Runaway

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  “There’s hope for you yet,” Hank mutters.

  I don’t know if he’s talking about Blackfire or me.

  I run inside and tell Kat about riding Blackfire. Then I log on to Annie’s e-mail and get ready to write Winnie. But Winnie has beat me to it. There’s a message waiting with the subject line: Fight or Flight.

  I read through it. It’s the same kind of thing Catman told Kat about cats. Horses are “prey” instead of predators. So when they get frightened, their instinct is to fight or run away, and almost always, they’ll choose to run away.

  If you can just remember that a horse’s first reaction to anything new is to run away, you’ll go a long way toward understanding Blackfire.

  I can’t help smiling to myself. Maybe that’s why Blackfire and I have understood each other from the beginning. Running away is something I’ve always understood.

  I start upstairs, but Kat meets me on her way down. “Come on!”

  “Come on where?”

  “Sunday night stargazing,” Kat answers. “Didn’t anybody tell you?”

  I shake my head.

  Hank comes thundering down the stairs, and even Wes heads for the lawn, where Annie and Popeye are spreading out blankets.

  I follow along and take a spot next to Kat. For the rest of the night, under bright starlight, we watch the sky and eat popcorn to the tune of crickets, hoot owls, and an occasional woodpecker.

  * * *

  The next morning, I’m ready for another driving lesson. But when I come downstairs, Popeye’s chugging a glass of milk as he stands over the sink. He’s wearing brown pants and a matching jacket that says “Nice Fire Dept.”

  When he sees me, he says, “Good, you’re up, Dakota. I’m due at the fire station. One of the boys called in sick.”

  Annie’s stuffing papers into her briefcase. “Morning, Dakota. Sorry we have to rush off like this.”

  “When are you coming back?” I ask, hoping it will be in time to give me another driving lesson.

  “Up to my chauffeur,” Popeye answers, switching his lunch bag to his teeth so he can open the door for his wife.

  “Great,” I mutter when they’re gone. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

  Hank gets up from the table and sets his dishes in the sink. “How about riding Blackfire?”

  Suddenly I’m not so disappointed. “Seriously? Yeah!”

  I ride bareback, and again Hank leads me around the pen. After the fourth round, I’m ready to move on. “Hank, you can let go now. We’ll be fine.”

  He steps back and holds up both hands. “I haven’t led you for the last two laps.”

  “Then scram. Blackfire and I want to be alone.”

  “Guess I can take a hint.” Hank leaves the ring but watches from the side as Blackfire and I continue to walk around and around. Finally, even Hank seems to get bored. “I’m going to muck stalls,” he says. “Call me if you need me.”

  After a couple more laps, I’m getting dizzy, and I think Blackfire must feel the same. He edges closer to the pen. This time, when we pass the open gate, it’s like Blackfire’s reading my mind. He tucks, turns, and walks out of the pen.

  I don’t try to rein him back. I want to see where he’ll go. Unhurried, he crosses the barn to the barn door, then out into the beautiful sunshine.

  This is riding. I breathe deeply, and the air smells clean. I glance around and see Kat waving at me from the front window.

  Blackfire stops, and I wave back at Kat.

  Out of nowhere comes a growl. Then a yap, yap, yap!

  “Taco!” Wes comes running from the house. “Get back here!”

  But the little dog keeps running, making a beeline for Blackfire’s hind legs.

  Suddenly, Blackfire lets out a whinny. The dog yaps at his heels. I feel the horse gather himself under me. Then he lunges.

  I grasp at his mane to keep from falling off. Blackfire takes off, and I’m thrown forward so that I’m hanging on to his neck. He takes this as a sign to speed up.

  We thunder up the hill. We’re halfway through the next field before I remember to breathe.

  I’m surprised to feel the reins still in my hand. Somebody’s yelling behind me, but I can’t make out the words. I scoot back into riding position and remember to grip with my thighs.

  The rhythm of the gallop begins to take me with it, regular and steady. Up and back. I loosen my grip on his mane, feel the wind on my face, and move with Blackfire. He runs across the road, and I’m with him, beat for beat. I’m not afraid. I want us to keep running together. Forever. Just like this. No wonder we’re riding as if we’re one. He’s running away, and that’s what I do best.

  Ahead of us, I see rocks piled high.

  We close in on the mound. But the closer we get, I see more rocks. And something else. It’s a quarry—a deep, cavernous quarry.

  And we’re headed straight for it.

  Fifteen

  I sit up as straight as I can on Blackfire’s back until I can see the giant hole in the ground, the quarry that’s getting closer with every hoofbeat. I picture us galloping over the side, flying, then crashing down . . .

  “Whoa!” I shout, pulling back on the reins. I remember what Winnie said about ask and release. So I pull, let up, then pull.

  Blackfire puts on the brakes so fast I almost sail over his head. But I catch myself. “Good boy!” I stroke his sweaty neck and ease my seat behind the withers. We’re both panting. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this alive. Even as I think this, I know it sounds like a soap opera, but there it is—that feeling. In my soul, like Popeye and his woodpeckers.

  I lay the reins on Blackfire’s neck, and he turns around and starts walking back to the barn as if our ride were nothing more than a little exercise. Halfway there, I hear shouts. Hank’s running toward us, waving his arms. He stops when he sees us walking toward him. He leans over, hands on knees, like he’s trying to get his breath.

  Wes catches up to Hank the same time I get there and frowns up at me. Then he turns around and heads back to the barn.

  Hank inspects Blackfire and me. “You sure you’re okay, Dakota?”

  I lean forward and hug Blackfire around the neck. “Hank, I’ve got to tell you. That was more fun than falling off Starlight.”

  * * *

  Next morning there’s an e-mail waiting for me:

  Can you drive yet?

  Neil always was a man of few words.

  But the message hits hard. Right now there’s no way I could drive that truck to Chicago. I can’t even make it across the pasture without stalling out. I need more practice.

  I don’t answer Neil’s e-mail.

  I look around for Popeye, who never sleeps in—and “sleeping in” means anything after seven. There’s a note on the table, anchored under the sugar bowl. I move to the table to read it:

  Fire duties. Gone with Mac. Digging trenches near Marengo. Back later.

  Love,

  Popeye/Chester/Dad

  Great. There goes my driving lesson. In four days I’ll be on the road to Chicago. I’m running out of time. And patience.

  By four o’clock, Popeye still isn’t back. I’ve ridden Blackfire, checked e-mail, and scouted the driveway for any sign of Popeye. With nothing else to do, I stroll around the barn and see the truck’s still parked where I left it. Mac, a neighbor and fellow firefighter, must have given Popeye a lift.

  I think about asking Hank if he’ll give me a driving lesson, but he’s out riding Starlight. I stare at the old truck, knowing that in a few days I’ll be driving it by myself.

  So why not now?

  The key’s right where it always is. I snap on my seat belt, and the truck starts with the first try. Gears grind as I wiggle the stick to first. The truck jerks, but it doesn’t die. I head for the path along the back field and bounce through the pasture with no problem. This is by far the best I’ve driven. At the end of the field, the gate’s missing. So I keep going down a little incline and onto the road.<
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  It’s easier than I thought, driving on a gravel road. Pressing the accelerator and picking up speed, I try to imagine myself on the expressway. Actually, it’s easier to stay straight at this speed than when Popeye makes me dog it. I pass the Coolidges’ driveway and keep going until I come to a crossroad. Dust clouds rise from both sides as I turn left and regain speed. I’m guessing it’s a country mile to the next intersection when I turn left again. The corner comes a little fast, and I turn too sharply, but nobody’s coming.

  I settle into the seat again and relax my hands on the wheel. I can do this. I really can. As soon as I get back, I’ll e-mail Neil and tell him. I take another left at the intersection, then another, and I’m pretty sure I’m back on the road I started on. Nobody else is out here. I own the road.

  I whiz past the horse pasture. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the Coolidges’ driveway. It’s up on me sooner than I thought, so I have to wheel right to make the turn.

  In front of me, tiny eyes shine up from the road—a raccoon or a rabbit. I swerve to miss it. But the truck goes too far too fast.

  My front tire bumps off the drive, and I can’t get it back. I’m going too fast. I yank the wheel the other way. Back tires spin. I jerk the steering wheel, but nothing happens.

  I hear a scream. It’s me. I’m the one screaming. The truck’s heading straight for a tree. I close my eyes. Then I hear the crash.

  My body lunges forward, then jerks back from the seat belt.

  When I open my eyes, I’m looking at a tree. Branches are pressed against the cracked windshield, like an old man’s fingers trying to get in. I’m still squeezing the steering wheel. I’ve gripped it so hard, my fingernails are broken. I wiggle my fingers, move my arms. Nothing else seems to be broken.

  Except the truck.

  The giant trunk of the tree is so close I could reach out and touch it, which means the whole front part of the truck has been squished like an accordion.

  The Coolidges are going to kill me.

  I lean back in the seat, amazed that I don’t hurt. My heart sounds like galloping horses’ hooves, but I’m okay. I don’t see blood anywhere.

  That’s when I realize somebody’s honking. The steady cry of the horn blares through the dusk. I look around for another car, then figure out that it’s the truck’s horn. It’s stuck. I pound on it until it cuts off, leaving an eerie silence.

  The driver’s door swings open, and Hank’s there. “She’s okay!” he shouts. He reaches in and tries to pull me out, but the seat belt’s still fastened. He undoes the belt, then slides one arm under me and lifts me out of the truck.

  Kat rushes up and grabs my arm. She’s sobbing. “Dakota! Are you hurt?”

  “I’m okay, Kat.” I see Wes behind her, and he looks scared. Then I look at Hank, who’s still holding me like I’m a baby. “You can put me down, Hank.”

  “Sure?” Hank holds me a few seconds longer, then sets me down.

  My left knee hurts when I try to stand. It buckles, and Hank reaches for my arm to steady me.

  A van pulls up behind us, and both doors spring open. Annie and Popeye come running for me. “Dakota!” Popeye shouts. The headlights point bright fingers at me through the settling dusk.

  Annie says something I can’t make out.

  I brace myself. I don’t think they’ll hit me. But they’ll go ballistic as soon as they see their truck. I try to stand up straight and get ready.

  Annie reaches me first. “Dakota! What did you do? Are you okay?”

  Then Popeye’s there. He puts his hand on my head. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

  Annie kneels down, even though she’s wearing a white skirt. “What did you do to your knee? Let me see.” Gently, Annie squeezes my kneecap and pokes and prods. When she stands, she lets out a sigh. “Well, nothing’s broken that I can see. You’ll have a nasty bruise though.” She peers into my face. Then she feels my arms.

  Popeye looks up at the sky. “Thank You, Lord!”

  “Man,” Hank says, more to them than to me. “I heard this bang, then a crunch. Then Kat came running into the barn to get me.”

  “It was so scary,” Kat says, still looking stunned.

  Wes hasn’t left, but he stands to one side.

  Popeye throws his arm around Kat. “It’s over now. Everything’s just fine.”

  This is so not the reaction I expected. “Your truck,” I say. “It’s wrecked.”

  “What about her knee?” Popeye asks, peering down as if he hasn’t heard me. “Sure it’s not broken?”

  “Am I sure it’s not broken?” Annie repeats. “Have you seen my medical degrees, Mr. Coolidge?”

  They both laugh.

  None of this makes sense. I feel like I’m watching these people from another dimension. “Hey! I wrecked your truck!” I shout. “I did it. I drove by myself, and I smashed your truck into a tree.”

  The smiles don’t disappear from their faces. “We love you, not that truck,” Popeye says.

  “What?” I don’t believe he just said what he did.

  “We’re just grateful you’re okay,” Annie begins. “Of course, you shouldn’t have been driving on your own.”

  Here it comes, I think. Now I’m going to get their real reaction.

  “True,” Popeye agrees. “We have time to come up with something.”

  Annie smiles at me, then squints like she’s concentrating. “Dakota doesn’t watch TV like Wes does, so that won’t work. Extra chores maybe?”

  That’s it? Extra chores? “Don’t you get it?” I shout. Only now do I feel tears pushing to get out. “I wrecked your truck! I’m sorry. I’m really sorry! But I can do extra chores until I’m a hundred, and I still won’t have the money to pay you back!” Tears stop up my throat, and I cough.

  “It will all work out,” Popeye says.

  “No, it won’t!” I want them to be angry, to yell at me, to hate me for this. “I’ll never be able to pay you back.”

  “We know,” Annie says.

  “Dakota,” Popeye says, “most of what we do, we can’t pay back.”

  “That’s why we need Jesus,” Kat whispers.

  I’m out of words. Out of breath. Out of everything.

  “I could sure use some hot chocolate,” Hank says, sticking out an elbow for me to lean on.

  I do lean on him and hobble to the house, but I skip the hot chocolate.

  From my hot, bubbly bath, I listen to the laughter rise from downstairs, the voices seeping up through the radiator vents.

  Sleep comes easily. But in the middle of the night I bolt upright in bed. There’s no truck!

  No truck means nothing to drive. Nothing to drive means no Chicago. No Chicago means no California.

  I throw off my covers and hobble barefoot down the stairs. My knee hurts, but I ignore it. The computer’s turned off, and it takes forever to warm up. I log on to my e-mail and dash off a message in all caps, slapping READ THIS NOW!!!! in the subject line.

  NEIL, HELP! I WRECKED THE TRUCK!

  I CAN’T DRIVE TO CHICAGO.

  YOU HAVE TO COME HERE AND GET ME!

  * * *

  I try to go back to sleep, but I can’t. Pieces of the last two days fly through my head like runaways: my wild ride on Blackfire, the truck slamming into the tree, Popeye placing his hand on my head.

  Why don’t they hate me for wrecking their truck? I don’t understand. And I don’t belong. Not with these people. Not with this “Nice” family.

  I belong with Neil. And DJ. And whoever and whatever’s waiting in California. Not here, where people don’t get mad at you for wrecking their truck, where they say they love you when they should hate you.

  When it starts getting light outside, I give up trying to sleep and go back down to the computer. Maybe Winnie sent me more horse e-mails. I log in to Annie’s e-mail account and scroll down, looking for something from Winnie.

  An e-mail catches my eye. But it’s not from Winnie. It’s from someone named
George. Addressed to Annie. The header reads: We need to meet!

  I know I shouldn’t, but I click on the e-mail and read:

  My dearest Annie,

  We cannot go on like this. It’s been days since our last encounter. We must meet. You must tell your husband. I need you more than that husband of yours needs you. I miss you madly.

  All my love,

  George

  Sixteen

  The screen door slams, and I jump up from the computer as if I’ve been shot.

  It’s Wes and Rex. Rex trots over to me and wags his tail until I pet him.

  Wes, still in pajamas, eyes me suspiciously. “Great job on the truck,” he says. “Guess that makes it a little harder to run away.”

  I don’t answer him. I couldn’t speak if I wanted to.

  He walks past me and goes back to bed.

  I feel sick inside. The words in George’s e-mail race through my brain, electrically charged. How could Annie do this to Popeye? He loves her so much. His Annie. Right. What a lie.

  Love? If that’s where love gets you, then I want out more than ever.

  I can’t wait for Neil to write. I know it’s too early to call him, but that’s just too bad. And I know I’m not supposed to make long-distance calls without asking. But it seems to me there are a lot of things being done around here that are not supposed to be done.

  I pick up the phone and dial Neil’s number.

  The phone rings six times, and I’m afraid nobody’s going to answer when somebody finally does. “Who is this?”

  I’m pretty sure it’s not Neil’s voice. “Uh . . . is Neil there?”

  The guy swears under his breath. Neil lives with two other guys, but this doesn’t sound like either of them. Then I wonder if it’s DJ.

  I wait so long I think about hanging up. Then Neil answers. “Who is this?”

  “Neil, it’s me. Dakota.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I wrecked the truck I was going to drive to Chicago.”

  “You’re kidding. You better have a backup plan. Are they ready to kill you, or what?”

  “Not exactly.” I picture Annie running up to me to see if I was okay. But I shove the image from my head and instead try to imagine her with George.