Run(64)

“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.”