RUNNING BACK

Chapter 35: To Whom Much is Given

We played our toughest games two weeks in a row. First we faced Port Arthur Memorial on home turf. They're currently the number one team in district twenty-two.

We lost fifty-four to zero.

Last night we played Beaumont Central. That wasn't as much of an ass-kicking. At least we scored three touchdowns.

The problem was, they scored seven.

I wasn't at my best. My heart hasn't been in it. I'm depressed, to tell the truth. Our record is now four and five, which means no playoffs, but that's not why I'm depressed. It's a lot of things.

Today is the one-year anniversary of Pax's death. October twenty-ninth, which was the worst day of my life.

I can't face my family. Not today. Even though it's Saturday, and I didn't get home from Beaumont until two in the morning, I am awake by six. I throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, grab my keys, and head out into the darkness.

For the first time in a long time, I don't feel like running.

Backing my Explorer out of the driveway, I put Dar Williams in my CD player and set "After All" to repeat. I don't know where I'm going. And I don't care.

I head down to the 1316, which circles around the lake. As I drive, I see the sky in the east lighten, and I follow it like a beacon. I wind up driving east on 190, and before long, I'm passing the smoke shop. I stop at the little gas station down the road and watch the sunrise as I fill my tank.

The colors flare like the horizon is on fire--red and pink and orange in that crisp fall morning. It's so beautiful that my heart swells a little, wishing that Pax were here to see it. He loved sunrises.

"What price exacted for a moment of beauty?" I ask. He doesn't answer me.

He probably doesn't know.

"We're reading The Outsiders in English now," I say. "I wish you got a chance to read it before you died. There's this character. Ponyboy. He likes sunrises too, like you. You two have a lot in common."

Where do I go?

What do I do?

I whisper. "Stay golden, Ponyboy."

A sob rises up in my chest, and I am standing there crying uncontrollably, still holding the lever on the gas pump. I let go, and my back slides down the side of my car. Sitting there in the gravel, still cool and damp from the night before. How do I survive this?

"How am I supposed to survive?" I ask him.

The pain never dulls. This day is like a fresh wound.

My body is asking "What price exacted, and who will pay it?"

I swipe the tears from my eyes and go inside to give the man at the counter my money. He nods at me from under the bill of his baseball cap. His brown skin is deeply lined and he doesn't smile or greet me.

I hand him some crumpled twenties. He places the change in my open palm, counting each dollar and coin, carefully. Silently. All I can see is the frayed bill of his cap through the film of tears welling up again.

I shake my head, as if that will cause them to recede. The old man looks up, concern in his dark brown eyes. "You need a map?" he asks. "To find your way home?"

"I'm not lost," I say, voice cracking.

He looks me in the eye and shrugs. "Being lost is not always a bad thing."

He has that lilt in his voice that Marshall's grandfather has.

"I've come here to visit my friend, Marshall."