The White Horse by Cynthia D. Grant Page B

ruining it.
    â€œYou got a boyfriend?”
    She lost him, streaking through the skaters until the breeze was blowing on the sparkling bay and the sun was shining. She and Sonny were sailing. He looked so strong. He knew exactly what to do. He used to have a boat, and a mother, and a life. Let’s not think about that now, Sonny said; let’s be happy.
    But the kid was in her face, the lights bouncing off his glasses.
    â€œWhy are you acting so stuck-up?” he said.
    â€œLeave me alone, okay?”
    â€œI’m just being friendly.”
    She stopped skating and faced him. “Listen to me, you stupid little twit. Go find somebody else to play with.”
    He looked so shocked, she almost laughed. Then he was staring at a knife like he couldn’t figure out how it got in his hand. “You shouldn’t act so rude,” he said. The knife swung out and ripped her jacket.
    She jumped back and flew, but she couldn’t lose him. Round and round the rink, the music blaring, the strobe lights flashing in some weird dream where he was trying to kill her and nobody noticed. She glanced over her shoulder. His face was blank.
    She sailed out of the rink to the snack bar, the street, down the sidewalk, dodging traffic, through the crosswalk, people shouting, the kid calmly knocking down an old man in his way.
    Saw a cop car ahead. Didn’t stop; she’d be dead. Burst into a store past a rent-a-cop running, walkie-talkie squawking, down aisles crammed with clothes, to the housewares section; startled faces, glass smashing, the kid behind her crashing through shoppers and displays.
    Out a door to the street, down some steps, almost fell. Legs shuddering, heart thumping, her breath the only sound now in the world.
    There was nowhere to go.
    Maybe Bert would help her. The Laundromat was empty. She ricocheted off a washer toward the bathroom door. Was it locked? Jesus God. Fingers fumbling with the knob. Wrenched it open, pulled it shut, turned the bolt.
    The kid slammed into the door. He pleaded and howled, he kicked and snarled, fists raining on the wood. She crouched beneath the sink. The kid finally calmed down. He kneeled on the floor and put his mouth beneath the door and said, “Why’d you have to do that? That was rude.”
    It got real quiet, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t understand what had made her keep running. Why was she trying so hard to stay alive? Why hadn’t she run toward the knife, like Sonny?
    A long while later Bert came back.

Chapter Thirteen
    It seems amazing that anyone can have a baby, like a puppy in a box outside Safeway. You want one? You got one. You don’t need any training. You can even be on drugs or drunk or crazy .
    I see these little girls with their big bellies. They think they’re growing somebody to love them, someone who’ll never go away. They’re happy because people are finally paying attention; asking, How’re you feeling? When’s the baby due? They’re important; they’ve got appointments to go to, and doctors and nurses who care what they do .
    Then it hurts like hell and the party’s over and the baby’s screaming and they’re all alone .
    I see them bouncing their crying babies. I say: Just hold them still and close. But the girls don’t listen or look at the babies; they’re watching the door to see who’s coming in. Maybe it’s the dealer or their speedfreak boyfriend, still looking cute, he hasn’t lost his teeth .
    The girls want to play. I’ll be right back, they say, handing the baby to whoever’s around. Here’s his bottle, he likes Pepsi. Then they’re out the door. For an hour or a day, sometimes longer .
    The girls don’t nurse their babies. They think it makes them look ignorant .
    Sometimes I hold the babies and I feel so bad. I look into their innocent eyes and think: You could’ve been born to anyone, but you had the bad luck to