“He … didn’t want me.”
The next time I wake up, I’m somewhere familiar. I’m on a pallet on Agnes’s bedroom floor, one of her stuffed animals resting on the pillow beside me. Utah’s there, too. Curled into a ball with her face pressed to my stomach. She ain’t asleep, though. Her big brown eyes are wide-open. Watching me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her.
My throat’s real dry and my head don’t feel great, but the dying feeling has passed. Now all that’s left is the guilt.
I hear voices down the hall. I figure they must be coming from Agnes’s parents’ bedroom.
“You can’t call social services.” It’s Agnes’s voice, fierce and desperate. “That’s the whole reason she took off. They put her in foster care before and it was awful. You can’t send her back there again.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Mrs. Atwood says.
“Let her stay here.”
“Agnes.”
“I’m serious. Why not?”
“For starters, it’s probably best for you and Bo to get some distance,” Mrs. Atwood says. “Y’all aren’t good for each other right now.”
“That’s not true!”
“We just spent twenty of the last twenty-four hours driving back and forth across the state because you two decided to run off together,” Mr. Atwood says. “We filed police reports. Had to go get Gracie’s car from a stranger’s house, and worried ourselves sick. Sorry if we’re not too keen on the idea of letting you two live under the same roof at the moment.”
“Damn it, Daddy. This is why I went!”
Both me and Utah jump. We still ain’t used to the sound of Agnes yelling. I hope we never have to be.
“I made the choice to leave. Bo didn’t make me.” She doesn’t tell them I lied to her. And I’m glad. They hate me enough as it is. “I didn’t go just to joyride. I went because she was scared and I couldn’t let her go alone. And because … Because the idea of being stuck here, trapped here, without her makes me wanna die.”
“Agnes.”
“You think I’m being dramatic, but I’m not,” she says. “Bo’s the only good friend I ever had. Christy treated me like I was a burden. Like she was doing me a favor by being my friend. Bo never did that. And she doesn’t pity me, either. She’s the only one in this town who treats me like a real person. Like I’m not just some pathetic blind girl everyone’s gotta take care of.”
“Oh, honey …”
“Stop!” she hollers. “You’re doing it now. You spend so much time worrying about me that you’ve made me feel trapped. Like I’m never gonna get out of this town. And Bo’s the only thing here that makes it worth staying. And if you send her away, it’s just gonna get bad again.”
There’s quiet for a second. I reach up and hug the stuffed animal Agnes left for me. Squeeze the soft, fuzzy sheep toy to my chest. I’m proud of her for standing up for herself. Proud of her for being the Loretta I always knew she was. But I’m scared, too. Scared of what they’ll say next.
“We talked about that,” Mr. Atwood says. “The night you left. After we argued. Your mama and I talked a lot about that. How we might treat you different from Gracie and … your future.”
“You did?”
“You sure didn’t help your case taking off like that,” he says. “Because now you’re gonna be grounded until you’re forty. But …”
“But?”
“But after that, we’ll talk,” Mrs. Atwood says. “About the rules. About what’s gonna happen after high school … We’ll talk.”
I hear Agnes sigh, but then she says. “Okay. We’ll talk … And what about Bo?”
My stomach churns, and I’m scared I’ll be sick again. Utah turns her body some so she can lick my cheek.
“We know she’s your best friend,” Mrs. Atwood says. “And we’re glad she’s been so good to you, but … honey, she can’t stay here. Especially not with Gracie coming home this week. We don’t have the space or the money.”
“And,” Mr. Atwood adds, “I still think y’all need some time apart.”
“But foster care—”
“There are some good people who are foster parents, too,” Mrs. Atwood says. “And … I promise, if we get wind someone is mistreating her, we’ll do whatever we can to get her out of there. But for now … this is the best option, Agnes. I’m sorry.”
I turn my face into the pillow. It’s over. I spent all this time running, all this time trying to escape, and it don’t even matter. Because tomorrow someone from CPS will come and who knows where I’ll end up.
“Can … can she at least come back to visit?” Agnes asks.
“Of course,” Mr. Atwood says.
“After we’re done with your punishment for this,” Mrs. Atwood clarifies. “Until then, no guests. None. And you’re coming straight home after school this fall. No parties. No going anywhere without me or your father. You’re on lockdown until we can trust you.”
“Yeah, I get it.” She pauses. “I’m sorry. For scaring you. I really am.”
“Good,” Mrs. Atwood says. “An apology is a start.”
A few minutes later, the bedroom door opens and Agnes walks into her room. Her feet move quietly, stepping lightly over me, as she goes to her bed. The springs creak and she lets out a long sigh.
“Bo?” she whispers. “You awake?”
But I close my eyes and keep still and pretend I’m asleep.
And after a while, when she’s done been snoring for going on an hour, I don’t got to pretend anymore.
I wake up early the next morning. Agnes is still sleeping, curled in a tight ball on her bed, snoring a little. Utah wakes up, though, and she follows me down the stairs.
Agnes’s parents are in the kitchen. They stop talking when they see me.
“How’re you feeling?” Mrs. Atwood asks.
“Been better,” I say.
I look over at the door. My bags, the ones I’d taken on the road with me, are there. Waiting.
“We already called Child Protective Services,” Mr. Atwood says. His voice is quiet, and I can hear the apology he ain’t saying.
I nod. “All right. When will they be here?”
“Any time now,” Mrs. Atwood says. “You want some breakfast while you wait?”
I shake my head. I don’t got much of an appetite.
But I do have to say something.
“I’m sorry.”
They both look at me, surprised.
“I shouldn’t have taken Agnes with me,” I say.
“The way she tells it, it was her choice,” Mr. Atwood says.
“Yeah, but … I wanted her to.” I take a breath. “I just want y’all to know I’m sorry. And I understand if you hate me.”
“We don’t hate you, Bo,” Mrs. Atwood says.
“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 t
hing. 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.”
Run Page 19