Run (The Flower City #2)

1. CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

ARI

I drag my knees in closer and wrap my arms around them, trying not to shake. Trying not to make any noise. But my breathing is loud and no matter how hard I try, I can’t make it stop. Curled in a tight ball, my lungs are unable to expand with air and I’m left panting.

The screen door slams, and I jump, the side of my head hitting the undercarriage of the old car abandoned in the gravel driveway. I don’t fit under here easily anymore since I grew another two inches this year, according to the doctor. But she might be dumb because she believed Papa when he said the bruises on my back were from falling out of a tree.

It wasn’t completely a lie. I did fall out of a tree. But that’s not what left me bruised. That happened after Papa yelled at me for coming home covered in dirt and broke a wooden chair over my back.

Boots crunch on the gravel and I wait for the scratchy voice that will bellow soon.

“Arlene!” It begins. “Where are you, you little brat?”

Curling in even tighter and praying the flat tires of the abandoned Accord hide my growing body, I lay on my side, wishing I could sit on my butt and hide between the wheels like I used to, and pray Papa’s too drunk to see me under here.

“Arlene!” He’s closer now, and again, I jump—causing my bare foot to slide out and glide across the loose gravel, making a scraping sound. I quickly pull it back in and hear Papa’s steps stop. “When I find you, girl, you’re going to be sorry.”

His boots make their way around the side of the car, getting closer, bigger, louder, before they stop next to me. My eyes squeeze shut. Papa should be asleep by now. He always falls asleep after finishing the bottle of brown alcohol. All I have to do is wait for him to fall asleep.

A lazy whistle wafts around me—a sound I recognize. It’s his way of pretending to be calm, pretending he isn’t going to hurt me, and trying to lure me out.

Another screen door slams, the sound a little further away, and I hear Papa grumble, “Great, another bastard child.”

It’s eerily silent for a moment as a breeze blows some gray dirt from the loose gravel in my face, and without thinking, I cough.

Loose pebbles crunch under Papa’s foot as it pivots, and I know he’s searching for the direction the sound came from.

“Whaddaya lookin’ for?” I hear an unfamiliar boy’s voice from a little farther away. Papa’s boot swivels again. “Hey, old man! I said, what the hell are you looking for?”

I peel open one eye as Papa takes a few steps away from the car. “You sassin’ me, you little shit?”

Oh no, the boy is only making Papa angrier.

“I ain’t scared of you.”

Papa huffs. “Yeah? Well then, why don’t you come over here and I’ll show you what you should be scared of?”

The boy laughs. “Yeah, real scary, you pot-bellied, greasy old man.”

I chuckle, then pull one hand away from my knee to slap it across my mouth as Papa’s boots stall again. “Where is she? That little brat. I’ll teach her a lesson once I get my hands on her.”

There’s a pause, then, “You talkin’ about the girl with the red hair?”

“Yeah. You seen her?”

Another pause. “Yeah, I saw her. She went that way.”

I wonder which direction he’s pointing Papa in and get ready in case this boy is being mean and trying to get me into trouble, but then Papa takes steps away from me, toward the side of the house. After a moment I open both eyes and don’t see his boots anymore.

A soft crunch causes me to turn my head to see a pair of muddy sneakers heading my way. They stop right in front of the tire I’m hiding behind and, after a moment, a pair of knees hit the gravel and a hand reaches under the car, palm up, fingers wiggling.

ETHAN

A flash of red outside catches my eye, and I spin around to perch on the back of the couch just in time to see a girl crawl under the beat-up old car in the neighbor’s yard. Maybe she’s playing hide-and-seek? But there are no other kids in sight …

The screen door of the neighbor’s house slams and the guy my dad warned me about comes stomping down wearing unlaced tan work boots, dirty shop pants, and an untucked white undershirt that hugs his body. His dark, unkempt hair looks like it spent all morning smashed up against a pillow.

“Where are you, you little brat?”

The man makes his way closer to the car, oblivious to the girl tucked under the wheel at his feet.

We only just moved into this house. It’s a shabby, one-floor shack that sits close to an almost identical one. We’re only a half-hour from the City of Rochester, but we might as well be out in the boonies considering I can ride my bike through miles of corn fields and only spot a house here and there. Or, in our case, a small grouping of two or three houses.

Both my house and the one next door are run-down, with crap littering the yards. But the crap in our yard doesn’t belong to us. It was here when we got here. We’re just renting, so my dad says we keep our mouths shut about it.

“Arlene!” the man yells again. “When I find you, girl, you’re going to be sorry.”

Oh shit. I know that tone. And if my own dad warned me about this guy, he must really be something. Good thing I ain’t scared of nobody.

When I storm out of the house and let our own screen door slam, the man stops. I hear him grumble something about a bastard kid and I chuckle to myself. Asshole .

A small breeze picks up, and we both hear a little cough. The man turns his head quickly, trying to find where the sound came from.

“Whaddaya lookin’ for?” I yell to distract him, but he barely acknowledges me. “Hey, old man! I said, what the hell are you looking for?” That gets him.

“You sassin’ me, you little shit?”

I grin. “I ain’t scared of you.”

The man huffs. “Yeah? Well then, why don’t you come over here and I’ll show you what you should be scared of?” The guy squares his shoulders at me, like he’s actually ready to fight me.

“Yeah, real scary, you pot-bellied, greasy old man.” That ought to get him going. But if I’m being honest, he’s not that old, and he’s not really pot-bellied. He has a thick middle that could be muscle for all I know.

There’s a little chuckle. We both hear it.

“Where is she? That little brat. I’ll teach her a lesson once I get my hands on her.”

Damn . This guy’s a real piece of work.

His eyes dart around, looking for the girl, fists clenched at his sides. The muscles in his back, neck, and shoulders ripple as he tenses, radiating anger. “You talkin’ about the girl with the red hair?”

“Yeah. You seen her?”

“Yeah, I saw her. She went that way.” I point out toward the side of the house, and he takes the bait.

Trotting down the old wooden steps of our house, I quickly make my way over to the girl tucked in her hiding spot. Looking around and not seeing the man, I drop to my knees and stick a hand under the vehicle, wiggling my fingers in a silent invitation for her to take my hand. When I don’t get a response, I crouch down on all fours and peer under the vehicle.

I come face-to-face with a pair of piercing green eyes glistening with unshed tears, a hand wrapped around her mouth as she nervously sucks air in through her nose. Her other arm hugs bruised, knobby knees close to her chest.

After popping my head back up and looking around to make sure the man is still out of sight, I lean down and reach under the car, taking the girl’s hand in mine. She flinches at the contact and tries to pull back, but I tighten my grip. After a brief pause, she lets me help pull her out.

Kneeling on the gravel, I begin rubbing my palms together to get the grit off of them, when a soft crushing sound comes from around the side of the house. The girl freezes, sheer terror in her eyes. She darts those eyes over my shoulder, then back at me. Then over my shoulder, then back at me.

Before I can make a move, the girl whispers, “Run.”

She grabs my hand, drags me up and takes off.

Nearly falling a few times, I manage to get my feet under me, but hot damn, she’s fast. Once we hit the end of the grassy backyard and breach the wheat field, she drops my hand.

The old man grunts and I turn my head as I keep running, seeing he’s still in pursuit of us. He’s actually pretty quick, but I’m not afraid he’ll catch us. I almost lose sight of the girl as she darts this way and that, weaving through the tall brown wheat stalks that almost swallow her up whole. Her ponytail swings side to side as she runs, arms stretched out like she’s plowing through the field.

She makes a quick left and heads into the woods. Panting, I turn back again to see the man is nowhere in sight.

Knowing we are safe now, I risk hollering to the girl, “Hey!” I follow her through the entrance of the woods, which quickly opens up to a rocky area and, despite my sneakers, feel the sharp rocks jabbing my feet through the soles of my shoes as I navigate them.

Coming to an abrupt stop, I see the girl sitting on a larger rock, bare feet resting in a shallow brook as she scoops water up and dribbles it over her legs, which have little red welts popping up on them.

Suddenly, I’m aware of my own stinging legs. “Gahhhh!” I shriek, looking down and seeing little red whip marks rising up them. “What the heck is this?!”

The girl nods to another big rock, and I take the hint and sit down, pull off my sneakers and socks, and start scooping water over my legs. Everything below my athletic shorts—everything that was exposed—burns like the dickens.

“Is that from the wheat?” I ask.

She nods.

“It’s like getting freaking whipped!”

Another nod.

“Gahhhh!” I shriek again. Red lines start to appear on my arms, as well. “Why on earth did you run through it, then, if you knew this was going to happen? And why did you make me come with you? And …” I look down at her bare feet and around the ground near where she’s sitting, “where are your shoes?”

She looks up at me like she wants to smile, but doesn’t. It’s like she can’t. Scooping up more water and dribbling it over her legs, the redness is already starting to go down. Good. Maybe my legs will stop burning soon.

“You do that a lot?” I ask, and she just shrugs her shoulders.

Realizing I’m not going to get much out of her, I try a different approach. “Arlene? Is that your name? Is that what your dad called you?” She stills and shakes her head. Little wisps of red hair cling to the sides of her face. “You’re not Arlene? That’s not what he called you?”

She doesn’t look at me.

Exasperated, I stand up and—as delicately as possible—make my way across the jagged rocks toward the girl. Stepping on a particularly pointy one, I hiss, “Sonofabitch!” The girl giggles, and it’s an adorable sound that makes me whip my head in her direction. I get closer, crouch down, and place a hand on her shoulder, which causes her to rear back and almost fall off the rock she’s sitting on.

“Whoa! Calm down.” I pull back, realizing she’s scared. Like a spooked horse. “I wasn’t trying anything. I was just …” and then I see bruised skin on her neck and shoulder where her shirt got tugged away. “Your dad do that to you?” I nod my chin toward the bruises.

She just stares at the water in front of her, and her throat moves with a swallow.

“Well”—I start pulling my T-shirt up—“guess it’s only fair that, since you showed me yours, I show you mine.” I pull my shirt over my shoulders, leaving it around my neck, and turn around so she can see my back and shoulders. I hear a harsh intake of air.

Yeah, girl. I get it.

ARI

The nice boy has bruises just like me. Our eyes lock as he pulls his shirt back down and turns around again. His shaggy brown hair almost covers his eyes—eyes that are chocolate brown and, despite their dark color, somehow warm and … kind. There’s a scar on his upper lip. It goes from his left nostril down to his mouth, and I wonder if he got it from his dad or if he was born with it.

He shifts on his feet, probably because the rocks are poking into them, and grunts a little. Then he gestures to the side of the rock I’m sitting on. “You mind if I sit?”

I scoot over a few inches.

“Thanks.” Leaning his elbows on his knees, he’s angled away from me. “So, I guess you don’t talk much, huh? It’s OK. I get it. I bet you aren’t treated too nicely when you speak, huh?” I snap my head in his direction, but he’s not looking at me. “When you can never seem to say the right thing and you get hit for it, you learn real quick not to say too much. Right?”

Suddenly, words breach my lips. “He’s not my dad but he insists I call him Papa.”

The boy’s shoulders tense in surprise. “So, who is he, then?”

I twist my fingers in my lap. “My mom gave me up when I was born, so my dad and his wife took care of me.” The boy’s eyebrows pinch together. “My mom wasn’t married to my dad. He was married to someone else. Papa always says my mom was retarded, and I tell him that’s not a nice word and he shouldn’t say it. Well, I used to tell him that. Now I just don’t say anything.”

A minute passes in silence.

“So, then who is Papa?” the boy asks.

I stand when I spot a crayfish and take slow steps into the ankle-deep water, then quickly dip down and pluck it out of the stream with my pointer finger and thumb.

“Geez Louise!” the boy exclaims. “What the heck is that thing?”

“It’s a crayfish.” I examine it closely, then place it back in the water, turn, and walk back to the rock to sit. “Papa is my stepmom’s boyfriend. My dad died.”

The boy nods and shifts a little on the rock, causing our shoulders to touch. “That’s complicated.” I nod. “That’s …” He blows out a breath. “Wow.”

Another nod.

“So, how long have you lived here?” He looks down at the water in front of us.

“Dad died two years ago. We moved in with Papa—well, his real name is Axel—”

“Axel?” the boy asks, shaking his head. “Of course, his name is Axel.”

I shrug. “We moved in with him a few months later.”

The boy whistles through his teeth, reaching down to pick up a small rock and hurling it into the water with a loud kerplunk . “How’s your stepmom? What’s she like?”

“She’s OK, I guess.”

The boy reaches down, picks up another rock, and tosses it into the water. He picks up yet another, this time displaying it for me. I pluck it out of his palm and roll it between my fingers before throwing it into the water and watching how the ripples stretch out and out and out until they disappear.

The sun has moved over the horizon, and I know Papa is probably sleeping now and it’s safe to go home. But I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here and sit with … my friend? Is that who this boy is? I’ve never had a friend before, so I don’t really know. I don’t even know his name.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Ethan James.”

“Ethan James,” I repeat, and he turns his head and looks at me with a small smile.

“So, is your name not really Arlene?”

“It is. I just hate my name.”

“Why?”

I give him a look. “It’s an old lady name.”

The boy—Ethan—laughs. He throws his head back and laughs as if I just told a really funny joke. I feel that familiar sadness and disappointment creep in as I remember that people are mean, and I shouldn’t have thought he was being nice to me.

Ethan reaches for me, but I pull back. “I’m not laughing at you—at your name. I’m laughing because you were funny just now.”

I keep looking at my feet and feel him knock his shoulder into mine. “Come on, Ari. I wasn’t making fun of you. Promise.”

“Ari?” I turn to look at him.

“Yeah. You don’t like your name, so I’ll give you a nickname.”

We stare at each other, and I try the name out on my tongue. “Ari.”

“How old are you, Ari?”

“Ten.”

Ethan pulls his brows up. “Oh, you’re only a year younger than me.”

I roll my eyes, grumbling, “I’m scrawny.”

He gives me a crooked smile, his lip scar on full display, and my cheeks heat up. Breaking our gaze and rubbing his palms on his thighs, he stands. “Well, I assume Papa —” he says the word with a sneer “—is sleeping now, so it’s safe for you to go home. And my own dad will have my hide if I’m not home for dinner.”

I nod, wondering how bad Ethan’s dad is.

Taking steps toward his shoes, he crumples over with a “Gahhhh!” as he steps on a sharp rock, and I can’t help but giggle as Ethan teeters his way over there. “Yeah, keep laughing, Red. Glad I amuse you.” He looks up when he sees me staring at him. “What?”

“Red?”

“Yeah, Red. You know, like your hair.”

I keep staring at him and he lets out a dramatic sigh. “Dang, girl. You gotta lighten up. It’s another nickname. You’ve got fiery hair, like your attitude—red.”

I look down and then plod across the rocks toward the grassy floor of the outer woods that lead back to the wheat fields. I don’t even wince as the stones prick my bare feet. Ethan is only a step behind, and seems grateful when we walk along the edge of the field instead of running straight through it like we did before.

“You OK to go home?” he asks when we get to the edge of the yard.

I sigh. “Papa will be asleep by now. I’ll go in and start making dinner. That will make him happy.”

As I start to take a few steps away from Ethan and toward my house, he puts an arm around my shoulder—causing me to stiffen—and says, “Let me just show you something.” He pivots us and points toward the back of his house. “See the third window?”

I look back at him for a second, then at the house. I count one, two, three windows as he starts talking again. “The first two windows are to the kitchen and dining area. But the third window is to my bedroom.” He turns to me and puts both hands on my shoulders and with our height difference has to bend down a little to look me in the eyes. “You ever need me, you ever need a place to hide, you come knock on my window. OK?”

I nod.

Ethan pulls away, then ruffles my hair with one of his hands. “See you later, Ari.”

After he disappears into his house, I turn and head toward mine, but instead of going inside, I go around the front and sit in the yard for a little while just to make sure Papa is sound asleep before I enter. And as I sit here, I find myself reaching a hand up and running my fingers along my smile. It’s a smile I haven’t had in a long time. Maybe since Dad died.

A friend . I smile some more at the idea. I have two nicknames from my first real friend.