Real by Carol Cujec (snow like ashes .txt) 📕

Dad glanced back at the frowning boy, who had squished himself to the side—as far away from me as possible.

Seeing him squirm made me more anxious. My hands slapped my cheeks.

Slap-slap-slap.

“How do you like your new school?” Dad asked him.

Mason looked at Dad and blew air through his lips like a horse. “Full of suck-ups and phonies.” Under his breath he added, “Now I’m one of ’em.”

Boo-hoo, Mason. You have no idea how lucky you are.

My hands slapped my knees now. Slap-slap-slap.

Mason examined me a few seconds and asked, “What’s wrong with her? My mom never told me anything.”

Dad shot him a look with an eyebrow raised.

“No disrespect or anything, but, I mean, why does she act like that?”

I went back to slapping my face. Slap-slap-slap.

Dad puckered his lips in thought for a second. “Well, I think Charity sometimes dances to music only she can hear.”

“Does she talk?”

“Not like you and me, but she communicates in different ways. Problem is, her body speaks a different language. So, for example, just because she’s not looking at us doesn’t mean she’s not listening. Just because she jumps up and down doesn’t mean she’s happy.”

That’s right, Dad. Most people do not get that.

“So how do you know what she’s feeling?” Mason asked.

“A lot of times, I can see it in her eyes. Sometimes even I’m at a loss, though.” Dad reached back and squeezed my knee. “I know you’d really love to talk if you could, wouldn’t you, Cherry?”

More than you know, Dad. More than you could possibly know.

Mason brushed his nose with his hand. “Yeah. That sucks.”

Pops piped in. “It doesn’t ‘suck,’ young man. It vacuums vigorously. Hehehehe.”

A sea of cars greeted us at the parking lot. “Pesky tourists think they can elbow us off our own pier,” Pops complained.

He crammed the car into a tiny parking space, and Dad helped me out so the passenger door did not hit the next car. Dad and I strolled next to Pops, while Mason trailed behind like he wasn’t with us.

I remembered the new rule: Cousin ≠ friend.

This place usually calmed me, but today it was a war zone to my senses. Screaming seagulls dive-bombed French fries on picnic tables while a polka band sang out of tune, “In heaven there is no beer, that’s why we drink it here . . .” Every boom of the bass drum hammered my head.

Each step became harder. I could almost feel the pieces of my broken heart clinking inside my chest.

Clink, clink, clink.

I numbered the hurts. Borden. Miss Marcia, Mason, Elvi.

Panic grew in my belly. My toes pranced on the wood planks like they were hot lava. I envied the gulls’ freedom to fly away.

Hop, hop, hop.

Dad squeezed my hand tighter. “Easy, honey. We’ll be in our peaceful fishing spot in a minute and you’ll be fine.”

Fine? Look at my life. Probability of peace: zero.

A thundering voice shot in our direction. “Bob, you ol’ son of a gun. Howsit goin’?” A guy in a fishing cap greeted Pops with a bear hug. A battle of fishing stories began. Their voices became fuzzier as panic screamed inside my skull.

“A ten-pound sand bass, I swear on my honor.”

“That’s nothin’ compared to the one we hauled in last week, is it, Steve?”

Where was Mason? Leaning on the pier, earbuds in both ears, looking everywhere except our direction.

Another piece of my heart chipped off and clinked inside my chest.

That’s when my bulldog impulse took over.

I yanked free from Dad’s hand and launched myself.

Page 5: Antelope have acute senses of hearing and smell to detect danger in the open.

To where? I was not sure.

My legs flew me through the crowd.

Page 5: The pronghorn antelope sprints at speeds of 60 miles per hour.

My pink sneakers sprinted over sticky wooden planks.

Get out of my way!

I dodged strollers, knocked into a bench, leapt past a kettle corn cart.

Run, run, dodge, leap, dodge, crash, turn, run.

My eyes spotted a ramp down the side of the pier, away from the chaos. I ran toward it. Then my feet froze. A chain blocked my path. The sign said, “Closed to the Public.”

Keep going, keep moving!

I ducked under the chain and stumbled down the wooden planks toward the docked boats, bobbing up and down, eighteen of them in two rows of nine. Between each boat was a patch of water, dark and shiny as glass.

Fact: I cannot walk on water.

Still, my feet wanted to step onto the glass. Feel the ocean fold around me like a blanket. Water covering my legs and arms, my neck and face, quieting my frantic body.

Keep going. You can do it.

I could easily drop into the water and disappear without a sound. My legs led me to the edge, and my foot reached out above the water. The noise from the polka band seemed miles away. The sun reflected off the black, polished hull of a boat named The Great Escape.

I can escape.

A seagull landed next to me and perched on the wooden post. He stared into the distance.

I am hungry for peace.

My shoelace touched the water. I closed my eyes as my body tilted forward.

A hand grabbed my elbow and pulled me from the edge. A deep voice said, “Whoa! Hold on, my sister.” I turned to see a man with a leathery face and long, gray hair braided behind his back. The sun glinted off a silver dolphin pendant hanging on a cord around his neck. He squinted his wrinkled eyes and smiled at me. “We each have a path and a purpose. Seek yours, my sister.”

In two giant leaps, Dad bounded toward us, breathing hard. He grabbed me with both hands and looked into my face. “Are you okay, Charity? Are you safe? How did you run so fast?” He wrapped me in a tight squeeze. I felt his whole body shaking.

Pops ran up, huffing and puffing. He bent over, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. “Well, Chipmunk, if you didn’t like the smell of