Run(35)

“Oh, bullshit. You ain’t gonna have any trouble finding someone to marry you. I think the hard part’s gonna be finding someone you wanna marry. Ain’t nobody in this town good enough for you.”

I felt myself blushing. It was insane, of course. There wasn’t exactly a line of boys banging down the door for a chubby blind girl who didn’t like to cook. But the fact that Bo thought that way about me, that the boys in Mursey didn’t deserve me, it felt real good.

“Your turn,” I said. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

“I … One time I punched Nolan Curtis in the face.”

“That doesn’t count,” I said. “Because I knew that. Everybody knows that.”

Bo sighed. “Fine. All right … Um … I …” She hesitated, then swallowed, so loud I heard it through the receiver. “Sometimes, I miss my daddy.”

I was quiet for a second, because I wasn’t quite sure what to say to this. Bo hadn’t told me a whole lot about her parents. I got the sense that she didn’t like talking about them much. So all I knew was that her mama did meth and her daddy had left when she was young. Other than that, she’d never seemed real comfortable sharing much about them.

“Everybody in town thinks he’s this awful guy,” she continued. “But he ain’t so bad. Or, at least, he wasn’t when I knew him. Sure, he drank a little too much and he broke some laws, but … we used to cook together, speaking of. Mama don’t cook, but Daddy used to. All the time. And he always let me help him. He’d pull a chair into the kitchen so I could stand on it and reach the counter. Then I’d help him mash the potatoes or … sorry. It’s probably stupid. I just miss shit like that sometimes.”

“It’s not stupid at all,” I said. “And … I know it’s not the same, but if you ever wanna come over and cook with my mama, I’m sure she’d like that.”

Bo snorted. “Yeah, right. Your folks probably hate me.”

“No, they don’t,” I said. “They just don’t know you real well. If they hated you, they wouldn’t let me talk to you like this every day … And I bet Mama would like you a whole lot if you did cook with her. I’m sure you’re more help than me. I’m just saying, if you ever wanted to …”

Bo was quiet for a second before, in a soft voice, she repeated my earlier words back to me. “Yeah … maybe.”





We wander around the tiny town for a few hours before heading over to Maple Avenue around seven. The street’s blocked off, so no cars can drive down, and there are tables covered by little white tents all up the sidewalk. Some of them are selling food—the promised barbecue, some lemonade—and others are just cool, shady places for folks to sit until the sun has gone down.

In the middle of it all, there’s an open trailer, set up like a stage, and a few guys with guitars are strumming chords and checking speakers there.

It’s early, but there are already plenty of people out, greeting each other in the street and filling paper plates with food. Agnes and me ain’t got much money, but we spend a little of the cash on some barbecue chicken that we split with Utah.

By the time we finish eating, the band’s done started. They’re playing covers of country songs. Upbeat stuff all about honky-tonks and good-looking girls. And there’s a crowd around the stage, people singing along and dancing.

“We should dance,” Agnes says.

I laugh, thinking she’s kidding at first.

“I’m serious,” she says. “You said we were gonna have fun. Dancing is fun.”

“I don’t dance,” I tell her.

“But you will,” she says. “You know how I know? Because you’re Bo Dickinson, and you’ll do anything for me. And all I’m asking for is to dance.”

I sigh.

“Come on,” she whines. “These people don’t know us. Who cares if we embarrass ourselves? We’ll be gone tomorrow.”

She’s smiling at me. Grinning, really. And I remind myself again that this might be our last shot at a good time. And I want Agnes to remember me at my best. As the kind of friend who gave her her first beer, who shared secrets in her dark bedroom, who danced with her at a street fair in a town we didn’t even know the name of.

“Fine,” I say, standing up from the picnic table we’ve been sitting at for the past hour. I tether Utah’s leash to the table leg and take Agnes by the arm as she folds up her cane and drops it on the bench.

“Guard it, Utah,” she tells the dog, who’s too busy looking for scraps on the ground to even look up.

I guide her out toward the stage, into the crowd. The minute I let go of her arm, she grabs my hand and spins me around like a ballerina in a music box. And I can’t help laughing.

“Told you dancing was fun.” She only sounds a little smug.

I try to spin her back, but I can’t get my arm over her head, so Agnes has to duck as she turns, which sets us both into fits.

We dance like this for a while, neither of us leading or following. Sometimes we just keep turning each other. Sometimes we try and do moves we learned in elementary school, when they made us square dance. We hook elbows and trot in a circle, our feet in rhythm with the banjo that’s playing onstage.