Run(36)

And for a second it’s so perfect that I forget where we are and what’s happened over the last few days. I forget where we’re going and everything that I know’s about to come.

It’s just me and Agnes and her laugh and this song and nothing else.

At least until the song stops.

Then I remember again.

“You okay?” Agnes asks, a little breathless.

“Yeah … just … told you I don’t dance.”

“All right, all right. Let’s go sit down. I’m sure Utah’s wondering what the heck we’re doing anyway.”

A smile. “Poor dog thinks we’ve gone crazy.”

“Oh, I’m thinking that bridge was burned a while ago, Bo.”

“That dog had to live with my mama. I doubt much fazes her at this point.” We get to the table, and I hand Agnes her folded cane. “Wanna walk around some? I’m thinking we oughta spare a buck for some lemonade.”

“Sure.”

I’m bent down, untying Utah from the table, when I hear him. Or maybe I smell him first. It’s the smell of beer and sweat. And it’s right behind us.

“You looked sexy out there.”

I stand up and turn to see a skinny, shirtless guy. He’s wearing cutoff shorts and holding an open beer bottle in his hand. I ain’t sure how old he is, but he’s too old to be looking at Agnes with that gross glint in his eye, that’s for damn sure.

Agnes just ignores him. She might not even know he’s talking to her. She unfolds her cane and looks at me.

“Hey. You hear me?” he asks, slurring his words together. “I liked watching you dance. Why don’t you come over here so I can get a better look at that ass?”

Now Agnes knows he’s talking to her. She looks at him, and right when I’m about to go for his throat, she says, “Fuck off.”

I grin at her. It’s the first time I’ve really heard her stand up for herself. Not that I’m surprised. I’ve always known that she’s tough, even if she don’t see it. I offer her my arm and she loops hers through it. We ain’t even taken two steps, though, when the prick yells after us.

“Have it your way, fat bitch.”

I spin around so fast that Agnes, holding on to my arm, stumbles.

“What the hell did you just call her?” I demand.

“I said she’s a f*cking fat bitch.”

I don’t know I’m gonna hit him until we’re already toppling to the pavement and my fist has slammed into his nose. But I guess that’s how almost all my fights are. One minute I’m standing still and the next I’m throwing punches. But no matter how they start, I always win.

I hear Utah barking and Agnes yelling my name. Hear people in the crowd shouting. But all I can think about is the blood coming from this guy’s nose and where I’m gonna hit next.

But even though he’s skinny, he’s taller than me and probably a good thirty or forty pounds heavier. So after I get a few good punches and kicks in, he gets his senses together and shoves me on my back. My head hits the concrete, and for a minute I see stars. But I still manage to slam my knee up into his crotch. He grunts in pain, but he don’t let me up. Instead, he throws his own punch, right in my eye.

“Get the f*ck off her!”

I just barely see the long white cane flying down and colliding with the back of this *’s neck.

He yelps and jumps up, but I’m guessing he’s more surprised than hurt. Either way, it gives me a chance to throw my weight—little as it is—at him, knock him back on the ground. I throw another punch and land it right on his mouth.

I might have a black eye, but he’s gonna be missing a tooth.

Then there are hands on my shoulders—lots of them—dragging me off the motherf*cker. And there are hands on him, too, pulling him away, across the pavement.

A few people ask me if I’m all right. Others ask me what the hell is wrong with me and call me a crazy bitch. And someone else shoves a ziplock bag full of ice in my hand, tells me to put it on my eye.

“Bo,” Agnes says, at my shoulder. She’s got her cane in one hand and Utah’s leash in the other. “Oh my God. What were you thinking? I mean, thank you. But what the hell were you thinking?”

I ain’t got a chance to answer before someone shouts, “Cops are on their way.”

“Oh shit,” I say. “Agnes.”

But she heard it, too, and shoves Utah’s leash into my hand before taking hold of my arm.

I push through the crowd, avoiding hands that try to grab me, to hold us back. We dodge in and out of the crowd as strangers yell after us, telling us to stay, to stop.

But we can’t do that. Because we cannot be here when the cops come.

So we run.





After my grounding was over, Bo and I became inseparable. Not just at school, but everywhere. She spent nearly every Friday night at my house, and she must’ve been growing on my parents, because when she wasn’t around, they asked after her. How she was doing in school, if she’d taught Utah any new tricks, that sort of thing. Mama even asked once what she liked to eat so that we could have one of her favorite meals for dinner when she came over next.

But Daddy was the one who’d really taken to her. Probably because she laughed at his jokes more often than Mama and I did, and he loved talking to her about Utah, who camped out on our back porch whenever Bo was over. It was more than that, though. He even defended her when Grandma made a comment about rumors that I was spending time with “that harlot.” Daddy stood up for Bo real fast.