by Deb Caletti
The students ask her questions about her mileage per day, and if she’s gotten any injuries, and if she misses her parents and friends, being gone that long. A young girl gives her a gift, her own lucky coin, which the girl has carried in her shoe every time she’s won a race. But afterward, one of the Warren Township librarians, Angie Canfield (descendant of Angela Rose Canfield, first female mayor of Illinois, she told Annabelle), approaches. She’s a small, serious woman with carefully bobbed hair and pressed slacks and a pendant necklace you see on church ladies, but she grips Annabelle’s hands and looks her dead straight in the eyes.
“I know what’s coming,” she says. “The trial. That boy. I don’t normally use words like this, but . . . that fucker. Don’t you let him get to you.”
• • •
What are the people saying? They care about her. And—they’re angry. What is Annabelle feeling, besides guilt? Something new. Because their anger lifts a rock inside of her. Underneath, it is dark and gross and slimy. But she sees it. She feels it—that worm of fury. It’s large and it’s creepy, and it almost looks capable of devouring her, so no wonder she didn’t want to lock eyes with it before. But there it is, wriggling for its freedom.
Only they should be allowed to be angry, she’d previously thought. They, the ones who weren’t to blame and who suffered the most. They got to be angry at The Taker and at her. But now she can’t help it. The golf lady and the librarian and the commenters in the USA Today article—the rock lifts, and the worm wriggles out, and the fury stirs.
People plus people plus anger is how things can change.
25
1. 2,500–1,000 BCE: The Egyptians decide that the heart, or the ieb, is the center of life and morality. After death, they believe, your heart would be brought to the Hall of Maat, where it would be weighed. If it was lighter than the Feather of Maat, you got the afterlife. If it was heavier, the demon Ammut would eat your heart and your soul would vanish from existence.
2. 400–200 BCE: Ancient Greeks think the heart is the center of the soul and the source of heat within the body.
3. 100–900 AD: Early Americans, like the Teotihuacan of ancient Mexico, believe that different spiritual forces could leave the body at different times, like when you were dreaming. The teyolia, though, the spiritual force of the heart, must remain within the body at all times, or the person will die.
4. Today: It is clear that some people are without either a heart or a soul.
• • •
The fury stirs, which means stuff combines with other stuff. A neutron bonks into uranium or plutonium. There’s a transformation. A revolution. It can be an explosion that ruins everything, or a beautiful power that can brighten cities. Now, Annabelle runs across the Jefferson Street Bridge over the Rock River in Rockford, Illinois. The sun is out and she’s hot and thirsty already, but she’s happy that Loretta is taking her through a town, because towns make the time go so much faster than the long stretches of lonely farmland or forest. Towns mean a real bed in a motel, too, unless there’s a campground nearby to park the RV. Larger towns mean new supplies. Fresh varieties of PowerBars and snacks, like the fun day when your parent goes to the grocery store and you snoop in the bag with excitement.
She’s crossing a bridge from West Jefferson to East Jefferson, and she’s in a great mood. The little towns themselves do this, too. She imagines life in each of them. She looks in store windows. She chooses a house that could be hers.
Over the bridge, there are four lanes of cars, and it’s busy, and she watches her step on the sidewalk so she doesn’t trip on a wrapper tossed out a window, or a clunk of cement. Hey, there’s a park down there at the side of the narrow, green-brown river. Pretty. Hmm, some restaurants, too—she sees umbrellas over outdoor tables. There’s a whole bunch of bridges, not just the one she’s on, but others in both directions.
Now, she’s on the other side. There are lots of redbrick buildings, and a funny red tower, with red flapping oars at the top. She has no idea what that is. Next, she’s beside a long, flat building. It’s a music venue of some kind, a place where bands come, and—
This is all it takes.
Great day—gone. Happy town run—finished.
Because she sees him. The Taker. This is also what he’s done: given her a life sentence, these memories, these intrusive thoughts, these nightmares. In a snap, he destroys everything again and again. His car pulls up to her street. She spots it through the venetian blinds of their living room.
“I’m leaving!” she calls.
“He can’t come in? He can’t ring the doorbell and say hello?” Gina yells from the kitchen.
“It’s not a date! I’ve got to go,” Annabelle says, and then she’s outside in the April evening.
The Taker leans across the seat and opens the door. “I would’ve come in. I’m not a douche.”
“Not necessary. You look nice.” He’s wearing a dress shirt and jeans and a narrow tie. He’s made too much of an effort for her not to give him a compliment, but it’s true, too—he does look nice.
“You look beautiful. But you look beautiful every day.”
He’s in a great mood. The music is on, and he’s thumping the steering wheel. “You hungry? Want to stop first?”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
“We can go after.”
“See what your friends want to do.”
He doesn’t answer. He turns up the music. “I love this part.” He hits an imaginary cymbal in time to the one in the song.
They arrive and find a parking spot, and then they race across the street to Neumos, which is thrumming with pre-concert energy. There’s the smell of cigarettes and weed and close bodies. Security stamps their hands. “Upstairs. Loft. Under twenty-one,” he says.
It’s packed inside. The Taker tosses his arm around her shoulders. “No one really cares where you go once you’re in here. Up or down?” he says.
“Up is fine.”
“Aww! We’ll go down later if we want to dance.”
The opening band, Karma, is already playing. There’s purple light everywhere, and crushed bodies, and, wow, it’s hot.
“How are they going to find us?” she shouts.
“Huh?” He can’t hear. He pulls her close and she tries again in his ear. Someone bumps them and her lips touch his skin.
“Your friends. How are they going to find us?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says.
But she is worrying about it. She’s the sort of person who only relaxes all the way when everyone has arrived or has found their seat or has turned in their part of the group project.
“It’s almost time for Uncut,” she shouts. “I hope they get here.”
“It’s okay.”
His body is next to hers in the smash of people, and he’s grinning and dancing in place while she’s keeping her purse close and eyeing the crowd for anyone who might look like they’re looking for someone. She’s never met Lucy, Adrian, or Jules, so she has no idea who she’s watching for.
There’s a muffled announcement. The color of lights goes from purple to blue. The crowd applauds and cheers. It’s not a good venue for short people. She can’t see a thing.
“Oh no. They’re going to miss it.”
“Something probably came up. Let’s just watch the show,” he says.
She shouldn’t worry about his friends if he’s not. Uncut plays a few songs she knows, and she relaxes and gets into it. God, it’s hot, though, and Annabelle takes off her denim jacket and ties it around her waist. In minutes, her T-shirt is soaked and so is the back of his, but The Taker doesn’t seem to mind. The crowd grows, and pushes them toward the center. She is in front of him now, and he loops his arms around her.
“I’m so sweaty,” she says.
“I like it.”
“Probably cooler down there.”
In intermittent beats she can see the stage, and the singer with his narrow hips and long hair. The crowd looks like a blue-tin
ged swarm of bees.
The Taker is moving behind her, and she moves, too; she can’t help but dance. The whole place is dancing. It is so hot and stuffy, and the air smells bad, really bad, like hot dogs plus body odor plus beer. The floor is sticky up here, too. No alcohol allowed? There’s probably more alcohol on the floor up here than in glasses down there.
Annabelle might commit a crime for a drink of cold water. But as hot and sticky and stinky and crowded and loud as it is, she’s having fun. The music and the atmosphere make her feel a freedom she normally doesn’t feel. She’s stopped worrying about his friends. She feels The Taker’s body behind hers and it doesn’t bother her. She likes it. He’s the familiar one in this hive of bodies. His arms are around her. She leans back, sweat and all. They part only to applaud and shriek and then his arms are around her again.
It must be nearly over, but she is feeling light-headed. It is so, so hot that it is almost impossible to catch a breath of anything but the exhaling of other people.
“Wow, I’ve got to—” Annabelle plucks her shirt. Her hair is flat from sweat and so is his.
“Air?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go.”
Go. It sounds suddenly great and vital but looks impossible. He takes her hand.
“Don’t lose me,” she says.
“Never.”
They edge and he pushes. He says, “Excuse us,” and then, “Hey, man,” when one guy won’t move. It’s odd how in command he is in this environment. There’s no following along or awkward maneuvers in this place. Maybe music relaxes him, too. Maybe he has also been carried into a freedom he normally doesn’t feel. When they finally reach the front door, it’s like he’s successfully gotten them across a war-torn city.
They gulp air. “We made it!” she says. There’s the joy of survival.
“Stay here. Don’t move.” He kisses her cheek. He jets across the street and into a market. She tilts her head up, lets the cool night air lift the sweat from her forehead.
He’s back, carrying two bottles of cold water. It seems chivalrous. He cracks the top for her and hands it over. She drinks gratefully.
“This is the best water I’ve had in my whole life,” she says.
“This is the best night I’ve had in mine. Seriously.”
He tries to talk her into walking over to Molly Moon’s for ice cream, or taking a drive to Cupcake Royale, but this has definitely turned into a date, and she realizes she’d better get home. He stops the car a block away from her house, though. He pulls up by the curb. The dog in the nearby house starts to bark.
“What are you doing?”
“Well, in case your mom is watching.”
He leans over and kisses her. It’s decisive, and she likes that. And who doesn’t want to kiss after a concert? After the loud music and the heat and the surge of being alive?
But she hasn’t kissed anyone since Will, and a new kiss is always strange, and his tongue seems large and it moves in an unfamiliar way, and she’s a little stunned, suddenly, at how the night has turned.
The kiss ends, and there he is, The Taker, in the seat next to her. It’s unnerving, how he was someone else back at Neumos and now he’s himself again.
“Wow,” she says. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
“It shouldn’t?”
“Thank you for a great time.”
“Thank you for a great time.”
“I’m sorry your friends couldn’t make it. I hope they’re okay.”
“I’m sure they’re fine. Why shouldn’t that have happened?”
“Um, we’re friends?” she says.
“Not tonight we aren’t.”
And he’s right, isn’t he? Because none of the night has been friends. He starts the car again, drives her down the block to her house. When she opens the car door, the dome light makes everything too bright.
“I’m saving this forever,” he jokes. He has her water bottle by its neck. He waves it around.
“You’re a sad boy,” she says.
It’s out before she realizes that he may take it wrong. He’s so sensitive. But he’s still grinning. He tips the last drink into his own mouth.
“Ahh,” he says.
She cringes. “Gross.”
“Belle,” he says.
“What?”
“Just Belle.”
• • •
Everyone is asleep when Annabelle goes inside. She’s glad. She doesn’t want to talk about how it went, because she’s not sure how it went. There’s the physical exhaustion of fun, but something else, too. Something uneasy. Maybe just the way she let her guard down. Maybe because the kiss felt wrong. You could have a great time, and the kiss could still feel wrong.
Annabelle lies awake in her own bed. She hears Bit snoring in the hall. It’s his fault that she can’t fall asleep, she tells herself.
But it isn’t. In the darkness, she realizes something. The Taker never texted or phoned his friends to see where they were or what had happened. It was like he knew they weren’t coming.
The thought gnaws at her. The gnaw turns to a ripple of . . . what? Confusion? Anger? She is so infrequently angry that it is hard to recognize it. And with The Taker, she’s so frequently confused that it’s hard to see beyond it. What is the confusion? She likes him, she does. But there’s something shouting Stop! inside of her. Sometimes it’s loud, but sometimes it’s so quiet that it’s only a weird vibration.
She’s unsettled.
Uneasy. But why?
He lied to her, she understands. The friends. It’s a lie.
She does something unwise, because a middle-of-the-night text, no matter what its content, sends a message. It says, I am thinking of you at this hour.
Were your friends ever coming? she types.
She gets an answer right away.
???
You lied to me.
Sorry, he says. He adds a weeping emoji.
And then, a moment later: Worth it. Smiling emoji.
The ripple turns to a boil. God damn him! He manipulated her, and she’s pissed. But then she has another thought. Something that nags. Something that troubles her and sets her on edge.
Do Lucy, Adrian, and Jules even exist?
• • •
Annabelle runs so hard through the east part of Rockford now, she almost feels sick. She is passing Rockford High when a Hostess truck flies by so fast that it spins her pack and almost topples her.
“Slow down, you fucker! This is a school zone!” Annabelle yells.
Annabelle yells. She yells something she’d never yell: You fucker! Her face is red and her eyes are narrow slits of rage. She stops, standing on a small hill, a zit on the landscape, where the Rockford High sign sits. School is in session. She can feel the hum in the building, and the lot is full, and there are only a few kids milling around during their free period. A studious-looking boy with a wheeling backpack freezes when he sees her, like an alarmed traveler stumbling upon a piece of unattended luggage at the airport.
What does she feel besides guilt?
Fury. Rightful fury.
Her heart is thundering. It’s a tribe of horses crossing a freeway, making it to the other side thanks to their sheer number. When it slows, she feels a little foolish. She watches the Hostess truck disappear around a corner.
She starts running again. Her step is oddly energized; her heart feels lifted. The rage rumbles around nicely. Yes, okay, there was that offensive word shouted. And pardon her mouth, she thinks, pardon the mouths of the golf-course lady and the librarian and lots of other people who are angry about violence. Cover your ears if you have to, but wow—look. The power of fury. It’s happening. Stuff is combining and bashing with other stuff. The road is working its magic. The miles are. Distance is. People are. She’s healing.
She’s mobilizing.
26
Now that she’s running in more populated areas, Annabelle meets with her team via Skype daily. Right this minute,
her logistics coordinator is drinking lemonade in their backyard and feeding ice to Bit, which the dog chases on the lawn. Her publicist and her financial adviser are sitting on towels on the beach at Golden Gardens. Annabelle is in her room at the Cherry Valley Hotel, wrapping her knee in an ACE bandage and looking out over the parking lot. Grandpa Ed is in the room next door, taking a nap before dinner. She swears she can hear him snoring through the wall.
“God, guys. Summer must be nice.”
“Hey, tomorrow you’re going to get your summer in,” Olivia says. “It’ll be a blast! So, when you get there, you’ve got to go to the information center first. You’ll be meeting the Magic Waters manager, Bill McGuire, assistant manager Lindsey Russell, and staff. Are you writing this down?”
“Okay, okay.” Annabelle finds a sheet of Cherry Valley Hotel stationery and takes notes.
“Susan Markette, from the Belvidere Daily Republican, will be there, too. Photos will be taken, so smile. Also, you will see the debut of the red T-shirts, and they look awesome, if I do say so myself. Show her, Malc.”
Malcolm pans across their backyard, where Gina sits in a lawn chair, cooling her feet in a blow-up baby pool. Over her bathing suit is a red Run for a Cause T-shirt. Gina sets her arms into a strongman pose and shouts, “Bring it!”
“Wow, Liv, they look great, even if the model is a little overly enthusiastic.”
Zach’s face and skinny shirtless chest fill the screen. “We’ve already sold two hundred. Also, the GoFundMe is over fifty thousand.”
“Put your shirt on. I can’t concentrate. I thought you said fifty thousand.”
“I did.”
“Fifty thousand? As in dollars?”
“You’re going to have to start thinking beyond this race. You know, foundation-wise. You’ve got way more money than you need.”
“Foundation-wise?”
There’s a very loud slurp as Malcolm reaches the end of his cup. Then: “I hate when the ice hits you in the face,” he says.
