“Why you run so far?”
There are always two ways to go here. Normally when asked why I run, I dish out some meaningless lie. To tell the real reason is dangerous. It’s too personal.
“It relaxes me,” I said.
Kyle stopped. “Forget you.” He crossed the inside of the track to get back to the entrance.
I watched him and felt my heart collapse. “Kyle, wait!”
“For crap? I get enough a’ that.” He turned away.
I didn’t think. I yelled.
“I run because it’s the only place I’m me. Until I slog out the miles, I can’t find myself. But if I do it, if I make one mile more, I find myself. My head clears and sometimes, just sometimes, I see that I’m worth something.” I scrubbed tears from my face with the back of my hand.
Kyle had stopped, but he didn’t turn around.
I kept going. “I’m sorry about what I did to you. You scared me, you hated me, and I fought.”
He turned. “Don’t mess with me.”
“I won’t. I promise.” I said it slowly—making the promise to both of us. Without another word or look, he jogged back to the track.
We ran a series of sprints and a cool-down without talking. Maybe he knew I needed space. Maybe he was winded. Regardless, I was reeling with what I’d said and done. Part of me hoped he hadn’t processed how much I’d shared with him, while the other part knew that he understood me perfectly. Because he’s not dumb. That happens with most foster kids—people underestimate us. They dismiss us—as I had dismissed him.
When we finished I slapped him on the back, expecting that we felt the same. I was wrong.
“Don’t touch me.”
“I . . .”
“We’re running. We ain’t friends.” And he walked away.
So there it is. We’re not friends, but I did my best. And, in this last letter to you, it’s important that you know I tried. I am not an adult who purposely ruins kids’ identities and dreams.
Now . . . I’m off to find out what kind of adult I am. Thanks for everything. At the very least, your grant let me rest in Grace House’s safety for a few months—that helped a lot.
Forgot to mail this again—I’m beginning to think there’s something psychological going on here. Attachment issues?
But I’m bored and there’s no one here now, so I might as well add more.
The morning started fine. After I recovered from yet another dissing from Kyle, I headed to my library job. Mrs. Grunschovitch, one of my favorite library regulars, was the first through the doors. She’s a wonderful, crusty old lady who constantly scolds me for not pulling my hair out of my eyes and not eating enough. Believe me, I eat plenty. I just run more.
Lately she says I need more blush. She says I have beautiful cheekbones. I never noticed. A foster mom once called me a “long drink of water” and I never think much beyond that. When I do look in the mirror, the long brown curly hair and bushy eyebrows stop me way before I get to the cheekbones. Still, it’s nice for someone to say something about me is pretty.
A couple weeks ago, Mrs. G helped me put up the Summer Love display. I pulled out Lisa Kleypas, Nora Roberts, and a few other hot, steamy novelists in an effort to appear modern and hip.
“You can’t put these out.” Mrs. G plucked them from my book pyramid.
“These are summer romances.”
“You need the real lovelies. Tales of true love,” she sighed.
“Which are?”
“I’m disappointed in you, Sam. I thought you’d know.The Scarlet Pimpernel,Romeo and Juliet,Persuasion.”
“Wuthering Heights?Jane Eyre?Pride and Prejudice?”
