Pumpkin Run Read online

  Scrubbing with the Lava soap under the hottest water I could stand, I caught sight of the clock over the sink. It was already 8:25 a.m. and I needed to be at the library by 8:50 a.m. before they opened at 9:00 a.m. and my shift began.

  “You look dazzling, Drew, honey.” My stepmother said as she walked into the garage. Drew smiled widely at the compliment then caught herself, making her face stony so as not to make any cracks in her shellac before it fully cured.

  Dazzling? I thought. More like a radioactive orange popsicle.

  “I suppose you’re off for your do-gooder work, now?” My stepmother sashayed over to me as I rinsed and dried my hands. I’d given up on getting the dye out. I’d just have to come up with some excuse for my boss.

  Not your boss, remember? I reminded myself. She’s the volunteer manager. Don’t mess this up now.

  If my stepmother found out my volunteer time at the library on Saturdays was an actual job, she’d never let me out of the house again except for school and to run her errands. I thought of the growing stash of twenty-dollar bills I kept hidden and knew she’d demand to have all the money I’d earned, too. And then how would I ever escape?

  The thought of spending the rest of my life trapped under my stepmother’s thumb, doing grunt work for her and my stepsisters, was far worse than swallowing my pride and doing exactly what she expected of me right now. So I just nodded and took a deep breath.

  “May I please have my necklace back?” I hesitated just half a second, then finished, the words slipping through my gritted teeth. “Please, Mother dear?”

  She pulled the shell pendant out of her pocket and swung it in front of my eyes, tsk-tsking softly. Her head tilted as she considered me. Finally, she spoke, her voice low, the words dripping with scorn, “As lovely as that sounds, Cecelia, you and I both know you’ll never be more than your father’s unwanted leftovers.”

  Then she yanked the shell back into her fist and stuffed it back into her pocket. “You know,” she said, looking at the clock over the sink, “I think I’d better hold on to it for a little while longer. You really should manage your time better - you’re running late. It would be such a shame if you lost it on your way.”

  Anger washed over me. She was such a liar.

  And I? I was such a fool to think she would ever give back the only piece of my mom that I had left.

  As she walked back toward the house slowly, so as to better enjoy her most recent victory over me, she paused, then turned to look back at me.

  “Oh, and Cecelia? Don’t forget to do Drew and Stacie’s homework. I’m sure you’ll have time while you’re moping about at the library this morning.” She smiled again, dazzling white teeth that did nothing to soften the icy, cruel look in her eyes. “Unlike you, your stepsisters have very busy lives.”

  They’re busy? I thought, wiping away the cobwebs as I pulled the shed door open. The last time I’d checked, I was the one who spent my time busy doing all the cooking, cleaning, doing my homework plus their homework, and trying to earn enough money to escape once I turned eighteen. The only times I ever saw either of my stepsisters working hard at anything was in the hour each of them spent primping and preening in the bathroom before school every morning.

  Groping in the shadows of the shed, I grabbed the crossbar of my bike and yanked it through the door. I tightened the straps on my backpack, then swung a leg over and perched my foot on the pedal, ready to take off. But as soon as I settled onto the seat, balancing my weight, I felt the tires squish and give way beneath me.

  “No!!” I whispered, stepping off and looking at my bike. Both the front and the rear tires were flat to the rims; someone had removed the valve caps from the tires.

  What is she going to make me do now? I wondered as I pulled my watch out of my back pocket, rubbing my orange fingers against the side of my jeans one more time in a fruitless attempt to get rid of the orange stains. It was already eight-thirty and my shift started at nine. If my stepmother had braved the dirt and grime of the shed to ambush my bike, I knew whatever job or chore she planned on making me do today must be even worse than the spray tan booth.

  With a shove, I pushed my bike around the side of the shed and into the patch of woods behind it where it disappeared, covered by thorny bushes and honeysuckle and vines. I’d deal with the tires later. Then I pulled the shed door shut and locked it like I did every Saturday morning. If my stepmother came out looking for me, she’d find the bike gone from the shed. The thought of her red with rage, wondering how I’d fixed the tires so quickly and sped away before she could trap me for the day made me grin.

  But I still had to disappear, and quickly.

  My usual ride to the library took me from my house at the south end of town, through bike-safe neighborhoods in an arc along the east side of town, to the library which stood at the north end of the downtown business district. That ride was at least three miles; I’d never make it on time on foot.

  Not if you go that way, I thought. And not if you walk.

  My mind raced, and I peered down at my watch again. Two minutes had passed. Time was ticking away. I pictured a map of town in my mind, drawing a line from my house to the library, straight south to north, and my stomach sunk. There was one unavoidable obstacle that stood smack in the center of town, right in the middle of the fastest route to get to work on time.

  The grounds and buildings of Castlewood High School.

  And that’s still at least a two-mile trek, Cici, I thought. You’ll never make it if you just walk.

  There was no way to avoid it.

  If I wanted to make it to work on time, if I wanted to keep the job that I loved, to keep the job that I needed if I hoped to ever escape my stepmother -

  I’d have to run.

  With one last glance at my watch, I saw another minute had passed. Taking a deep breath, I shoved the watch into my backpack and checked the main pocket. My clean clothes were still in there. Good, I thought, looking past my day-glo orange fingers to the crummy ripped t-shirt and tanner stained jeans I still wore. There was no way my boss would let me work today dressed like this.

  Then I reached into the bottom and felt the tell tale shape of a rounded top to a stick of deodorant. Even better, I thought. You’re gonna need it.

  Just then, the back door from the kitchen opened and Drew popped her head out, pointing to her roots. “Hey loser!” she called out, her voice screeching. “Mama says if you’re just standing there doing NOTHING, get in here already and—”

  I threw my backpack on my shoulders, and took off running.

  Chapter Four

  Grasping the straps on my backpack, I sprinted through the gap in our fence and took off up the sidewalk. This part, at least, was the same as my usual bike route, but up ahead at the stop sign, I knew I’d need to go straight and not right.

  My Chucks slapped against the sidewalk, thud-thud-thud-thud, like the beat to a throwback 80s pop song that my mom always liked to sing whenever it came on the radio. I tried to push away the memory, but the lyrics kept bouncing around my head, and for a split second, I was back in the car with my mom, listening to her belt out the words in her awful voice, both of us laughing so hard we had tears streaming down our cheeks.

  I can’t do this now, I thought, swiping at my eyes at the tears that threatened to fall. I just can’t.

  I forced myself to focus on breathing, counting each breath and matching it to my footfalls, then I picked up my feet and ran faster. At the stop sign, I looked left and right quickly, then bolted across the street into Stony Heights, the neighborhood built into the hills of Castlewood, filled with older houses built in stone or brick. A few of the houses sat on the bluffs above the widest part of Fox Run Creek, with enormous yards and pretty views.

  As I charged up the bottom of the hill that led into Stony Heights, I remembered exactly why I liked to bike the long way to work. My leg and lungs started burning as I ran along the quiet street dotted here and there with mailboxes at the end
of long, tree-lined driveways. Trying to distract myself from the pain, I forced myself to picture a mental map of town in my head. I stumbled for a few steps as my brain kindly pointed out what I had neglected to fully consider in my mad dash to work.

  “The creek,” I whispered out loud.

  Since Castlewood High School sat on a large stretch of level land that had once been a farm on the north side of the creek and I was currently busy trying to suck as much oxygen from the air as I struggled up the hills on the south side of the creek, I had forgotten one critical fact.

  I would have to cross the creek if I kept going this way.

  Before I could consider turning around, a muscle cramp wrapped around the bottom of my ribs on the right side and a blur of yellow fur bolted down the driveway I had just passed, barking like a maniac as he raced toward me. I jumped, sprinting as the dog followed me as far as he could, chasing me through his yard along the edge of his invisible fence line.

  Heart pounding, sweat streaking down the sides of my face, I sprinted to the peak of the hill and sped down the other side. As I headed downhill toward the edge of the woods, I remembered the voices of my stepsisters, bragging about the shortcuts that led through the woods behind the high school, paths that kids used when they wanted to ditch class. The sound of the dog barking trailed off as I scanned the bushes, brambles and trees for a gap and the ground for any signs of a path worn down through the high grass.

  As I hit the end of the pavement and ran into the small bit of uncut meadow that stood between me and the woods, I spotted a shadowy gap in the treeline.

  That has to be it, I thought, throwing my legs and feet out in front of me as fast as I could, feeling the dew from the wildflowers and grass seep through my jeans as I ran, my skin chilled by the chilly dampness. Reaching the opening to the trees, I darted through it and thought, Yes! I found it -

  CRACK!

  With a sharp snap, the branches in front of me split and scraped across my arms and legs as the cracked and split my feet slipped on the muddy path; I was sliding down the steep path that was slick and muddy from all the rain that had fallen in the past week. Frantic, I reached out to my side, grabbing for trees until I grabbed a low-hanging limb and held on, my fingers scrambling across the bark, my heels digging in against the base of the trunk of the tree.

  “Ok, I’m ok. It’s ok,” I panted, trying to catch my breath. Sweat trickled in little streams down my spine and the sides of my face where it stung as it hit a scratch near my jawline. This hillside trail was nearly washed out but led straight down to the creek. Through the gaps in the trees past the creek, I could see the telltale glint of sunshine reflecting off of the chain-link fence that marked the boundary of Castlewood High’s fields.

  Twisting, I flipped my backpack around and pulled my watch out of the front pocket, then shoved it back. Eight-forty.

  Eight-forty? I thought, doing the math. That can’t be right.

  I pictured the map of town in my head, Castlewood High right at the center and my house down at the south end. Wheezing a bit as I stepped away from the tree, I did the math again, shaking my head. It just didn’t add up.

  There was no way I’d just run what I knew was about a mile in under eight minutes.

  “Watch probably needs a battery or something,” I said, tightening my backpack straps again. Above me, the birds twittering in the trees stilled for a moment, then surged back as if answering. Despite all the scratches burning on my arms and the clammy jeans clinging to my legs, I felt ok. The cramp in my side had eased up and my muscles felt warm and loose.

  The trail was rockier here with less mud, so I picked up my feet and started jogging down through the rest of the trees toward the creek. The branches were thick with leaves, some tinged with the beginnings of gold that meant fall weather was coming soon. I couldn’t see the creek, but I could hear it, could hear the water gurgling over the rocks as I grew closer. The sound grew louder, an angry, splashing, twisting current of water.

  Water that I would have to cross.

  As I broke through the last gap of bushes at the bottom of the trail, I scanned the opposite bank for the shortest way across. Downstream, I saw some rocks jutting out of the water and thought about crossing there, but the creek was twice as wide there and I was scared I would slip and crack an ankle on the rocks.

  “It can’t be that deep,” I tried to convince myself as I looked straight across to the opposite bank. The creek was maybe ten feet wide. “You can make it.”

  I gulped, trying to get rid of the knot of fear in my throat, and stepped in.

  “Oohhh it’s cold! Soooo cold!” I whispered, teeth chattering as I picked my way carefully over in controlled leaps. The water was up to my ankles, then my calves; my sockless feet were freezing and squishing in my Chucks. I wondered what my boss was going to say when I showed up dripping wet, then shook my head.

  “Figure that out later.” I said, wading through the deepest part of the creek and up to the other bank. I stood still for a few seconds, letting the water drip down my legs and ankles. “This still beats doing Drew’s roots.”

  Shaking my feet just to try to clear the puddles in the soles of my shoes, I started running, finding the trail that snaked up the other side of the hill toward the back fields of Castlewood High. This trail was wider and clearer and looked like it was used more than the one on the other side of the creek. Up above, at the top of the hill, the sun glinted off the chain link fencing that marked the beginning of official school property. I sprinted up, followed the trail, looking for the gap in the fence.

  “Where is it?” I panted, my eyes scanning up and down the fence line. The hole was gone. In its place stood a fresh, shiny, and recently installed new panel of chain link. At my feet, I could still see the small piles of dirt from where the postholes had been dug to cement it in.

  “No, no, no...,” I whispered, thinking about how long it would take me to follow the creek and loop around the school campus. I’d never make it on time.

  I backed out of the bushes and looked up and down the treeline again until I spotted another trail, a fresher one to the right. Sprinting, I raced toward it, branches slapping against my left leg. This trail was narrower, and I had to bend down, but through the gap I could see the rough edges glinting where the fence had been recently cut and pried back to make a new gap.

  “Thank you, ditchers!” I said, as I squeezed myself through the gap, then paused. This side of the fence had no bushes or trees, just tall grass that needed a trimming. The hill sloped gently upward to the low brick wall that encircled the far end of the practice track. About twenty feet away, there was a gap in the brick wall.

  A loud pop broke the quiet morning air, followed by the shrill blast of a whistle. I jumped, startled, and caught myself just in time to clap a hand over my mouth to stifle my gasp.

  “Listen up, Encantador! I don’t care who you are and where you came from,” hollered a gruff voice, one that I recognized instantly. “If we’re going to do this, let’s do it right! Now set up again and for crying out loud, wait on the pistol!”

  “Sorry, coach. Won’t happen again.”

  “Good!” Coach Z bellowed back, his echoing voice carrying to where I had crept up to crouch on the outside of the brick wall. Peering around the edge, I could see the grassy infield of the practice track. There was a hand cart parked in the middle stacked with a couple of hurdles. Pacing back and forth in a tight loop between the cart and the edge of the inside lane of the track was my ninth grade gym teacher, Coach Z.

  I couldn’t see anymore of the track to see who the other voice belonged to, but I hadn’t recognized it. Or the name. Not that you know would, I reminded myself. Castlewood High was a big school, and I was too busy managing my homework, my stepsisters’ homework, and trying not to fall asleep in class to have any friends.

  “Ready, coach!” called out the voice, and this time I was sure I didn’t know him. I was also pretty sure no one else did, either, becaus
e his voice was deep and musical, with the edge of an accent that wasn’t from anywhere around Castlewood.

  “Keep those feet in the blocks, Encantador!” Coach Z lifted his arm. In his hand, I saw a starter pistol and realized this might be my only chance to slip by them, unnoticed. I stood up, edging around the gap in the brick wall and waited, breathing hard.

  The pistol cracked, the charred smell of gunpowder drifting on the soft breeze, but this time I was ready for it.

  Arms pumping and feet flying, I sprinted hard through the gap in the brick wall and across the grass, angling my path to cut across the practice track behind Coach Z’s back and disappear before he could turn and see my face.

  Chapter Five

  As my feet skimmed across grass toward the lanes of the track, I caught a glimpse from the corner of my eye of a line of hurdles set up in the outside lane. The whistle blasted at full volume, the sound piercing through my head, but I kept my eyes ahead, looking for the shortest way to get across the track and out of here before Coach Z saw me. Just as I made it onto the track, I saw a scramble of movement to my right, and heard a shout.

  Stumbling, I I turned to see the runner coming right at me at full speed, only three or four paces away.

  “WATCH OUT!” he yelled. He was close enough that I could see his face.

  He’s going to hit me, I thought, willing my legs to keep running. Just as I took a long stride forward, the toe of my Chuck caught on the track and I lost my footing. With a stumble, I tripped and fell.

  A second later, he soared over me. I cradled my head under my arms as I tried to flatten myself against the ground, but I peeked through long enough to see his legs stretched in classic hurdler form, the side of my head scratched by the rough asphalt of the track.

  He ran a few more paces, then slowed down, limping a little as he circled around, trotting back toward me. He was fast even when he jogged and he looked like he was barely sweating.