calvin would be sitting around a fire with his friends, fixing sausage and eggs for breakfast with dented cookware and long-handled utensils. Birds would be singing. She could envision a breeze lifting the soft curls off his forehead, his chin and lip unshaved, dappled sunlight glinting in his hazel eyes. Earthy, scruffy, happy.

Snaking her hand out from under the quilt, she reached down to the cubby of her bedside table. Almost nothing there now, but by stretching her arm and fingertips she found her sketchbook, which was “safe” enough for her to keep. She teased it out until she could grasp it, then tugged it under her quilt. She pulled a pencil out of the drawer and propped the sketchbook up so that just enough light hit a fresh white page for her to write.

What word could she use as inspiration? Rugged? No, that wasn’t right. Calvin’s face was too soft for that. If she closed her eyes, she
could see him clearly. His smile tore at her heart. Was he having fun while she lay here suffering the worst days of her life? A weight settled upon her, heavier than the quilt, seeming to press her into the mattress.

Yes, the weight of what she’d become if she did what everyone—including Calvin—was telling her to do now. Eat more, become the roly-poly princess she used to be when she lived in Rocky Mount.

Stacey threw the sketchbook and pencil away. The pages fluttered and fell to the floor somewhere near the foot of her bed. She battled the compulsion to go pick the things up and put them away properly.

Someone tapped on her door. Before Stacey could answer, Mom charged into the room. “Do you know where Renee is?”

Stacey jerked the quilt over her chest again. “How should I know? I haven’t been out of bed yet.”

Mom didn’t even blink. “I don’t think her bed’s been slept in.”

Oh, that’s hilarious. Even now she has to be the center of attention
. “Probably spent the night with
Preston
.”

Mom’s face hardened. “Get up and get dressed. You’re not skipping breakfast, and I have to go back to work.”

Good morning to you too
.

Stacey folded her quilt back and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Cool air hit her, sending goose bumps across her bare arms. She smoothed out her capri-length pajama pants then ran her hands up her shins to her knees. Hard knees, no longer padded and soft. But her calves—she poked her fingers into the flabby flesh behind her shins. How could anyone think she was too skinny?

Porcelain dolls with round faces, chubby hands, and thick ankles taunted her from the bookshelf.
Aren’t we cute? Aren’t we precious? Come back, Chubbikins!

“I’ll never go back.”

Stacey made her bed, then found the sketchbook and pencil and
put them back in the drawer. She slipped into the bathroom, locked the door behind her, took off her clothes, and promptly stood on the scale. Tears blurred the digits on the scale. Half a pound heavier. Stacey staggered into the shower.

Calvin! Put me on the back of your bike and take me away from all this
.

But he wasn’t her hero anymore. Ultimately, he was on the same side as her parents. And running away with him would be a crime under the North Carolina juvenile code, unruly child statute, for which—Daddy had reminded her twice now—she had already received a citation.

She dressed, putting on the simple floral dress she’d worn to meet Calvin at church weeks—months?—ago. Pretty lame, but it did a good job of hiding her body from the world. She pulled on some thick black tights and found a pair of ballet flats from last year. They fit comfortably, even a little loose. Miss Frump. Sort of emo, though. Still chilled, she topped the dress with her pink zippered hoodie. Why was it so cold? In early June, the mornings should be warmer.

The smell of brewing coffee both enticed Stacey and turned her stomach hollow as she headed downstairs.

Mom’s voice coming from the kitchen had a melodic edge, like a cat’s threatening yowl in the night. “Maybe she isn’t a child anymore, but we’ve got to do something to save that girl from herself.”

Talking about me? Again?

Something banged to announce Daddy’s response. “What? Lock her in her room and shove meals in to her? Even without a car she’ll find ways to get away from the house. We can’t control that boyfriend of hers.”

Stacey slunk against the living room wall so they wouldn’t be able to see her. She stilled her breath to listen.

“Keep your voice down. Stacey will hear.”

Daddy muttered something.

“Stan, let’s find a counselor.”

A counselor. Someone else to take your side against me
.

“No,” Daddy answered.

“Why not? Why are you so dead set against getting help?”

“Because I’m not going to pay hundreds of dollars for some over-educated twerp to analyze our lives with a load of psycho-babble.”

Because you have all the answers already, right, Daddy?

A cabinet slammed. “This isn’t about money! This is about our daughter, our family.”

Stacey couldn’t stay for the insults and blaming, this confrontation of two strong-willed people with differing ideas on how to
save
her. She had to escape this place before they dragged her into some treatment program where she’d be incarcerated and reconditioned to believe that fat was okay.

Stacey’s limbs trembled, and her heart fluttered. The inner Stacey cried out,
run!

The slipper-like shoes enabled her to cross the room silently. She eased open the front door, closed it behind her just as quietly, and then let the adrenaline take over. She leaped down the steps. Her arms flailed as she ran across the front yard, but then she focused on pumping her limbs, speeding across the neighbors’ lawns. Her shoes flapped around her heels, tripping her up. She kicked them off. With one shoe in each hand, Stacey ran to the end of the subdivision.

Daddy would come after her. He’d call his friends at the police department, and there’d be citations enough to lock her behind bars. She had to get out of sight and far away fast.

Several cars carrying secretaries, dock workers, or shop owners sped past her on Turner Creek Road. She bounced on the balls of her feet and hoped no one noticed her tear-soaked face.

Where could she go?

Stacey’s feet slapped the asphalt as she crossed the two-lane road.
She stumbled down a gulley, caught herself on her fisted hands. Weeds snagged her tights and scratched her legs, but she plunged into the woods bordering the actual Turner Creek.
Think. Think. Breathe
.

Stacey ducked behind the trunk of a large hardwood tree. She sank to the ground at its roots. With her knees to her chest, she gasped for breath.

I can’t live this way. Why are they punishing me? Why doesn’t anyone understand?

Stacey covered her mouth with the back of her hand. She tasted salty tears. If Daddy had his way, he’d rule over her and force her through her rebellious “phase.” If Mom had her way, she’d send her to some therapist who would label her and push her into rehab. Isn’t that what they did with anorexic girls? Mark them insane and send them away?

She had to get free. At least until she could think things through.

Stacey gasped and stared at the shoes in her hands. What did she think she could accomplish with just some stupid shoes in her hands? She’d left her purse at home. Her cell phone was locked away, along with her car keys. Where could she possibly go?

Not Zoe’s house—first place Daddy would look. Who else could help? Who would even listen? How long before Daddy had the whole police force out looking for her?

One thing she knew for certain: She couldn’t stay huddled behind a tree a quarter of a mile from her house.

Stacey thrust her feet into her shoes. She waded through the underbrush, going parallel to the road, and kept her ear tuned to the sound of car tires on the pavement. Hearing a vehicle coming, she ducked down in a patch of honeysuckle and curled her body into a ball.

Thorny vines scratched her hands and snagged her clothes as she moved on. Her breath soon came in gulps of too-thick air.

“Phone booth, phone booth.”

There was an old convenience store miles down NC 19 with a rusty phone booth on the corner. Maybe the only phone booth left in the whole state. But she’d never make it. Even if she did, she didn’t have any money. Not even a single quarter tucked in the pocket of her hoodie from the last time she’d worn it. Only a scrap of paper and pocket lint.

“This is crazy. I’m going insane.”

The woods broke ahead at the edge of someone’s field. The tobacco plants weren’t tall enough yet to conceal her, though a wide truck path circled the field, just like the one around Calvin’s cotton field.

Memories cast a veil over her vision. The path, the smelly truck, Calvin in her arms, kissing her, breathing against her face. Why did she have to make him stop? Would they still be together if she hadn’t?

Stacey pulled her hair back from her face with both hands. She couldn’t think about all that now. Not until she found a safe place to hide. She turned left to follow the dirt road. The ground beside the tobacco field was sandy and soft. Soon her legs burned with exertion, and her shoes filled with grit. Her ankle rolled against a rock, sending a hot rush of pain to her brain. She yelped and went down on her hands and knees.

She stayed there, her head hanging, blubbering. “I-I can’t do this on my own. Calvin. Daddy. Please.”

Something rustled in the field and snuffled near her shoulder. Stacey screamed and threw herself backward. A large black dog leaped back, legs stiff and hackles raised. They stared at each other. If she moved, would the dog attack or run away?

“Good dog. Good boy. It’s okay. You just scared me.”

The dog’s long tail waved then lowered again. No collar. No telling if this animal was a stray or someone’s pet.

Stacey clambered to her feet. The dog slunk closer, head lowered and nose quivering.

“Good dog. Please don’t hurt me.”

The broad, black nose almost touched her knee. The tail wagged. Stacey extended her hand toward the dog’s ears. Calvin’s fuzzy dog, Scamp, loved to have his ears scratched.

The dog’s brown eyes tilted upward. He jumped back and barked a long “woo-woo-woo” phrase. Stacey squeaked and staggered into a tree, grabbing the trunk for support as she inched around the side of it. The dog stopped barking for a second, as if taking a breath, took a few stiff steps to the side, and started up again.

“Strider! Whatcha got, boy?” a genderless, gravelly voice called. Stacey pressed her forehead to the tree. Dog owner. No problem. “Whoa, hey there. It’s okay, he don’t mean no harm. Strider. Come ‘ere, boy.”

“Thank you. Thank you,” Stacey puffed, her eyes closed. “You all right, baby doll? Whatcha doin’ out here?” A woman. Grizzled and sun-baked, but with dimples waiting to erupt in her round face. A wide-brimmed straw hat shaded her eyes. Stacey looked for a shotgun but saw only a walking stick.

“I’m lost. D-do you have a cell phone?”

Who would she call? Zoe. At least Zoe could get her out of there. Then they could figure out what to do.

“Lost? In my t’bacca field?”

“S-sorry. I’m sorry. Do you have a phone?”

“Not on me. You can come up t’ the house and use the phone, if you want.”

Could she trust the woman? Did she have a choice?

Just some old Farmer Jane out walking her dog and checking her field, or whatever those people did in the mornings.

“I-I turned my ankle.”

“Can you walk, sugar?”

Sugar. Okay. It’d be all right. Unless the woman tried to feed her.

Stacey eased away from the tree and put pressure on her right foot. It throbbed, but accepted her weight. “I think so.”

“Well, c’mon then. We’ll get ya fixed up.” She clapped the dog on the ribs and sent him toward the field. “What’s your name? I’m Miss Darcy, Darcy Meyers.”

“Stacey.”

“Just Stacey?” The woman’s calloused hand clasped Stacey’s elbow to help her along.

“Um …”

“Hey, it’s okay, darlin’. You don’t have to tell me. Just not every day one sees a pretty girl wearin’ a dress truckin’ through the field, ya know?”

“I’m running away from … my boyfriend. We had a fight. He’s really big and—you know. I thought if I went through the woods he wouldn’t be able to find me.”

“Ah, one of those bully boys, think they need to be tough to prove their manhood. I hear ya. Ain’t got much use for fellers like that, takin’ out their aggression on a girl, like they
own
her. And such a tiny thing like you!”

Definitely not what Stacey expected to hear from the woman. Maybe she was an old hippie who decided to make her living off the land, all eco-crazy and such. But growing tobacco? The word
anomaly
popped to mind.

“Um, if I can just call a friend of mine, she’ll come get me.”

“Good enough. House is just ‘round the bend a ways.”

Strider trotted beside them, his tongue rolling out of his mouth in a doggie smile. Friends now. Mirroring his mistress’s cheerfulness. Then, with a snarl, he dove between the broad-leafed tobacco plants.

Miss Darcy chuckled, her whole torso jiggling. “Found himself a mouse, pro’bly.”

How quickly a tail wag turned to aggression. Stacey hoped Miss Darcy’s understanding wouldn’t turn to something else just as quickly. Would she want to call the police to make a report on Stacey’s fake boyfriend?

All she needed was a phone for two minutes, then she’d be gone. Somehow. Zoe had to have some ideas.

Ahead was a farmhouse, an old structure like Calvin’s house but with more additions cobbled on. A pickup truck and two cars were parked in front. Miss Darcy didn’t live alone.