You Can Run

 

TO B.M.R.,
WHO REALLY CAN RUN

B
ah-buh-duh-duh-dah-dah
. . .

Morgan Turner, my best friend, looked at me. Then she looked at my backpack.

. . .
bah-buh-duh-duh-dah-dah
. . . .

I ripped the pack off my shoulder and dug through it until I found my cell phone.

“Hey, that sounds like—” began Billy Royal, my other best friend.

“It sounds like someone with very bad taste got their hands on Robyn's phone,” Morgan said as I looked down at my touch screen.

That someone was on the other end of the line.

“Hi, Dad,” I said.

“Hey, Robbie. Just checking to see if the new phone is working okay.”

“Working fine, Dad.”

“Great,” he said. He sounded pleased. “Well then, I won't keep you.”

“Okay. Bye, Dad.”

Billy looked at me approvingly. “‘My Girl,' right? The Temptations, 1964. I love that Motown sound.” Billy was an oldies junkie. It was one of the reasons he got along well with my father.

Morgan looked at me too, but the expression on her face was more along the lines of, “Tell me you're not that pathetic.”

“I lost my old phone last week,” I said.

“Moving up in the world, huh?” Morgan said. Until recently, I had been famous for losing my house keys. Regularly.

“My mom got really mad about it,” I said. My mother is famous for knowing the exact location of each and every one of her possessions—at all times.“Dad bailed me out. He picked out the ring tone too. He said it was perfect for me.”

“It would be,” Morgan said, “if you were his girlfriend instead of his daughter, and if this were nineteen-seventy-something.”

“1964,” Billy said.

“Whatever,” Morgan said. “My advice? Change it.”

“But it's a gift,” Billy said.

“So?” Morgan said. “Didn't anyone ever give you a gift you didn't want?”

“Well, sure, but—”

“Maybe a sweater with reindeer on it from your grandma at Christmas? Or a shirt that you'd never wear in a million years from some old auntie who hasn't seen you since you were three years old?”

“Yeah, but—”

“So, when you get a gift like that, you exchange it for something you want, right?”

Billy looked down at his sneakers. Morgan shook her head in amazement.

“You're a nice guy,” she said. Billy beamed. “But you can be such a wuss.” Billy's smile evaporated like morning mist under a scorching sun.

I was stuffing the new phone back into my pack when Morgan suddenly tugged on my arm.

“Hey, Robyn, is that who I think it is?”

I looked around. “Who?” Morgan, Billy, and I had just come from the downtown library, where we had been researching a project for school. We were going to get something to eat before heading home.

“Nick.”

“Where?”

“Over there, with those kids. It sure looks like him.”

She pointed to a bunch of kids in front of a youth center on the other side of the street. A couple of them sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, panhandling with a hat upside down in front of them. The rest of the kids clogged the sidewalk, making it impossible for pedestrians to get by, let alone drop coins into the hat. I didn't see Nick.

“I don't think he'd be hanging around down here,” I said.

“Right,” Morgan said, her tone making it clear that she meant exactly the opposite. “Because if he were, he'd get busted.”

Morgan had met Nick only once, but she loved to talk about him. She said guys like Nick were “inherently fascinating.” I think mostly what fascinated her was the scar that ran from the bridge of his nose to the lobe of his right ear. It made him look dangerous.

“I didn't mean because he'd get busted,” I said, although he would get into serious trouble. “I mean because he follows the rules.”

“Right,” Morgan said, still meaning exactly the opposite. “Following the rules is the best way I know to get arrested, not to mention end up in custody.”

“It's open custody,” I said. There were no locked cells, guard towers, or barbed wire where Nick was living.

“Open, closed, it's still custody,” Morgan said.

It was true. Nick hadn't always followed the rules. He'd been in a little trouble with the law. Okay, maybe more than a little. But that was before. And he'd had his reasons. He was doing better now. He was still living in a group home, serving out some time for—well, Nick doesn't like to talk about it, and I don't blame him. In another couple of weeks, his time would be up and he'd be out for good. No way was he going to mess that up by hanging out with a bunch of street kids downtown.

“Look, now you can see him,” Morgan said. She pointed at the group of kids sitting on the sidewalk. This time I saw him, with his thick dark hair and his typical Nick wardrobe: black jeans, black T-shirt, black hoodie, black boots. But I wished I hadn't. He had his arm around a girl. They were looking at something, but I couldn't see what.

“Which one is he?” Billy said. He had heard a lot about Nick, mostly from Morgan, but hadn't met him yet. While Morgan pointed him out, a sick lump formed in my stomach. What was he doing there? Why did he have his arm around that girl? Why was that girl leaning her head against his shoulder?

I turned my back to him before he could see me. I wanted to get out of there, fast. But Morgan had another idea.

“Nick,” she called. She raised an arm and waved. “Hey, Nick, over here.”

I shushed her, but trying to shush Morgan is like trying to shush thunder. She's a real force of nature. I ducked behind Billy, who is so tall and skinny that it was like trying to hide behind a length of rope. I peeked around him and saw Nick's head bob up in response to Morgan's calls. He peered across the street at her as if he were trying to place her. Then he shifted his eyes a little to the right and saw me. He said something to the girl he was holding, then he let go of her and stood up.

“I want to go home,” I said to Morgan.

“But it's Nick—”

“Now, Morgan.” What was the matter with her? Didn't she see the girl he was with?

I turned and headed up the street, not looking back. I had almost reached the subway station when someone grabbed my arm. I whirled around, angry.

“Morgan, seriously—”

But it wasn't Morgan. It was Nick. He peered at me with his purple eyes. They were like two perfectly round pieces of amethyst. I had never seen eyes that color before I met him.

“Hey, Robyn.” His voice was warm, and he smiled at me. He didn't look remotely dangerous now. “What's up?”

What's up? I had just seen him sitting on the sidewalk with his arm around another girl, and he was asking me what's up?

“I'm in a hurry. I have to get home,” I said. I glanced at Morgan and Billy, who were a few paces behind Nick. Morgan gave me a sympathetic look—she'd finally figured out what was bothering me. Billy just shrugged, as if he couldn't understand what the big deal was, which, I guess, proves what Morgan is always saying: guys are blind, deaf, and dumb when it comes to the nuances of relationships.

Nick looked at me for a few moments as if he were trying to work a complicated puzzle. Then he glanced back across the street at the group of kids he'd been with.

“Hey, you're not upset about Beej, are you?” he said.

Beej? What kind of name was that?

“Because there's no reason for you to be,” he said. “She's just a friend.”

Right. That explained why he'd been holding her in public.

“The guy she was going with took off. She's upset,” he said. “I was just trying to cheer her up a little. She was showing me some of her pictures.”

Uh-huh.

He stepped in close to me, put one hand under my chin and pushed it up a little, gently, so I had to look at him.

“It's not what you think,” he said.

Maybe it was the warmth of his hand. Or maybe it was the sincere look in his eyes. Probably, though, it was the little lopsided smile he gave me—Nick hoping that I wasn't mad at him or that I wouldn't stay that way.

“What are you doing down here anyway?” I said. “Aren't you supposed to be back at Somerset?” Somerset was the name of the group home where he lived.