Jasmine crossed the side street bordering the park. Often, on her way home, she was passed by joggers. But today the sidewalk was deserted, its long stretch of concrete shadowed by trees.
A vehicle came up beside her. It was the black pickup! She pushed the wheels of her chair faster, faster. Her heart was racing. If only she could leap out of her chair and take off running!
Behind her, she heard the truck stop, its motor still running. She pushed her wheels frantically, panting with effort. Her arms began to ache, and rivers of sweat trickled down her cheeks.
She heard heavy footsteps behind her.
Suddenly, a man’s hand holding a knife was thrust in front of her face. The five-inch blade was so close she could see her breath on it. “Don’t say nothin’!” the man hissed.
Jasmine grabbed the man’s knife hand. “Police!” she screamed.
“Shut up!” he hissed. Then he swung at her. But Jasmine quickly ducked and backed up the chair, trying to run the wheels over his foot.
“Hey!” he yelled as he furiously struck out and slapped her cheek.
Then suddenly, from the trees just ahead of them, a man and woman in running clothes burst out onto the sidewalk.
“Help!” Jasmine yelled.
The joggers ran over to her. Wheeling around, Jasmine saw her assailant racing back to his truck. In a split second, he gunned the motor and sped out of sight.
“Thank you!” Jasmine cried out to her rescuers in a shaky voice.
“Did anyone get the license number?” the woman asked.
“Part of it was CFG,” Jasmine said.
“Are you sure? I thought it was CFC,” said the man.
The woman looked at Jasmine sympathetically. “Are you okay? Can we call the police for you? I have my cell phone in the car,” she said.
“That’s what I’m going to do the minute I get home,” said Jasmine.
“Is your home nearby?” the man asked. “Well walk along with you.”
Jasmine tried to hurry—but the block was a long one, and she was hot and tired. As she said goodbye to the couple, she thought she heard a noise near the fence. She wondered if the thief could already have driven around the block and tracked her here.
When she was alone, Jasmine listened at the door to the cottage. But the only sound she could hear was the rustle of leaves in the hot breeze. Shaking her head, she went inside.
Then, with Spanky in her lap, Jasmine wheeled through the house, locking and bolting the doors. In spite of the heat, she decided to close the windows, too. The heavy screens as well as the glass would help to protect her. “Off you go, Spanky,” she said, dumping the cat from her lap as she reached into the closet. To help her close the windows, Kip had made her a long wooden pole with a hook on top.
She’d closed the last window when she heard a faint noise outside. What was it? The drainpipe? Was he climbing up the drainpipe? She waited, listening, frozen in her chair. Then she heard tiptoeing footsteps on the roof. A cold wave of fear washed over her.
The skylight in the living room—she’d forgotten to close it! She headed for the living room, the pole in one hand.
She heard a creak from above and looked up. A hand—his hand—was forcing the skylight open wider! Jasmine grabbed the pole in both hands and hit him on the knuckles—hard.
“Auuuugh!” he bellowed. Then the man’s face appeared, and she was chilled by the determination in his light blue eyes. A few drops of his blood dripped down on her forehead.
She swung the pole again. When the man tried to grab it, she managed to whack his wrist. He howled in pain.
But then he grabbed the pole. Before she could tighten her grip, he pulled it out of her hands. She quickly wheeled around and sped out of the room.
As she passed through her bedroom, Jasmine grabbed the phone and punched in 911. As soon as a voice answered, she said, “Hurry! He’s in the house!” Then she threw the phone under the bed, hoping the call could be traced.
The next thing she heard was a heavy thump as the man dropped through the skylight and landed on the floor.
She wheeled into the kitchen and pulled open the cabinet under the sink. Reaching in as far as she could without falling out of her chair, Jasmine grabbed a can of insect spray. She set it between her legs. Then she opened a drawer and took out a roll of duct tape. After pulling an inch of tape free, she shoved the roll up her arm like a bracelet.
Then the kitchen door banged open and the man was there, the knife in his hand. He charged, the blade flashing in a ray of light from the kitchen window. Jasmine let him come closer before she lifted the spray can and pressed the button. He swerved and grabbed her wrist—but not soon enough. The spray misted over the left half of his head, drenching his ear, eye, and open mouth. “Augggh!” he yelled. A nasty-sweet odor filled the room. Jasmine flung the spray can on top of the refrigerator.
The man swung at Jasmine’s neck with the knife, but she grabbed his wrist. Then he went for her neck with his free hand, but she was able to grab it first. Frustrated, he pushed against her and slammed her wheelchair against the counter.
Now the man’s face was inches away. One eye was closed. He was gagging and drooling from the blast of insect spray. Then he spit at her. “You’re gonna pay for this, sister!” he screamed in her face. “You’re gonna pay!”
Jasmine held his wrist and hand. Weakened by the dose of poisonous spray, the man struggled but could not break free. Jasmine pushed with all her might—and slowly, slowly, she forced him back. More than a year of wheeling the chair and playing basketball had paid off. She was strong!
Jasmine could feel the man’s arms quivering with effort. She knew he was tiring. Still holding on to him, she shook her arm until the duct tape dropped to her wrist.
Holding onto his knife hand, she let go of his other hand to yank loose a length of tape. His free hand struck her hard on the jaw, and the pain filled her whole head. But as he drew his arm back for another blow, she quickly looped the tape over his wrist. He tried to jerk away to free himself, but Jasmine quickly pulled the tape over his knife hand. The man swore and swung his arms wildly. But every time he moved, she was able to wrap more tape around his wrists and hands.
There was a loud banging on the front door. “Help!” she yelled. “I’m here!”
It was the police. In seconds, they pulled away her assailant and handcuffed him. His face was blotchy and red from the insect spray. His nose was running, and one eye was swollen shut. Looking beaten and exhausted, the man stumbled as he was led away.
Two officers listened to her story, one asking questions while the other scribbled notes. When she described her battle with the intruder, the police officers looked at her first with surprise and then with respect. Jasmine felt a glow of accomplishment and pride.
Within a few minutes, a reporter and a cameraman from a local TV station showed up. While the glassy eye of the camera stared at Jasmine, the newscaster gushed, “You are truly a remarkable young lady. It’s amazing that someone in a wheelchair could fend off a vicious killer the way you did.”
“Well, sure,” Jasmine said modestly. “It’s not like I’m helpless!”
An hour or so later Jasmine was finally alone. She wheeled into the bedroom and noticed a fat lump in the middle of the bed. She lifted the bedspread and said, “Come on out, scaredy cat. Everyone’s gone.” Spanky crawled out and jumped in her lap.
Jasmine reached for the phone and called the hospital. A nurse said that Patty was stable, but still in critical condition. Jasmine prayed that Patty’s spine had not been injured. If so, that unfortunate young woman could end up in a wheelchair, too. At one time Jasmine had thought she’d be better off dead than stuck forever in a wheelchair. But now she had a life—and she knew that her life was going to be okay.
After a moment’s pause, she punched in another number. And just as she had expected, she heard a recording. She knew that Ben had a science class tonight. “Hi,” Jasmine said, “it’s me. I jus
t called to say—I just wanted to say—Yes. Yes, I want to see you. I want you to come over. I want to go out with you, Ben. Give me a call.”
Then Jasmine wheeled into the living room and looked for just the right CD. She wanted something fast and loud. Tomorrow she’d start looking for a new job—something challenging, something she’d love to do.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, she shoved in the CD and began to dance. Maybe what she was doing wouldn’t look like much of a dance to most people—but it was to her. She gracefully moved her head and arms and shoulders to the beat. Somehow the music had never sounded sweeter than it did right now.
After-Reading Wrap-Up
Is No Way to Run a good title for the story? Explain why or why not.
After spraying the intruder’s face with bug killer, why did Jasmine throw the can on top of the refrigerator?
Contrast Jasmine’s outlook on life after the accident with her outlook at the beginning of the story.
Why did Jasmine refuse to go out with Ben?
After calling 911, why did Jasmine throw the phone under the bed?
At the end of the story, Jasmine had made two decisions. What were they?
No Way to Run Page 2