The Mormon Renegade

Chapter 5

She wipes the fresh rain drops that mix with my tears when we release for a second before returning to a hug two times tighter than the first. "When did you—? How did you—? But you—? I need a minute." She says raising volume to the point only dogs could hear. 

I laugh in response accepting her firm grip enveloping my cold hand, ducking under passing umbrellas overhead. "We're like, two minutes shy of my apartment. That gives you enough time to explain yourself till we get there, alright?" Her words are laced with concern as she gestures airily.

"Ok." I agree silently, the blissful sensation inside me dulls collecting the images from this morning to now. "Woah, what the hell did you do, break your ankle?" She points a wonky finger to my shoeless foot.

"I like to challenge myself." Usually I'd laugh but that involves too much effort I don't have the current energy for.

"Alright, here, arm up." She drapes my arm delicately across her shoulders, balancing out my uneven stride and lessening the painful ordeal. "Thank you." We reach her ground level apartment as I finish explaining myself. 

This morning my routine remained the same. 

Wake up at six, eat breakfast, change into my basketball attire and find my own way to the indoor school court because my parents declared the fifty minute journey is a great means of exercise.

At this Scout mutters, "Bastards." under her breath, ushering us onward.

I use Beckette's old bike because I'm not sure they remember him owning one, despite the deflated tires and faulty brakes. Once I got there we had ten minutes left to practice and prep for the game. So I do the usual basic drills up and down the court length by myself when Brighton —who is the ideal Mormon child— throws a ball hitting me square in the face.

"Ouch." Scout says. "Those things hurt." I swear I can still feel the vibration in my jaw at the thought.

I ask for an apology, he said I was in the wrong so naturally that, "pissed you off?" She finishes knowing I still struggle to cuss. "Yeah, that." 

So the game starts and it struck me. I don't have to stand for this anymore. Something in me clicked, y'know? Brighton was dribbling the ball centre court during the second quarter. I used all the pent up anger I had towards him to execute the on-the-go plan. Faking a fall directly in his path, my back catches his chubby feet and he lands slam on the wooden floor. I'm close enough I can hear a bone snap. 

"Ooft." The sound was enough to make me almost throw up but in the huddle of bodies crowding the overweight lump, inspecting his injuries I figured... now is as best a time as any.

I snake through the narrow opening toward the exit which is when mother and father notice my absence. The rest of the afternoon I jump from hiding spots in storerooms, to kiosks, to empty alleys I can't remember the details exactly, they've all melded into one long image. 

"How'd you get the bum ankle?" Scout asks. My drenched sock squelching on the pavement affront her sky blue door.

"Shoelace got caught in a fence when I was running away from Barney."

"No way, Barney? Sheriff Barney? That son of a bitch is still alive?" I nod, glad she recalls all the information I've surpassed onto her. "Damn." She whispers. Barney replaced Sheriff Downs who served as head authortarian prior to Scout's successful breakout a while back, so all she knows of him has been passed on from my many horror stories.

"Jokes on him though. I tripped him up and he whacked his head on the ground. Hard." Scout has a hearty laugh at this, unlocking the door in one fluid motion.

"Luckily I did, I'm scared to think he might've caught me otherwise." She wraps an arm around me, rubbing my sleeve as she ushers me inside her minimalistic two bedroom apartment.

"I bet you're glad you always carry that hundred dollar bill on ya wherever you go, huh?" I nod, relieved she hadn't forgotten the bizarre habit. It was always intended for emergencies such as this.

"Wow...and you didn't plan a thing?" She asks unable to fathom the concept. I shake my head, beaming with pride. The last three failed attempts were conjured under planned conditions, yet this random instance was most successful.

"Well," a chink fills the navy walled room when Scout arcs the keys into a ceramic bowl, "welcome to your new racist and Mormon free home, Tristan." She waves extravagant hands haphazardly making me laugh.

Now I think I finally understand what I've been missing all these years.

A Home.