Page 45 of Ruthless Court

I walk away from the crowd.

The Pacific is dark beyond the bonfires, waves rolling toward shore beneath a thin line of moonlight. I take off my sandals and carry them by the straps as I cross the cool sand.

Water reaches my toes.

I gasp.

It is colder than I expected, but I don’t move.

Another wave comes in, washing over my feet and sinking them deeper into the sand.

A laugh slips out.

“My feet are in the Pacific Ocean.”

I say it quietly, but apparently not quietly enough.

A guy passing behind me calls to his friend.

“This one’s already drunk. She’s talking to her toes.”

I don’t turn around.

“Mind your business.”

He laughs and keeps walking.

I take another sip of sparkling water.

The wind catches my hair, pushing it back from my face. My sweater slips farther down my shoulder. Music drifts from the party, softened by waves and distance.

I made it.

Three thousand miles from Chicago.

From winters so cold the air stole your breath before you reached the bus stop.

From the lounge where I opened my books every afternoon and waited for Dad to finish fixing someone else’s jump shot.

From the whistles. The bouncing balls. The snap of nets. The chemical shine of freshly waxed floors and the stale jerseys boys left piled beneath benches.

That gym had worked its way beneath my skin. The sounds followed me home. The smell clung to my backpack, my clothes, my hair.

Even silence used to feel like waiting for the next whistle.

Not here.

Here, there is salt in the air.

Sand beneath my feet.

Palm trees somewhere behind me.

A cold drink in my hand.

I stare at the dark horizon and smile.

I escaped.