“I said no questions.” I pull out the wad of cash I’d tucked into an inside pocket. Carefully, I count out eight hundred dollars. That’s most of it. Way more than I wanted to spend this early. “Here,” I say, shoving the money into Earl’s hands and taking the keys from him.
“Pleasure doing business,” he says, fingering the wrinkled bills.
“There’s another thing.”
Earl raises an eyebrow. “I ain’t got nothing else to sell you, girl.”
“That car—the one we’re leaving—it’s stolen. If you wanna call the police and let them know it’s here, that’s fine. But, please, don’t tell them nothing about us.”
“Police? What are y’all getting me into?” Earl demands. “I ain’t gonna lie for two strange kids.”
“I’ll give you another fifty bucks.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Fine.”
“I never saw you. Far as I know, that car was just dropped off here when I woke up this morning.”
I hand him a few more bills, then tuck the rest of the cash back into the backpack.
“Y’all take care now,” Earl hollers as I walk back toward Agnes.
I unlock the Reliant K and load Utah into the back while Agnes climbs into the front seat.
“Just gotta do one more thing,” I tell Agnes. She shrugs.
I walk back to the Chevy and slide into the front seat. The keys are still in the ignition. I leave them there and, instead, pop open the console. There are a bunch of fast-food napkins inside, but I manage to find a red ink pen, too.
On a Wendy’s napkin, I scribble a note to Agnes’s parents. They’ll find it when they come get the car.
Mr. and Mrs. Atwood—I know you hate me, but I had to. I’m sorry. Bo
“Still feels strange not having Gracie at the table,” Mama said, scooping mashed potatoes onto my dinner plate. “I’m so used to cooking for four, we always have so many leftovers now.”
“Nothing to complain about,” Daddy said around a mouthful of pork chop.
Gracie had been gone for about two weeks, and the house did seem awful quiet lately. Mama called her every night and made her talk to Daddy and me, but Gracie always tried to rush off the phone pretty fast. She had to study or hang out with her new friends or go to cheerleading practice. She had a million things to do and a million places to go.
Me? I hadn’t left the house since the day I’d wandered around the woods, except to go to school. Christy was always busy with Andrew, and no one else ever invited me anywhere.
“How’s school going, Agnes?” Mama asked, finally sitting down next to Daddy.
I shrugged.
“Use your words,” Daddy teased.
“It’s fine. English is the only subject I’m any good at, and all we’ve been doing is reading poetry, which usually doesn’t make much sense to me. So that’s been hard.”
“What about math?”
“It’s geometry,” I said. “Blind girls and shapes? Not the best combination.”
It was meant as a joke, but my parents took it very seriously.
“Are your teachers making accommodations for you?” Daddy asked.
“Should we call the guidance counselor? Or the principal?” Mama asked. “If you need more help—”
“No, no. I’m okay,” I said. “I was mostly kidding. The shapes are hard, but my teacher’s great. I’ve gotten okay at doing proofs.”
“If you do have any issues, though, you’ll tell us,” Mama said. “We can always have them take another look at your IEP.”
An IEP was an individual education plan. My parents and teachers and members of the school board met every year to make adjustments to it. That’s where they figured out what equipment and accommodations I needed, and what the school could afford to get me.
“Can you pass the green beans?” I asked Daddy, hoping to get off the subject.
Whenever my school and accommodations came up, my parents usually got angry. They always insisted the school should do more for me. “If they can spend all that money on the football team, they can get you the materials you need,” Mama would say. Maybe she was right, but the truth was, I was doing fine with what I had. New tape recorders and giant glass magnifiers would just make me feel even more awkward at school.
Luckily, Daddy had other things to talk about. “My mother stopped by,” he told Mama. “She wanted me to remind you that you agreed to take her to her doctor’s appointment tomorrow afternoon.”
“Oh shoot,” she said. “I forgot. That means I won’t be able to pick up Agnes from school.”
“I can’t, either,” Daddy said. “Rodney’s got the day off, and I can’t leave the store.”
“What do we do?”
“I can take the bus,” I offered.
“Mmm … I don’t want you walking all that way,” Mama said.
“It’s not that far.” The school bus didn’t come down most of the side roads of Mursey. Instead, it dropped a bunch of kids off at the church, which was just around the block—or straight back through the woods, but I wasn’t trying that again. All right, so it was a big block and part of the way didn’t have any sidewalks, but it still wasn’t too bad. “We walk there every Sunday. I know the way.”
“I don’t know,” Mama said.
“Can’t Christy drive you?” Daddy asked. “She’s got a car now, right? I thought I saw her nearly run over Mr. Jordan in the gas station parking lot a few days ago.”
“She’s not that bad of a driver,” I said. And then, on second thought, added, “Well, she’s getting better.”
Daddy laughed.
“That’s a good idea, though,” Mama said. “Christy can drive you home, then y’all can hang out here for a while. She can even stay for dinner if she wants.”
“And as long as she doesn’t run anybody over,” Daddy said, “we don’t have to worry about how you’ll be getting home.”
“I don’t see what there is to worry about,” I said. “It ain’t that far.”
“Grammar,” Mama warned.
“It’s not that far,” I amended. “I’ve had mobility training. I know how to cross a damn street.”
“And language,” she scolded.
“Someone with your mouth doesn’t deserve to walk home alone,” Daddy joked.
“And now that that’s settled,” Mama said, even though I wasn’t sure it was, “who wants dessert?”
When she left the table to get the pie Grandma had dropped off, I looked at Daddy. For a second, I thought of asking him why me taking the bus was such a problem. I didn’t mind riding home with Christy, but walking home didn’t seem like it ought to be a big deal.
But I couldn’t say anything. Gracie was the arguer. Not me.
So Mama came back and put pie on our plates, and we talked about the hardware store and the grocery list and the high school football team …
And the subject was completely forgotten.
At least until the next day, when I had to ask Christy for a ride.
“Sorry, Agnes. I can’t,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I’m going over to Andrew’s house.” Christy picked a soggy french fry off my tray, thinking I wouldn’t see. I always did, but for some reason, I never called her out on it. “His parents are coming home late, and”—she leaned across the table so that I could hear her whisper—“I think today’s the day. I think we’re going to … you know.”
“To … what?”
“You know … sleep together.” She sank back into her chair.
“Oh … wow.” I shoved a fry in my mouth and took a while to chew, just to give myself a minute to think. Finally, I swallowed. “I thought y’all were waiting for marriage?”
“Don’t be all judgy,” she said, annoyed.
“I’m not. I’m just surprised. You were so set on it before.”
“It’s not like I’m turning into Bo Dickinson or anything. It’s just … I mean, Andrew and me, we’re practically married
as it is. He’s getting me a ring for Christmas. He already told me. He’d do it sooner, but our parents … Anyway, we’ll probably get married summer after graduation. Might as well get some practice in first.”
I nodded, even though, deep down, the idea of Christy marrying Andrew, the only guy she’d ever dated, right after high school made me sort of uneasy for the both of them. And I wasn’t really sure why.
It wasn’t like it was unusual. Most people in Mursey were married before they turned twenty-one. It was just the way of things. It’d probably be my way, too, if any guy ever actually wanted to marry me. If I didn’t get married shortly out of high school, I’d be stuck in my parents’ house forever.
Those were your only choices around here. Go to college, which hardly anybody had the money to do, or get married. And Grandma had already told me I ought to be looking now. “You’re gonna need someone to take care of you,” she’d told me more than once. The idea of me taking care of myself had never come up.
But the thought of dating just one boy, of being with just one person from the time you were a teenager until you died …
Maybe Bo Dickinson had the right idea, sleeping around the way she did.
“Why can’t you take the bus?” Christy asked.
“My parents don’t want me walking home from the church alone.”
“Are you kidding?” she asked. “Don’t you make that walk every Sunday? It’s not that far.”
“Yeah, but they’re worried.”
Christy was quiet for a second before she said, “I like your parents, Agnes. But they really are overprotective sometimes. You’ve got to stand up to them more.”
“I know,” I said. “But they’re not that bad. And I can’t really blame them. I’d probably be worried, too, if I had a blind kid.”
“I don’t know,” Christy said. “I think they’re being ridiculous. And I think you ought to just take the bus home anyway.”
“That’s what I want to do. But Mama would be furious.”
“Who says she has to know?” she asked. “You’ll be home before she is.”
Which was a good point. And it wasn’t like I had any other options. Most of our friends didn’t have cars—they rode the bus, too.
“Look,” Christy said, “if she asks, tell her I drove you. I’ll cover for you if I need to.”
So that afternoon, I made my way out to the parking lot and climbed on the school bus for the first time in my life. That little spark of rebellion was flaring up again, and I felt almost giddy. Riding a bus wasn’t exactly breaking the law, but it was definitely a bigger deal than my wandering in the woods that day. At least in my parents’ eyes. That had been an old rule, one that had faded and blurred over the years. This one was new and sharp and clear. And I was going against it anyway.
Trouble was, I hadn’t really thought about what I would do once I was on that bus.
Everything inside the bus blurred together. Kids in blacks and browns blended into their seats, making it hard for me to tell which seats were taken and which were up for grabs. It wasn’t the first time I’d wished camo wasn’t such a popular fashion choice in Mursey. I blinked, hoping the sunlight coming through the windows would help once my eyes adjusted, but that was taking too long for the driver.
“Sit down,” he said. “We gotta go.”
“Okay. Sorry.” I started to move toward a seat near the front that, as far as I could tell, was empty.
“In the back,” he snapped. “Front seats are for the middle schoolers. High school students sit in the back.”
I gulped and started walking, my cane snagging on the edges of people’s shoes and backpacks. I hoped the back seats would look clearer once I got closer, but they were still blurry. The only difference was, I could hear people whispering—probably about me—in some of them.
The bus driver honked the horn and hollered back at me, “Sit down.”
Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should’ve just called Daddy and made him leave the store for a minute. Or Mama could’ve gotten one of her friends from church to come. Or I could’ve begged Christy to put off losing her virginity just half an hour longer so she could drive me home.
“Agnes.”
I almost didn’t hear her over my own panic. Her voice wasn’t loud at all. But when I looked to my right, the sun was pushing through the dirty glass just enough to glint off a mane of strawberry-blond hair.
“Sit down,” Bo said.
“I can’t see where—”
“Sit here,” she said.
“Oh.” It wouldn’t have been enough to say I was surprised. Sure, she’d helped me out in the woods, but the bus was school grounds, and Bo Dickinson and I weren’t friends. If anything, I’d have thought she hated me the way she hated Christy.
But the bus driver slammed his hand on the horn again, and I was left without a choice, so I sat.
“What’re you doing on here?” Bo asked. “Don’t your mama usually pick you up?”
“How did you know that?”
“I’ve seen y’all in the parking lot a thousand times. Not all of us are blind, you know.” She nudged my arm in a way that was almost playful. After a second, though, she said, “Sorry. Was that a bad thing to say? I ain’t always sure what’s … what do you call it? Politically correct?”
“You’re fine,” I said. “Honestly? Sometimes I forget other people can see stuff like that.”
“Makes sense. You’ve never known no different, so …”
The bus started moving, and for a few minutes, neither of us said anything. I thought the whole bus ride might be that way, and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved about that or not. But before I could figure it out, Bo started talking again.
“You didn’t answer,” she said. “What’re you doing on here?”
“Oh. Um … my parents were both busy this afternoon. So I’m taking this to the Baptist church and walking home.” For a second, I considered telling her I’d been told not to, like Bo might be impressed by my rule-breaking streak. First the woods, now this.
But Bo was the kind of girl who cussed in front of teachers and stole her mama’s whiskey to bring to parties and went down on other girls’ boyfriends. None of my little rebellions would be at all impressive to her. If anything, she’d probably just laugh at me.
I wasn’t sure why I cared about impressing Bo Dickinson, but the idea of her thinking I was some kind of loser really bothered me.
“Hey,” she said. “You read that poem for English yet?”
“The Dylan Thomas one? Yeah. I don’t get it, though. I mean, it sounds pretty. ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’ It’s nice, but it doesn’t make sense to me. What is the good night?”
“Death,” Bo said. She didn’t say it the way Christy would, like I was some kind of idiot. She just put it there, an answer.
“Death,” I repeated.
“He’s telling somebody to keep fighting and not just die,” she explained. “I read somewhere that he wrote it about his dad.”
“Wow. You’re really good at poetry stuff.”
“Nah. I just … I like it. Poetry, I mean. I wish I could write it, but I’m no good.”
“Write it?” I laughed. “I’d be glad if I could just understand it. I like fiction. I like a story. But I have to read every poem a thousand times, and I still never really get it.”
“It’s not a real useful skill,” she said. “Not like math. Now, that goes over my head. Junior year, and I’m taking algebra for the third time. Who cares if you know what the hell Robert Frost is talking about after high school? Math actually matters.”
“I could help you with algebra.” The words came tumbling out before I could stop them. It was just instinct. Habit. I’d been good at algebra freshman year and I’d helped half my class pass Algebra II last year. I’d offered to help a lot of friends with their math. But Bo Dickinson wasn’t my friend.
I didn’t hang out with girls like Bo.
And she didn’t hang
out with girls like me.
“Maybe,” she said. “And I could help you with poetry.”
“Maybe.”
Another long pause while the bus bounced along. The roads in Mursey hadn’t been fixed in a long while. Some hadn’t even been paved yet. On the streets that weren’t dirt or gravel, you still had to deal with huge potholes and uneven concrete.
“Hey, Bo!” a boy yelled from a few seats back. “What’re you doing this weekend?”
Bo didn’t answer.
“Wanna hang out?” the boy asked. “I’ll give you ten bucks and some whiskey if you’ll come over and suck my dick.”
Bo spun around in the seat, almost knocking me into the aisle. “Fuck off, Isaac.”
Isaac Porter. The quarterback. I was surprised to hear him talking that way. He sat in the pew behind us every Sunday with his grandparents. He’d always seemed real polite.
“What’s the problem?” he asked. “You do it for every other guy in town. Why not me? Is my dick too big for your mouth?”
I could hear some of his buddies laughing. I cringed. I wasn’t naive or anything. I’d watched plenty of R-rated movies with Christy and we’d talked about sex and stuff before. But I’d never had a boy talk to me the way Isaac was talking to Bo. Hell, I’d never heard a boy talk to any girl quite like that before.
“Keep telling yourself that, asshole,” Bo said. “Fucking redneck.”
“All right, well, I’ll just ask your mom, then,” he replied. “She’ll do it for five.”
I thought Bo was gonna climb over the back of the seat then; her sharp elbow jabbed my shoulder as she lunged. But the bus came to a screeching halt, throwing everybody forward and sending Bo slamming backward into the seat in front of us.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Fine.” She took a minute to right herself while people walked past us, toward the door. “Come on,” she said. “We’re here.”
“You get off at the church, too?”
“Yep.”
I slid out of the seat and Bo followed.
“Bye, Bo,” Isaac called. “See you at my place tonight.”
“I hate the people around here,” Bo said as we stepped off the bus, onto the sidewalk in front of the church. “People like him and Christy—fake motherfuckers—I hate them so goddamn much.” She paused and took a breath. “Sorry.” I thought she meant about bringing Christy into it, but then she added, “I probably shouldn’t say goddamn in front of the church, huh?”
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