Page 70 of Script Swap
It made me cry harder.
The decision to leave—to get out of the house—wasn’t even a thought.I didn’t have a plan; I just needed a few minutes to pull myself together.I slipped out of the den, found my Nikes, and headed for the front door.
Gray sky.Thunder booming out over the ocean.The trees bending and creaking under the wind.Rain met me in hard, angry slashes—still not a downpour, but intermittent bursts that needled my face and arms.It soaked through my tee and joggers in a matter of minutes, gluing the clothes to my skin.Even worse, it was cold.Hastings Rock’s heat wave was finally over, it seemed—it might have been mid-August, but this rain felt like it would have been at home in February, and as it sliced through my thin layer of clothing, I started to shiver.
I could go back.
I could explain, somehow, to Bobby.
Instead, I kept walking.The drive was slick, and I had to watch my steps, but once I reached the state highway, I found I needed to keep moving—and then I was running.The rain came down harder, and although the branches overhead provided some cover, plenty of big, fat drops still made their way through.The air smelled like rain—like petrichor, actually, that weird earthy mix of cool water and stone.When the breeze lifted the branches of spruce and pine again, it brought that resinous perfume of evergreens, sharp and clean.A pretty green bird, bedraggled from the rain, shuffled unhappily along a gnarled bough.Where the weak light from a utility pole made its way through the foliage, beads of water on the bird glistened.
I was still crying.
Here’s the thing about jogging: it’s the worst.But it turns out there’s one thing that’s even more horrible than jogging, and that is jogging when you’re sobbing uncontrollably.My chest was so tight I couldn’t get a full breath.My nose was running constantly.And yes, I know all about endorphins and runners’ high and the mental health benefits of exercise.But none of that applied because I wasn’t exercising.I was running away.
I was always running away.
And I hated that almost as much as I hated everything else right then.
Whatever burst of energy had propelled me out of the house faded, and then I stood there, hinged at the waist and gasping.Water ran down from my hair and into my face.It smelled like my hair.And it smelled like my sweat.And for a second, I was so sick of all of it—of being this person in this body, with the little tummy roll I couldn’t get rid of, with the complete lack of any muscles, with the fact that I was petty and self-absorbed and childish.To get so upset about writing.About some stupid book nobody asked me to write.When there were people in the world with real problems.I was so sick of being myself.Of not being someone better, even though I’d tried.
And then it was over, and all I felt was cold and wet and tired.So tired.Tired like I’d been cracked open, hollowed out.
I was going to turn around.I was going to trudge my way back to the house.I was already thinking about how it would go.Bobby would be so kind about it, and I’d—well, I’d be me.Because I wasn’t going to change.The Magic Mike Transformation Project (or whatever I was calling it) was a bust.I was always going to be me, this version of me.Like a wet raccoon paddling desperately for its life in a kiddy pool.And people think a bedraggled raccoon is cute—for about thirty seconds.
I was caught up in these epically awful thoughts when I tripped over my untied shoelaces.
I lay there for a few seconds until my brain caught up with me.Gravel bit into my cheeks.A fern tickled my neck.I was vaguely aware that my lower half had ended up in a particularly muddy puddle.And I’d lost both contacts.
When I managed to raise my head, two blurry cones of light were sweeping toward me.
Please, God, I thought.Let it be fast.Not like that little raccoon in the swimming pool.
Brakes squealed.Tires skidded.Exhaust rolled over me, and then something else.
A powerful—and distinct—smell.
One that I associated with Fox when they were in one of their moods (and when Indira was out of the house).
A door clicked open.Two boots tipped with Tinkerbells poked out from the van.Full-sized dolls, I mean.Fastened to the tips of the boots.Spinning slightly as the wind picked up again.
I groaned.
Stooping, Fox squinted at me.“What in the world are you doing down there?”
Chapter 17
Fox helped me up.They got me into the van—not into the front seat, mind you, because they kept saying,You’re all wet.In the back.
With the Junk.(Capital J.)
There are a lot of jokes about people with vans.About not being forced into a van against your will.
Those jokes all have a kernel of truth.And that kernel of truth is the back of Fox’s van.
Imagine someone had a garage full of junk.And that someone decided to hire Fox to move all of it.An old record player.The front quarter of a canoe.A toolbox full of rusty screwdrivers.(Is that the name of a drink?If it’s not, it should be.) There was an oversized roll of duct tape with lots of gross, gritty things stuck to it.And some kind of bird mounted like a trophy.And a child’s bike.
Now, add to the contents of that garage what appeared to be the garbage leftover from a fashion show.Trash bags full of paper cranes.More trash bags full of wadded-up plastic wrap.A bridal gown that had been cut down the center and then pinned back like the dissection and anatomization of a butterfly.Hanging from the rearview mirror was an old air freshener that said either DRAGON MUSK or DRAGON MUST—I wasn’t sure which one was worse.
