Run by Jenna Marie (reading books for 7 year olds TXT) 📕

Run.
Run away!
RUN!
My thoughts scream at me. I have to move faster. He’s following me. Go faster, Allie!
***
I lay on my stomach, my head resting on my arms. I’m lying on my bed, staring out my bedroom window. It’s snowing lightly now. I prop myself up on my left arm and pick up my pencil again. I look down at my sketchpad. A boy’s face stares up at me.
I’ve never seen the boy before. I don’t even know if someone like him exists. I begin to shade in his choppy hair. Darker near the roots, lighter near his face. Some strands fall into his eyes. Oh, the eyes. I love how I drew the eyes. Life-like, soulful . . . but glassy. I shade them a light gray. Dark on the edges, lighter toward the center—the opposite of his hair. His jaw bone is strong and defined. I trace over it again with my dulled pencil. I darken the shadows in the ear.
I stop drawing for a moment and look up at the window. Snow falls lightly still. I drop the pencil on the notebook without noticing. Thinking. My eyes focus on the glass now and I see my reflection. My hair is up in a ponytail, and thin strands that aren’t long enough to reach the hair tie fall into my face. I sit in silence, with no more than the natural light to let me see.
My eyes drop to the boy’s face. I pick up the notebook and hold it in front of me, in place of the window. It’s only a profile view of his face.
I feel like it’s missing something.
I stare at it for another moment before it hits me.
I drop the book back onto the bed and draw in the collar of his T-shirt. All of the lines, all of the creases. The design.
I’d imagine him to be tall. Tall, and lean—obviously. I just can’t decide if I want to draw an earring on his ear or not. I decide against it.
“Allie!” hollers a voice from the bottom of the stairs.
Not now, Nana. Why now?
“Yes, Nana?” I ask through the door.
“Dinner!”
“Okay, Nana.” I look at his face for another moment and close the sketchbook. I put the pencil in the metal spiral on the top of the book and swing my legs off the bed. I walk to my dresser and slide the book into its place on the shelf.
I walk around my bed and to my door. I unlock the door and pull down on the handle, allowing the door to swing open. Before I walk down the stairs, I make sure to shut the door behind me. Even though I only live with my grandparents, I don’t want anyone in my room.
I venture down the narrow stairs and enter the small kitchen.
Grandpa sits in his seat at the head of the squashed table, reading the newspaper; his round glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Nana stands with her back to me at the sink. Her thin gray hair is pulled back into a frizzy bun.
“Allie!” she calls without looking back. Grandpa never looks up from his paper.
“I’m right—”
She looks over her shoulder. “Oh, there you are!” she dries her hands on a towel hanging from the stove and walks over to me. Her wrinkled hand reaches out to touch my shoulder. She guides me into the room and to my seat, to the left of Grandpa. “For God’s sake, Bill,” she says to Grandpa, “put that paper away! Haven’t you read enough today?”
He clears his throat as he looks up at Nana. “Oh, sorry . . . .” he folds up the paper into a small rectangle and places it on the floor between us.
“Eat now, otherwise it’ll get cold. I’ll sit in a moment . . . .” Nana says on her way out of the kitchen.
“Are you sure, Susan?” Grandpa asks.
“Positive!” Nana calls from the living room.
“Oka-ay . . . .” I sing. I reach for the pasta with one hand and pull my hair behind my ear with the other. Just as I’m about to take my first bite, Nana re-enters the room empty-handed. My fork rests just in front of my lips. I stare at her.
“What was that all about?” I ask her as Grandpa drinks his glass of water.
She ignores me.
She pretends as if I had never said anything.
I shrug, and then go back to my pasta.
We sit there for a few minutes in silence; the only sounds coming from the clink of our silverware on the china. Grandpa’s balding head reflects the light from the lamp that hangs over the table. The light flickers.
“They say there’s supposed to be another blizzard tonight,” Grandpa says through chews.
“Another one?” Nana says.
“How much this time?” I ask. I stop and look up at him.
Grandpa answers both of our questions. “Yep—another foot, they say.” He takes another bite.
“Another foot?!” Nana and I both say.
He laughs and pushes his round glasses back up on his nose. “Yeah, because we need much more.”
We all continue eating for another few moments.
I think back to that sketch. That boy’s face. Who is he? His dark hair and light eyes . . . He must exist. I couldn’t have simply conjured him up. I can’t do things like that—and get every detail right, too. I must have seen him before. I have to get out of here and keep drawing.
Eat faster, Allie!
Just as I’m about to take my last bite to clean my plate, Nana decides to speak to me again; holding me back for another few precious moments. “What have you been doing up there, Allie? Sitting in the dark?”
I just look at her, not knowing what to say.
“I caught her once . . .” Grandpa chews. “. . . drawing. Sketching something.” Thanks, Grandpa.
“Is that what you’re always doing, Allie?”
I nod.
“Are you any good?” she asks me. Why would she care?
I pull the sleeves of my sweater over my fists and put them in my lap. It’s cold here.
“I guess. Why?”
“Just wondering . . . .”
Okay.
I stand up and bring my plates to the sink. I venture back up the narrow stairs and throw open my bedroom door. I shut it quickly behind me and fly over to my dresser to pull out my notebook.

Publication Date: 08-21-2012

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