Free Train Wreck Girl by Sean Carswell Page A

course, this exact thought had occurred to me. I didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about it. I used my typical excuse. “She got hit by a train. I wasn’t driving the train. How are you gonna blame me?”
    Bart counted the reasons off on his fingers. “You’re poor. You’re the ex-boyfriend. You skipped town. It doesn’t matter what the police find. You’re going to jail.”
    I shook my head. “Nah,” I said. Because I’d thought about it. They’d have to do forensic tests. They’d have to realize that she was already lying down when she got hit. You can figure that out from the angles of the wounds and all. Plus, they’d have no real evidence. Not enough to build a case on. There’d be no way they could prove I did it. So I made my case to Bart.
    Bart kept staring at me with those bloodshot eyes. “They won’t get you for murder. That’s true. They don’t have much of a case. And, anyway, you did the right thing running away. They won’t be able to drag your ass all the way back to Arizona for questioning. But someone will come after you. A bounty hunter. A P.I. Someone. And if they do get you to Arizona, they’ll bust you for something.”
    I tried to argue this point, but what was the use. Besides, before I could say much, Bart had cranked up the bus and was driving again. He mumbled to the windshield, “I wonder if there’s a reward.”
    And I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.

12
The Whitest Girl in Florida
    You’re back in the Vehicle Assembly Building, indoors but three hundred feet off the ground. The air up here is dead and thick. You can’t stop sweating. You’re laying down the final weld on the handrail that surrounds this platform. Even though you’re kneeling on a platform rather than standing on the typical narrow I-beam, even though this handrail is all around and you know it will stay in place because you built it, the height scares the hell out of you. You try to ignore the fear. You push everything out of your mind except the flame at the end of your torch and you finish the weld.
    While the metal is still glowing hot, you turn down your flame, stand, and lift your mask. The sight beside you on this platform startles you. It’s Libra. She’s wearing a shear little sundress. She’s dry but everything else about her looks fresh out of the shower: no make-up, her auburn hair tucked behind her ears, her freckles sparkling under the fluorescent work lights. This is the Libra you know best. No airs. Nothing done to prepare her for public. Just Libra. You’re not sure why she’s on this platform with you, three hundred feet off the ground, but you figure it’s just as likely as any other scenario in your life right now. You say to her, “Hey, kid. What brings you here?”
    â€œI wanted to show you my new shoes,” she says. She lifts her leg so you can see her sandals. The straps are leather and every part of the shoe that touches Libra’s skin is made out of a fluffy wool. They actually look pretty comfortable.
    â€œVery nice,” you say.
    â€œI got them for Florida. To celebrate us coming here. Aren’t they fun?”
    You’ve never understood how a shoe can be fun. You’ve never understood why Libra would get so happy just from purchasing an item at a store. It’s never had an appeal to you. Still, you recognize the joy in her eyes and you nod. “Fun.”
    â€œDo you like the colors on my dress?”
    â€œI do,” you say. And you’re not just humoring her. Her dress is yellow with little pink and orange flowers on it. Very girly, but the colors are somehow comforting. The dress drapes her torso, soft and free, barely hiding everything that you’ve come to memorize underneath.
    â€œI’m thinking of painting our house these colors. The insides. Add a little life to those white walls.