Running Barefoot by Amy Harmon Read Free Book Online Page B

color really an issue after all that time?”
    “For most kids it wasn’t,” he admitted then, somewhat begrudgingly. “I had friends, agirlfriend.” His eyes shifted to me briefly.
    “I think most people aren’t really so biased if you let them get to know you,” I volunteered.
    “It’s not my job to make sure people know me or like me,” Samuel said proudly.
    “Well that’s naïve,” I huffed.
    Samuel’s eyes flashed and he clenched his jaw.
    “I’m not exactly what you would call outgoing,” I continued. “I kind of prefer being by myself, but I can’t expect anyone to want to get to know me if I purposely keep myself separated.” I paused as his face remained stony. “Mrs. Grimaldi says you can’t build walls and then be mad when no one wants to climb over them.”
    “That’s easy for you to say,” Samuel sneered as his eyes flew over my blond hair and then met my blue eyes with a black glower.
    “Oh, please Samuel!” I huffed. “I may not have brown skin, but I am plenty peculiar,” I rebutted. “And don’t pretend you haven’t noticed it.”
    Samuel shook his head in disgust and pulled his hand from mine. I was finished anyway, and I gathered the bloody towlettes and wrapped them in several paper towels.
    “How many other kids have you talked to since you came here?” I asked Samuel quietly, “besides me?”
    Samuel didn’t respond, and I didn’t really expect him to.
    “People can be jerks - Joby is a creep, and heprobably had that broken nose coming to him,” I soothed, “But don’t just assume that people don’t like you because you look different. I, for one, like the way you look.”
    I blushed furiously and grabbed the first aid box and escaped to the front of the bus to return it to the Velcro straps, throwing the bloody wipes away while I was at it.
    “Everything under control?” Mr. Walker questioned me as I stuck the box back where it belonged.
    “Huh?”
    “The bloody nose?” Mr. Walker prodded.
    “Oh, yeah. All done - it stopped,” I stammered.
    Samuel had his arm back in his sleeve when I returned, his jacket buttoned back up to cover the stained shirt underneath. He had
Wuthering Heights
opened on his lap. I sat down and he began reading without preamble. I pulled out the big green dictionary and that was the end of our discussion, for the time being.

    “What kind of name is ‘Heathcliffe’ anyway?” Samuel grumbled, as we labored through anotherday of reading. We had less than five pages left, and it had been tough.
    “I think his name is one of the nicest things about him,” I said sincerely. “At least it isn’t something boring like Ed or Harry. It’s kind of a romantic name.”
    “But that’s his only name . . . no last name, no middle name - just Heathcliffe. Like Madonna or Cher.”
    I was a little surprised that Samuel knew who Madonna and Cher were. It didn’t seem like his type of music, though I had no idea what his type was.
    “I think the fact that he didn’t have a surname was the author’s way to signify that he really didn’t belong to anyone ... he was alone in the world,” I mused thoughtfully. “Everybody had these full English names, and Heathcliffe was a gypsy without roots, without family, without even a name of his own.”
    “Yeah, maybe......” Samuel nodded his head in agreement. “Names are a big deal to the Navajo. Every Navajo child is given a secret Navajo name when they are born. It is known only by the child, the family, and God. You don’t share it with anyone else.”
    “Really?” I asked in awe. “So what’s yours?”
    He looked at me with exasperation. “You. Don’t. Share. It. With. Anyone. Else,” he said slowly.
    I blushed and looked down at the book. “Why?”
    “My grandma says if you do your legs will turn hard…but I think it’s more a tie that binds the people together, keeps tradition alive, that kind of thing. My mom told me it’s sacred.”
    “Wow. I wish I had a secret name.