But if that was true, why did stories like this exist?
Slowly, I began to doubt what my mother had taught me. I used to believe she would protect me from the cruel world outside and keep me almost locked inside this house to keep me safe. I really thought all people were evil, and that she was worried about me.
But now I’m not so sure.
What if she’s wrong? What if not all people are bad and not all men are savages?
What if shelied?
Those questions haunted me the most. But I would’ve never dared to ask my mother about them. I already knew what she would say, so I kept my thoughts to myself. But as I became more and more certain that the world could not be as she told me over and over again, a new curiosity arose inside me.
I wanted to know what the world wasreallylike. I wanted to meet other people and go on adventures. To make friends and—what I thought would be the most exciting part and happens in nearly all of these novels—fall in love. I wanted to know what it feels like when a boy holds my hand or even kisses me. And I wanted to know if it really feels like butterflies in your stomach. I wanted toexperienceit.
What started as wishful thinking has turned into a desire I can not ignore any longer. It’s as if a force is trying to pull me out into this world, which is so foreign and strange to me, but seems to be full of joy and hope, too. And so a thought solidified, keeping me awake at night and making my heart race in my chest during the day.
I have to run away and leave my mother.
She would never let me go, so asking her about it would be pointless. Just leaving without a plan doesn’t seem very smart to me, either, since it’s nearly five miles to the next town—at least according to my mother. And although my view of the world has changed a lot in the past few months, I’m not naive enough to believe that there aren’t bad people and dangers. Besides, I don’t want to encounter a Mississippi alligator or other wild animals.
So I have to find another way. And Iwill.
I put the book I already read back on one of the shelves and grab the one right next to it. I don’t care about reading them in any particular order. Instead, I just take one after the otherbecause I’m not picky. I want to read them all and immerse myself in the stories, regardless of what they’re about.
Afterward, I lock the doors and go back upstairs to my room to spend the last hours with the new book until my mother returns.
"I’m going to take my bath," she announces, rising from her chair while I start doing the dishes.
The scraping of the chair’s legs on the old kitchen floor echoes through the room before her footsteps move away and the bathroom door closes. Shortly after, she turns on the faucet, and the water flowing over my hands gets cold. I turn it off and prop myself on the edge of the sink.
While I wait for her tub to fill up so that I can continue with the dishes, I look outside through the window. Our house is in the heart of Mississippi, right in the center of the state. About 100yards from the front door, Rocky Hill Road crosses Mississippi Highway17, with traffic controlled by a traffic light as pointless as an umbrella in the desert. I can’t remember ever seeing more than one vehicle at the same time here, so it’s no surprise that none of the people passing by wait till the traffic light turns green.
Right now, a vehicle is approaching from the south, heading toward the intersection. It’s a huge black pickup truck, its headlights illuminating the deserted road and some surrounding trees even though dusk is still a few minutes away. It rolls at a moderate pace toward the traffic light, which I know is red, and stops right in front of it. It’s not uncommon for people to stop because they don’t know it takes three minutes for the traffic light to turn green. But most of them don’t wait as long, and I can’t blame them for it.
But the black pickup stays still.
I start counting the seconds in my head, waiting for them to finally ignore the red light and drive off, but they just don’t. For a moment, I wonder if something may have happened to the driver, but when I reach 169seconds, the light changes to green, and the car starts moving.
That was the first time in seventeen years I saw someone wait the full three minutes. Not even the wildlife officers wait more than thirty seconds at this intersection.
I follow the truck with my eyes until it disappears from my view, and only then do I realize that the water in the bathroom has been turned off.
As much as I want to, I will never know what the deal is with this pickup and its driver, so I shake off the thoughts about it, turn on the water, and finally continue the dishes.
TWO
SOPHIE
Something new accompanied the anticipation of reading the books: Excitement. Because the black pickup I saw on Monday also appeared on Tuesday. And again, it waited for the light to turn green.
Tomorrow. If they come back tomorrow, it’s a sign, I told myself after the huge vehicle vanished from my sight and I exhaled, only then realizing I had been holding my breath.
When they appear on Wednesday at the same time, my heart races at the idea that forms in my mind.
It can’t be a coincidence. The driver has appeared three days in a row now. And each day, they’ve waited for the light to turn green. Though I don’t know much about probability theory, I’m pretty sure they will reappear tomorrow. I would have the full extent of three minutes to run out of the house, down the driveway, and jump into the truck.
I’m well aware of how daring this plan is, but I don’t care. I can’t let this possibility of running away drive by—literally. I have to take the risk that the driver will not take me with them or—what I don’t fear because it really seems unlikely to happen—do me any harm. Ihave to. Because they could be my onlychance of living a life that is not defined by my mother’s views and rules. And I have to know what this life could be like.
Of course I’ll miss her. I’ll miss her soft humming whenever she’s working in the garden, and how quickly her fingers bundle up the herbs. I’ll miss the smell of lavender in the house after she’s taken a bath. I’ll even miss praying with her even though I don’t agree with all of her beliefs.
