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My dad’s new job was on a tobacco farm on the outskirts of a small town in eastern North Carolina. We moved into a shack that was nothing like our pretty cottage in Valencia. For one thing, the house hadn’t been painted in this century, and roaches crawled on every surface. Mom and I cleaned and sprayed for two days before we could even put away the dishes. The sweet, clingy smell of tobacco saturated everything and made me sick to my stomach. The view from my bedroom window was bleak. There were no beautiful oak trees and no lovely smell of citrus. Just acres of tobacco plants.
My school was full of country hicks, kids who hated me on sight because I was new and had seen more of the world than they probably ever would. The only good news was that I was ahead of most of the other kids in the easy classes that were offered in that school. Of course, there was no girls’ track team. There were no sports of any kind for girls. No matter. I still ran every day. Eight to ten miles up and down the twisting two-lane roads was my regular routine, just as I’d done back in Valencia, with a longer run on the weekend. Farmers in battered pickups looked at me curiously as they passed, but nobody tried to run me off the road.
I carried my container of mace to protect myself if I needed it, but I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t know if I would ever be afraid of anything again. And I slept well, with no nightmares.
At the new house, I tried to pretend I was resigned to being in North Carolina. Dad was outside in the fields most of the time, but he didn’t drink when he got home at night. Mom must have made a deal with him to stop his wicked ways if she agreed to move. I didn’t care what they did or didn’t do. I no longer expected them to act like decent, responsible people. They were not my parents, no matter what they or anyone else said. Someday, I would find my real parents or at least create a family of my own.
I wrote to Francie right away, and she wrote back immediately, as did Reese. So did three other girls. One of them was the girl who had bloodied my nose in PE class when I was new at Valencia High. LaVonda had heard about how I’d stood up to those rednecks who’d beat up Jess, and she thanked me. She also told me she had joined the track team, and Coach Lopez said she was pretty good—not as good as I was yet, but she could be, with coaching.
I cried when the letters came in, one or two every day. Kyle even wrote me a friendly letter, wishing me well and telling me how excited he was to finally be out on his own. I did my best to convince Mom that I would be fine going to visit Francie for a week during the summer. I didn’t let her see how sad I was when the prom came and went or show her the daily letters I wrote to Reese and Francie and mailed from a mailbox at the high school. Every day, my plans to escape became firmer.
* * *
THE BOSTON MARATHON was held every year on April 19, to commemorate the battles of Lexington and Concord in the American Revolutionary War. April 19 was on a Friday this year. On Wednesday night, after Mom and Dad were in bed, I got up and quietly packed my suitcase, the only one I owned. It was a child’s case, heavy cardboard with brass corners and a frayed handle that my hand, no longer tiny, barely fit through. I’d carried this suitcase during every move I’d made with Bud and Sue, but this would probably be its last trip.
I’d thought of running away when I was in Valencia, but I hadn’t had the nerve. Now I had nothing to lose. If the police caught me, I would say that my parents abused me. Social workers would look into my story. Meanwhile, they would send me somewhere else to live. A foster home would undoubtedly be better than here.
I packed lightly. First into the suitcase were the trusty sweatpants and sweatshirt I’d worn all winter, which I folded carefully, because they were going on their last run. They’d looked brand new when I’d bought them at Goodwill, but after many washings, they were faded and bedraggled. I’d start the race wearing them, when their bagginess would hopefully obscure my girl curves, and then toss them after a few miles. By Friday evening, they’d belong to someone else. I hoped it would be a girl who’d wear them for running.
Shorts and a T-shirt, for under the sweats, came next. In Valencia—in another life—I’d bought a white tank top just for that purpose, and beneath it I would wear a sturdy bra that Francie had given me. The special shoes from Germany took up almost half of the case, but they were essential. They were well broken in and ready to carry me 26.2 miles. Socks were a problem. Many runners chose not to wear socks because they got damp and caused blisters. But I always wore thick cotton socks, white with red stripes around the top. So socks went into the suitcase.
Vaseline was another essential. I’d smear it anyplace on my body that might chafe. Upper arms, where the soft skin rubbed against my T-shirt, inner thighs, between my toes, and a few other places I didn’t want to mention. Vaseline was the runner’s friend.
I added a change of clothes and a few toiletries, and I was done. The little suitcase was stacked so high I feared it either wouldn’t close or would explode. On the very top, I added my birth certificate and my sketchbook. Those were the most meaningful things from my life with the Smiths. I smashed the lid shut with one hand while the other snapped the latches, and then I stood back, eyeing it carefully. The latches would likely hold. But it looked sad, lying on my bed—so small and brave, like something a refugee might carry.
Come to think of it, the suitcase was absolutely appropriate. I was a refugee in my own life. I slipped out of the house, not bothering to leave a note, and walked three miles to the bus station in town. Whatever had to happen would happen. Thanks to Francie, I had enough money to get myself to Boston. Earlier that day, I had bought a ticket to Hopkinton, Massachusetts. The trip would take almost thirty-six hours, and if things went well, I would arrive a couple of hours before the race began.
I would need a miracle to find the right bus and not get caught before I even started my journey. As a juvenile, I should have had my parents’ written permission to board a bus, so I tried to look older. I had wound my shoulder-length hair into a bun on top of my head, and I wore a University of Florida cap, along with a slouchy sweatshirt and jeans. I hoped I looked like a young man instead of a teenage girl.
Apparently, some angel was looking out for me, because the bus left at two in the morning with me on it.
* * *
I TRANSFERRED IN RICHMOND, Virginia, then Washington, DC, and again in Boston. I slept as much as I could, ate at greasy-spoon restaurants when the bus stopped, and minded my own business. Finally, miraculously, the bus pulled into the Hopkinton station. I got off and asked someone to point me toward the high school, where the race was being staged. It was less than a mile away.
The parking lot at the high school was crowded with cars and runners. It took nearly twenty minutes to locate my friends. When Francie saw me, she whooped and ran to give me a hug. We were both dressed as males, but nobody paid any attention to our shrieks.
“I knew you’d get here. I just knew it,” she said, a smile filling her face.
“Me, too.” I wore a similar smile. It had been ten days since we’d seen each other, but it felt like much longer.
Jess hugged me and held me tightly. “I was so worried about you, girl. It’s great to see you. Sometime, you can tell me how you managed to get here.”
Laney hugged me. “Listen, let me say that I don’t approve of you running away from home. After the race, we’ll need to talk about that. And some other things. But it can wait until afterward. For today, you do the best you can, and don’t worry about anything. I have faith in you.”
All these people had faith in me. I wasn’t sure I had as much faith in myself. I might not be able to finish the race, having had only spotty sleep for the past two nights, but I was going to give it my all.
I changed into my running clothes in the high school’s restroom. Months before, Jess had preregistered Francie and me, using names that didn’t automatically signal that we were females. Part of the registration process included getting a physical, but there wasn’t a place on the form to indicate my gender, so the doctor hadn’t mentioned it. After I moved away, Jess had added his name to our team so Francie wouldn’t have to run alone.
As team captain, Jess had to pick up our bibs. He waved as he headed into the high school, and Francie and I hunched down in Laney’s rental car, trying to be invisible.
After a few minutes, Jess came out carrying our bibs, a relieved smile on his face. The bibs resembled cardboard car-license tags, with individual ones for each runner’s front and back. I smiled happily at the number 303. It wasn’t a special number for me, or hadn’t been in the past, but it would be now. Laney helped us pin the bibs over our sweats. We’d have to stop and repin them when we removed the sweats, a few miles into the race. It would take time away from running, but at that point, I might welcome the delay.
Laney kissed us all, wished us good luck, then left. We watched her drive away, my suitcase in the back of her rental car. She would be waiting at the finish line, prepared to take our photographs and drive us to our hotel. Whatever happened in the meantime, we were on our own.
Jess frowned. “They seem to be checking people more carefully than I remember from the past. Looking for females, I guess. Keep your caps on, and don’t make eye contact with the officials if you can help it.”
The three of us stretched and jogged a little to loosen our muscles. Just before entering the pen that led to the funnel and the starting area, Jess gave us one last pep talk. “This day is for you ladies.” He touched the number on his chest. “I’ve already run the race. But it’s a big deal for women to run this far.” He smiled at Francie and me. “If either of you has to stop, we’ll decide whether all three of us will stop. We’re a team. We’ve come this far together, and I believe we’ll cross the finish line together. We’ll run at the pace of the slowest of us. It’s not about winning, but finishing. Hopefully, we’ll do it in less than four and a half hours, but however long it takes, we’ll do the best we can.”
I was as ready as I would ever be.