Rush by Jonathan Friesen Read Free Book Online Page B

no.”
    â€œNo! Nothing,” I say. “I stopped.”
    Brooke runs out, hands clutched around the top pressed against her. “Oh, hi, Scottie, Salome.” She turns to me. “Guess everyone is looking for you.”
    â€œI—I need to go.” I push out of this gruesome party and toward the gate.
    Â 
    SALOME SPENDS SATURDAY locked away at home, where she doesn’t take my calls and destroys my weekend.
    I spend the day in the garage, sharpening saw blades and staring at my jacket shred. Maybe it is cursed, but it brings me comfort. I set down my blades, work the leather, and wander onto the driveway. She can see me clearly from there. I whistle, wander back beside the truck, and repeat the process.
    I gaze into her window, see her shape, and glance away.
    Come out here. Let me explain.
    But she doesn’t, and after thirty trips down to the mailbox, I quit. I head inside, slam the garage door behind me. I won’t see her tomorrow either—she’ll be rotting away at Brockton Baptist—morning service and afternoon meetings and evening service. It’s awful having God as your competition.
    Monday arrives, and I haven’t seen her in three days. There’s a buzzy jitter inside, one only she can calm.
    I hop on my scooter and whiz down Winders Street through a semideserted world. The kids are locked up in school, their parents are incarcerated in the mill, I’m under house arrest—tough town.
    I accelerate and pull into the high school parking lot and check my watch. Third hour. Phys ed. Perfect. I walk the perimeter of the campus and reach the ballfields on the far side. Across the football field, twenty girls jog the track. Well, four jog and about sixteen walk.
    I stick to the tree line that skirts the field and smile. Salome runs. Of course she runs. I slip under the bleachers and work my way down to the middle of the track. I crawl forward, squeeze up through a crack, and plunk down on the metal seat, hands folded.
    Salome, Kelli, and Haley jog the far side, circle round toward me. Walkers stare as they pass—or giggle or shake their heads or start to jog—but what they say or do doesn’t matter. It’s only the blonde who wears my red PROPERTY OF sweatshirt, the one who laughs free and clear. I see her, and the tingle stops. And a different type of tingle starts.
    â€œJake! What are you doing here?” She pulls up with Haley. They lean over the fence, while Kelli mutters and runs on.
    â€œThought I’d visit, is all.”
    â€œYou can’t be here.” Salome says.
    Haley gazes around the track and glances all nervous like at the school, as if some drug deal is going down. “If they see you here, you’ll be—”
    â€œSuspended? Expelled?” I ask.
    â€œHonestly, Jake.” Salome runs her hand through her hair. “What do you need?”
    â€œYou,” I say.
    Haley smiles and starts to run. Salome climbs the fence, sits down next to me.
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?”
    â€œWhere’s Mrs. Hurd?” I ask.
    â€œShe’s not here today. We have a seriously obese sub watching us run from the building.” She bites her lip. “What did you mean by that?”
    â€œWhat?” I ask.
    â€œYou.”
    â€œYou?”
    She fists my thigh. “That’s what you said. ‘You’! I asked you what you needed, and you said ‘you’!”
    â€œThen I said it wrong, ’cause I didn’t mean me, I meant to say y—”
    Salome leans forward, hugs her legs. “How old are you?”
    â€œEight.”
    â€œEight. Well, that explains everything.” She stands, steps down, and jumps back onto the track. “We aren’t in third grade. Things can change. You know that.”
    â€œI know. Like now? You look damn pretty in my sweatshirt.”
    She stands there, shoulders hanging, mouth partly open. Like I screwed up. Like she doesn’t want my