ridiculous. It’s like strawberry-flavored or something, that voice.
“I’m sorry if I scared you.”
Warily, she dares to allow me a smile. “It’s okay. It’s just…I’m not too good at talking to people.” She looks away again as her shyness smothers her. “So, do you think it’d be all right if we don’t talk?” She hurries her words now to not hurt me. “I mean, I don’t mind if you’re out here in the morning with me, but I just can’t talk, okay? I feel kind of uncomfortable.”
I nod and hope she sees. “No worries.”
“Thank you.” She gives the ground a final look, takes her sweatshirt, and gives me one last question. “You’re not much of a runner, are you?”
I savor that voice for a moment. It tastes like strawberry on my lips. Maybe this is the last time I’ll ever hear it. Then, “No, I’m not,” I say, and we exchange a final few seconds of acknowledgment before she runs away. I watch her and hear her bare feet lightly touching the earth. I like that sound. It reminds me of her voice.
I go out to the athletic field every morning before I head off for work, and she’s there. Every day, without fail. One morning the rain pours down, and still she’s there.
On a Wednesday, I take a day off work (telling myself it’s the kind of sacrifice you’re required to make when you’ve got a higher calling). With the Doorman in tow, I walk to the school at around three o’clock. She comes out with a few friends, which gladdens me because I hoped she wouldn’t be alone. Her shyness made me worry about that.
It’s funny how when you watch people from a long distance, it all seems voiceless. It’s like watching a silent movie. You guess what people say. You watch their mouths move and imagine the sounds of their feet hitting the ground. You wonder what they’re talking about and, even more so, what they might be thinking.
The strange thing I notice as I watch is that when a boy comes along and talks to the girls and walks with them, the running girl shifts back into the mode of looking to the ground. When he leaves she’s all right again.
I stand and wonder for a while and conclude that she probably just lacks confidence, like me.
She probably feels too tall and gawky, not realizing how beautiful everyone knows she is. I think if it’s only that, she’ll be okay soon enough.
I shake my head.
At myself.
Listen to you, I tell me, s aying she’ll be okay. How the hell would you know? Is it because you’ve turned out okay, Ed? I very much doubt it . I’m absolutely right. I have no business plotting or predicting anything for this girl. I only have to do what I’m supposed to do and hope it’ll be enough.
A few times, I watch her house at night.
Nothing happens.
Ever.
As I stand there and contemplate the girl, and old Milla, and the dread of Edgar Street, I realize I don’t even know this girl’s name. For some reason I imagine it to be something like Alison, but mostly I just think of her as the running girl.
I go to the athletics meet that’s on every weekend during summer. She’s there and I find her sitting with the rest of her family. There’s a younger girl and a small boy. They all wear black shorts and a light blue tank top with a rectangular patch sewn on the back. The girl’s patch has number 176 on it, just under the slogan that says You’ve Gotta Be Made of Milo.
The under-fifteens’ fifteen hundred meters is called, and she stands up, brushing dried grass from her shorts.
“Good luck,” her mother says.
“Yeah, good luck, Sophie,” the father echoes.
Sophie.
I like it.
I hear it in my mind and place the name carefully to her face. It fits nicely.
She’s still brushing the grass from her shorts when I remember the other two kids even exist—once they were gone I was able to focus completely on Sophie. The girl’s out doing shot put, and the boy’s gone off somewhere to play army men with an ugly little bastard called
“I’m sorry if I scared you.”
Warily, she dares to allow me a smile. “It’s okay. It’s just…I’m not too good at talking to people.” She looks away again as her shyness smothers her. “So, do you think it’d be all right if we don’t talk?” She hurries her words now to not hurt me. “I mean, I don’t mind if you’re out here in the morning with me, but I just can’t talk, okay? I feel kind of uncomfortable.”
I nod and hope she sees. “No worries.”
“Thank you.” She gives the ground a final look, takes her sweatshirt, and gives me one last question. “You’re not much of a runner, are you?”
I savor that voice for a moment. It tastes like strawberry on my lips. Maybe this is the last time I’ll ever hear it. Then, “No, I’m not,” I say, and we exchange a final few seconds of acknowledgment before she runs away. I watch her and hear her bare feet lightly touching the earth. I like that sound. It reminds me of her voice.
I go out to the athletic field every morning before I head off for work, and she’s there. Every day, without fail. One morning the rain pours down, and still she’s there.
On a Wednesday, I take a day off work (telling myself it’s the kind of sacrifice you’re required to make when you’ve got a higher calling). With the Doorman in tow, I walk to the school at around three o’clock. She comes out with a few friends, which gladdens me because I hoped she wouldn’t be alone. Her shyness made me worry about that.
It’s funny how when you watch people from a long distance, it all seems voiceless. It’s like watching a silent movie. You guess what people say. You watch their mouths move and imagine the sounds of their feet hitting the ground. You wonder what they’re talking about and, even more so, what they might be thinking.
The strange thing I notice as I watch is that when a boy comes along and talks to the girls and walks with them, the running girl shifts back into the mode of looking to the ground. When he leaves she’s all right again.
I stand and wonder for a while and conclude that she probably just lacks confidence, like me.
She probably feels too tall and gawky, not realizing how beautiful everyone knows she is. I think if it’s only that, she’ll be okay soon enough.
I shake my head.
At myself.
Listen to you, I tell me, s aying she’ll be okay. How the hell would you know? Is it because you’ve turned out okay, Ed? I very much doubt it . I’m absolutely right. I have no business plotting or predicting anything for this girl. I only have to do what I’m supposed to do and hope it’ll be enough.
A few times, I watch her house at night.
Nothing happens.
Ever.
As I stand there and contemplate the girl, and old Milla, and the dread of Edgar Street, I realize I don’t even know this girl’s name. For some reason I imagine it to be something like Alison, but mostly I just think of her as the running girl.
I go to the athletics meet that’s on every weekend during summer. She’s there and I find her sitting with the rest of her family. There’s a younger girl and a small boy. They all wear black shorts and a light blue tank top with a rectangular patch sewn on the back. The girl’s patch has number 176 on it, just under the slogan that says You’ve Gotta Be Made of Milo.
The under-fifteens’ fifteen hundred meters is called, and she stands up, brushing dried grass from her shorts.
“Good luck,” her mother says.
“Yeah, good luck, Sophie,” the father echoes.
Sophie.
I like it.
I hear it in my mind and place the name carefully to her face. It fits nicely.
She’s still brushing the grass from her shorts when I remember the other two kids even exist—once they were gone I was able to focus completely on Sophie. The girl’s out doing shot put, and the boy’s gone off somewhere to play army men with an ugly little bastard called
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