Run

by Kody Keplinger

  “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.”

  “Y’all are still talking?”

  “Yeah … I haven’t seen him since the summer, but he calls a lot.”

  I know this is good news, but it hurts. Colt and Agnes, the two people I love most, have got each other now. They’ve got a whole world between them that I ain’t a part of.

  It’s my own fault. I know that. I’m the one who ain’t called. But still.

  “He says your mama is gonna be in jail awhile. That she—”

  “Don’t got the money for bail? Yeah. I heard.” I take a breath. “I think I’m kinda glad.”

  I expect her to be surprised by this. Or hurt, maybe, since it sorta means I’m glad to not be coming home. Back to her. But she don’t say a thing.

  “How’s Utah?” I ask.

  “She’s all right. She sleeps on my bedroom floor every night. Right where your pallet used to be.” She laughs, and a weight lifts off my chest. I’ve missed that sound so damn much. “I’ve tripped over that dog so many times getting out of bed. But Daddy loves her. He’s got her trained to do all kinds of things now. Even taught her to fetch him a beer from the cooler.”

  Just then, Lucy pokes her head into the kitchen, where I’m using the phone. “Sorry to bother you,” she says. “Quick question.”

  I nod. “Hold on, Agnes.” Then I look back at Lucy, and she smiles at me.

  She’s short, like me, but wide. In the last five months, I ain’t never seen her wear anything but red lipstick and a white collared shirt that looks nice against her dark skin. She’s got a good job at the newspaper, and Joe’s a teacher at my school. They’ve got a nice house—small, but nice—and a little girl named Phoebe who thinks my name is Boat.

  I asked her once why they’d want a foster kid, and Lucy said her parents had taken in foster kids. Over twenty. Some only for a night, others for years at a time. And now, Lucy’s best friend is a woman her parents had fostered. So she always knew she’d do what they did.

  I’m their second foster kid. The first, Helen, is off at college now. Aged out of the system. But she still calls them every weekend.

  “Sorry,” Lucy says again. “Just wanted to check—you said Laurie’s coming for Thanksgiving dinner, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That still all right?”

  “Of course. Phoebe and I are about to go shopping, and I just wanna be sure we get enough for everybody.” She looks at the clock on the wall over the stove. “Don’t be on the phone too much longer, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She gives me another smile, then ducks out of the kitchen.

  On the phone, Agnes asks, “Who’s Laurie?”

  “Uh … my friend. Or my girlfriend.”

  “Oh!”

  I can hear the smile in her voice, and I can’t help picturing it. The way her blue eyes light up. The crinkles around them.

  “That’s great. Does she go to school with you?”

  “Yeah. We met in English. But we ain’t told anybody about us yet. Everyone just thinks we’re friends. This place ain’t as bad as Mursey but … I like her a lot. She writes real good poetry.”

  “I knew it,” Agnes murmurs.

  “Knew what?”

  “Nothing,” she says. Then she goes quiet for a minute. “I am happy for you, Bo. It sounds like you’ve got everything you wanted. Everything you were looking for.”

  “Yeah … Except you.” I swallow. “I miss you, Agnes. I’m sorry I didn’t say good-bye.”

  She don’t say it’s all right. Or that she understands. It probably ain’t, and she probably don’t. But she does say, “I miss you, too.” And then, “But I’m still here, you know. You can always come visit. My parents would like to see you.”

  “Maybe.”

  But I know I won’t.

  I’m glad she’d wanna see me again, after everything I’ve done. Mad as she is at me, she’d still let me in her house, which is more than I deserve. But going back to Mursey is the last thing I oughta be doing.

  “And there’s a college near there,” Agnes says. “Murray. Maybe I can talk Daddy into taking me there, too. Maybe we could see each other. You could show me where you live.”

  The thought makes me a little nervous. Bringing Agnes here, bringing all the memories into my new world, is scary enough. But the idea of having her back for a day, maybe two, then watching her leave … I ain’t sure I can handle it.

  Not yet.

  Hell, I already know hanging up this phone’s gonna tear me apart.

  She don’t push, though, and I’m real glad for it.

  “Hey,” she says. “I know you gotta go soon, but … can you do something for me?”

  “Sure,” I say. Because I owe her so much. I’d do almost anything. “What?”

  “Don’t laugh, but … can you read me a poem? I don’t even know if you still have that book I got you, but—”

  “Give me a minute.”

  I put the phone down on the counter and run to the little bedroom I share with Phoebe. The book is on my nightstand, next to my bed. I grab it and head back to the kitchen.

  “I’m back,” I say, tucking the phone between my ear and my shoulder. “What poem you want me to read?”

  “You pick,” she says. “One we haven’t read before.”

  I’d dog-eared half a dozen pages in the book by now. Poems that stood out to me. That I’d liked. I’d even marked up a few, circling lines and underlining whole stanzas. I find one of them. One of the poems I’ve marked all over.

  I clear my throat and start reading Edgar Allan Poe’s words, slow and careful. Agnes is quiet, listening. And for a minute, it’s like we’re back in her yard on a summer day. Just her and me.

  I run my fingers across the second stanza and the four lines I’ve underlined there.

  I was a child, and she was a child,

  In this kingdom by the sea,

  But we loved with a love that was more than love—

  I and my Annabel Lee—

  “Agnes, you sure you wanna do this?”

  We were sitting in my sister’s car in the middle of the night, about to do what I’d been dreaming of for months: getting the hell out of Mursey. Being free. Being with her.

  “No,” I said.

  Because as much as I wanted to run, as many times as I told myself we’d make it work, that we’d come up with a plan … Deep down, I knew this might not end well. Stories like ours never did. But I remembered that poem in English, the Robert Frost poem Bo said was about how we tell our stories and change our hi
stories.

  And this was my story. This whole last year. And tonight. And wherever we went from here. This was the story I’d tell.

  I looked over at her. Or, at the space where I guessed she was. It was too dark for me to see anything but a few dots of light on the dashboard. So I had no idea if I was looking at her face or not. Somehow, though, I felt like I was.

  “But I’m doing it anyway.”

  I heard her take a breath, then there was the sound of the garage door opening behind us.

  Even though this story could end a thousand different ways, and even though chances were, it might not have a happy ending, it didn’t matter. Because I already knew how I was gonna tell this story.

  Bo Dickinson changed my life. She made it beautiful and messy. She made me happy, she scared me, she showed me I could be tough, and she showed me how it felt to live. She ruined my reputation and I loved every second of it.

  Because she was the best friend I’d ever had. And I would have followed her off the edge of the earth if I had to.

  That was our poetry. Our story. And it was one I’d be telling until the day I died.

  “Love you, Bo,” I said.

  “Love you, too.”

  This book was truly a passion project for me—a book of my heart—and it would not have been possible without some wonderful, supportive people.

  Thanks to my fabulous editor, Jody Corbett, who loves Bo and Agnes as much as I do and was crucial in crafting their story. Thanks as well to the whole Scholastic team—including Jennifer Abbots and David Levithan—who continue to make my dreams come true. My infinite gratitude also goes to the fantastic folks at New Leaf Literary—particularly Jaida Temperly and Joanna Volpe—for supporting my crazy ideas, even in their infancy. I am so lucky to have an amazing team on my side.

  I have so much love for my own spectacular friends—Shana Hancock, Gaelyn Galbreath, Kate Lawson, Amy Lukavics, Laurie Devore, and Phoebe North. You ladies are the reason I want to write stories like these. Thank you for your love and constant inspiration.

  Writing about Agnes’s blindness was a challenge for me, despite having the same condition that she does. It takes a lot of courage to open up about your own disability sometimes, and I want to thank those who have encouraged me in this. The most thanks goes to my Disability in Kidlit teammates, Corinne Duyvis and Kayla Whaley. You two make me smarter and braver every day. And thanks to Holly Scott-Gardner for reading early chapters.

  My mother would kill me if I didn’t take a moment to thank my family, especially her and my dad, who never let me forget how proud they are of me. I know sometimes I act annoyed when you brag to strangers about my writing, but I’m so glad to have parents who support my work. I’m also lucky to have amazing siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Thank you all so much for everything you’ve done for me over the years.

  And, finally—but most importantly—I want to thank you, my readers. Without you, I wouldn’t be able to write the stories that I love. You give me the courage and the strength and the hope I need to keep writing. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You are my heroes.

  Kody Keplinger was born and raised in a small Kentucky town. During her senior year of high school, she wrote her debut novel, The DUFF, which was a New York Times bestseller, a USA Today bestseller, a YALSA Top Ten Quick Pick for Reluctant Readers, and a Romantic Times Top Pick. It has since been adapted into a major motion picture. Kody is also the author of Lying Out Loud, a companion to The DUFF; Shut Out; and A Midsummer’s Nightmare, as well as the middle-grade novel The Swift Boys & Me. Kody lives in New York City, where she teaches writing workshops and continues to write books for kids and teens. You can find more about her and her books at www.kodykeplinger.com.

  ALSO BY KODY KEPLINGER

  The DUFF

  Lying Out Loud

  A Midsummer’s Nightmare

  Shut Out

  Copyright © 2016 by Kody Keplinger

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015048824

  First edition, July 2016

  Cover photography by Michael Frost, © 2016 Scholastic Inc.

  Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi · Hand lettering by Ellen Duda

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-83115-4

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