Runaway Girl (Girl 2)

A little red in the face, I kept my head up and drove…and drove…and drove until I found a place that I could afford. They were even kind enough to put the price right outside on the marquee. Very convenient.

So, fine. The carpeting was scratchy, everything smelled like cigarettes, and the shampoo and conditioner bottles on the sink were empty. At least I went into the office and rented the room myself. Hauled my own suitcase and wedding dress up the stairs. Ventured out and found my own dinner. Three things in one night I’ve never done before. Four if I include landing a job.

Speaking of my job…

“Jogging?” Birdie’s feet skid on the hardwood as I usher her toward the door front. “No one said anything about that.”

“The fitness category is a polite way of saying the judges are inspecting your butt. Exercise is part of the gig.” My explanation only makes Birdie cringe harder. “It’s not fair. I know. There are expectations for a woman’s body to be perfect and no one should have to live up to them. Who even sets them?”

Birdie eyes me hopefully. “So that’s a rain check on the jog?”

“No dice. The pageant world is unforgiving. When this is all over, you never have to jog again and you’ll be perfect, sweetheart. But if pageant-ready is the goal, we have to suffer some.” I turn in a circle, searching for a Nike swoosh among the pile of mostly male footwear. “Where are your running shoes?”

“In a Foot Locker. Waiting to be purchased.”

“Oh dear. That is an obstacle.”

“I have some Converse that might work in a pinch.” Birdie growls her way down the hallway toward her bedroom and comes back a moment later with unlaced black and white sneakers. “Hang on, I have to check my blood sugar before we go.” She jingles the bracelet around her wrist. “Diabetic in the house.”

I try not to show a reaction. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s not usually the first thing I tell people.”

Standing in limbo between the kitchen and living room, I watch as Birdie hops up onto the kitchen counter and pulls two small, black devices out of the cabinet. She pops the top off one and inserts a blue plastic piece, presumably with a needle at the end. In the second device, she shoves in a white test strip, and after pricking her finger, she presses the tip of her digit there, waiting as the meter beeps.

“One twenty-nine. Good to go,” Birdie calls, breaking everything down as fast as she set it up. “Hope that didn’t weird you out.”

“It didn’t. I’ve just never seen it done before.”

“Congratulations.” Birdie slides off the counter. “Your diabetes cherry has officially been popped.”

I let out a choked sound. “I think I’ll focus our training on the interview round.”

Laughing, Birdie drops down to tie her shoes. “That’s probably not a bad idea.” She shoots me a look through a dangling hunk of blue and black hair. “How are you so straight and narrow, but you still managed to outmatch my brother?”

Having Jason brought up for the first time since I arrived gives me the urge to search over my shoulders, positive I’ll find him lurking in a corner scowling at me. His presence is everywhere in the house. A giant rain slicker hangs on the coatrack, military commendations sit perched on the mantle, cigar smoke and cinnamon linger in the air. “I’m not sure I did outmatch him.”

“No? He walked around looking like he’d woken up on Mars last night.”

“Oh.” Surprise kicks me in the stomach. Surprise…and pleasure. Yes, I did hold my own just a little, didn’t I? “Well, next time we’ll aim for Mercury. It’s closer to the sun.”

Birdie sails past me toward the door with a snicker. “Let’s get this over with.”

We start with a light run when we reach the sidewalk, leaving the nook of Charlotte Place and hitting a left on Marine Street, where we jog along the Matanzas River. Ships bob in the rich blue water, some of them ferrying tourists between the Bridge of Lions in the distance and farther south. Palm trees and ornate lampposts seem to be positioned a uniform distance apart, completely at odds with the kitschy restaurants across the road, beckoning to passersby with bright colorful signs, drink specials, haphazard strings of lights and backyard dining.

Running beside Birdie without talking gives me a chance to study her closer. Now that we’re out in the sunlight and the wind is blowing the hair back from her face, I can see just how unique she is, which I already discovered last night. I’ve never been in the company of someone with such a fighter’s spirit. It’s there in the stubborn set of her chin and sharpness of her gaze. She sees a lot. Every word directed at her is weighed and dissected, given a worth.