The Run Down
The walk home from school seems long today. Rachael has to stay late for extra clarinet practices so I am walking home alone, the afternoon sun warm on my back. I walk on the left side of the narrow road, my shins brushing up against the weeds that gather along the gravel shoulder. Beyond and below are fields, the dirt dark and rich, recently turned, bits of green sprouting up in orderly rows like soldiers lining up for battle. I kick the grass with my left foot, the toe of my pink Ked tennis shoe cutting at the blades as I do a little skip. My school bag slips awkwardly up and down on my back as I jump, keys jingling in the pocket, textbooks settling heavily against the bottom. I hear an engine revving and look up to see a late 1970’s pickup barreling down the narrow road at 50 miles per hour, the Chevy emblem on its grill glinting in the sunlight. As the blue truck comes closer it speeds up, and it swerves toward me. I stumble in the grass as I jump out of the way, tripping, my bag slipping off my shoulder as I fall onto the ground. I look up to see them laughing at me as they pass and head down the road and out of sight, exhaust pipe coughing all the way, and when I look back down I see that my hands are bleeding, gravel dust and tiny bits of broken glass on my palms.
