Free Running Wide Open by Lisa Nowak Page A

to ride me about it all the time. “Big boys don’t cry, Cody,” she’d say whenever I started sniveling.
    The crazy thing was, stuff like falling off my bike or not getting my own way didn’t faze me. I just seemed to feel things nobody else did. It was like my emotions were an instrument the universe could play at will. Every time I saw a dead animal beside the road, or heard my mom screaming at my dad, I’d get all weepy.
    “Stop being such a baby,” Mom would say.
    Somehow I’d gotten a grip by the time I started school. Kids wouldn’t put up with a crybaby, and since I was short and scrawny, bullies already had enough reason to single me out. But the feelings never stopped, I just found ways to disguise them. Getting mad was easiest. No one questioned the manliness of a guy who lost his temper, and it was satisfying to channel that onslaught of emotion into a good rage.
    The blood drying on my face started to itch, so I stumbled to the river. Wet jeans clung to my calves as I squatted to wash. Even though my shoes and pant legs were saturated, I wasn’t about to go back. Not with Kasey there. Instead, I slumped against the Douglas fir and stared out at the water.
    I couldn’t believe I’d done it again. Let down my guard. Got suckered in. How pathetic could I be? For over an hour I sat there, hating myself and wondering what to do next. After what had happened, I couldn’t stay.
    Eventually, a plan began to form. I’d pack my stuff, sit tight until Race fell asleep, and slip out. I could hitchhike south. Go someplace cool like L.A.
    * * *
    I waited until dark before returning to the trailer, then snuck in through the back door—the one that led directly into my bedroom. Race heard me and came down the hall, but the confrontation I expected didn’t happen. Instead, he stood outside my door, not even pushing it open.
    “Cody?” he said. There was no anger in his voice, just a high, questioning note.
    “Go away.”
    Race hesitated, then his footsteps retreated to the front room.
    Once I was sure he was gone, I jammed my writing notebooks, some clothes, and my favorite books into my duffle bag. Then I pulled out The Outsiders and read it for the fiftieth time. It seemed like forever before Race finally turned off the TV.
    After giving it another half hour to be safe, I eased open the back door. Cool night drifted in, smelling of cut grass and river mud. The rain that had threatened since late afternoon still hung back, but something in the wind told me it wouldn’t be long before it fell. I stepped cautiously down the squeaky stairs and made for the road outside the trailer park, where I’d seen a sign pointing to I-5.
    The hike to the freeway turned out to be only about a mile and a half. Getting there was the easy part. Catching a ride was a bitch. I stood at the base of the southbound on-ramp for half an hour, but the few people out at twelve-thirty on Sunday night didn’t trouble themselves on my account. At last, an old dude in a pickup stopped and offered to take me as far as Creswell. With rain beginning to spot the asphalt I didn’t bother to ask where that was. Only about ten miles south of Eugene, it turned out. Fifteen minutes later I was back on the side of I-5, rain pelting me with a vigor that Race’s shower could only wish for.
    I started walking. My leather jacket kept most of me dry, but my hair and shoes soaked up the water. Cars whizzed by, trailing red streaks that shimmered on wet asphalt before fading into the night. No one even slowed down. Still, I didn’t let myself think this might be a bad idea. Sure, it was wet and cold now, but by this time tomorrow I’d be in sunny southern California.
    Another hour and a half passed as I trudged southward. Finally, I spotted a sign announcing a rest area. I could sleep there and catch a ride in the morning.
    Finding a place to lie down in that dripping, deserted scrap of civilization was a challenge. The bathroom was dry and relatively