The problem with going fast, was that you couldn’t go far, too. Her heart throbbed, and her ankle hurt so much that she cried while she ran, seeing white stars of pain every time her foot connected with the earth. Finally, she slowed to a limp, breathless, having lost her bearings completely. She stopped and looked around the dark woods. No light from the moon. Don’t panic, that’s what her daddy would have told her. Find shelter. That’s the first thing you have to do if you get lost in the woods.
Exposure was the greatest threat to survival, her father had told her. She kind of didn’t get it. She thought it would be food or water that was the most important thing. Then, she’d never been too cold for too long. Her skin never ached from the frigid air. She was separated from snow and rain by boots and coats, mittens and scarves. It never touched her, not like this.
The snow was falling in big thick flakes. And she remembered how it looked when it fell out her window. How it would seem to melt into the black river of the street and never accumulate. But here, a white blanket was forming. The snow was clinging to leaves, forming little piles on branches.
“What do I do now?” she asked the voice.
But there was no answer. The voice was probably mad at her because she had disobeyed. Now, she was on her own. She tried to rid herself of the image of Bobo hitting Momma over and over again with that flashlight, but she couldn’t. Had she made him do that? Was it her fault? She thought that she should be sorry, that somehow it was she who drove him to do it. But she wasn’t sorry. If she’d been strong enough, she’d have done it herself.
Once, when she was in first grade, her gym teacher—a big goofy guy who thought nicknames were funny—called her something she didn’t like. He called her Lazy Daisy because she made a face one day when she didn’t want to do a hundred sit-ups—like, who did? He had other nicknames for kids too, like Big Red for Ben who had red hair, and The Rock for Brock who was kind of a big kid. He wasn’t mean exactly, but he was a teaser.
He teases because he likes you, Daddy said.
Grown men should know better than to give children nicknames, her mother said. If you don’t like it, sweetie, you’re entitled to politely say so.
So one day, she said nicely, very nicely, “Mr. Turner, can you please stop calling me that?”
“Aw, Lazy Daisy doesn’t like her nickname,” he said, not nicely.
Then he just started saying it more. She got angrier and angrier until one day, on the field when he said it again, she picked up a rock and threw it at him. It was just a small rock, a pebble really. It didn’t hurt, but she could tell by the way his face flushed that he was mad. She got sent to the principal’s office and her parents were called. She remembered that stubborn not sorry feeling she had, even though she was forced to apologize. Mr. T stopped using nicknames after that.
She kept walking, but it was getting harder and harder. Impossibly, she was starting to get sleepy, too. The snow on the ground looked like the fluffiest white blanket, as though she could lie down on it and rest. It tugged at her, even though she knew how the freeze of it would cut like knives on her skin. She felt the pull; it was hard to resist.
No, no, said the voice. Don’t do that. Keep walking.
She heard a snap and a crackle and turned around to see that white light bouncing in the distance behind her. Bobo. He was not her friend; she knew that. She kept moving, aware suddenly of a sound that was growing louder. He was crying, moaning. She’d seen that in him, that tangle of love and hatred he had for Momma. She didn’t understand it, but she’d used it to hurt him. And more than that. Somehow, she didn’t know how, she’d made him hit Momma with the flashlight. She wondered if he knew it. Would he do that to her, too, if he caught her? Would he use that flashlight on her?
The pulse of fear woke her up a little, caused her to pick up her pace. Drawing on a well of energy she didn’t even know was there, she was about to run again. Then she saw something up ahead that stopped her dead: the eyes of the big house, glowing orange. All this time she thought she was heading away, instead she was just heading back in the direction from which she’d come.
She would have cried out in anger and frustration, but she stayed quiet, choking on it, swallowed the big sobs that came up, and moved behind a big oak tree. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tried to calm down, take deep breaths. The sound of Bobo’s moaning was getting louder, growing closer. What would he do to her?