a hand up. He faced Brando, the two stared at each other, and then Brando punched him in the gut. He didn’t mean to truly hurt him. Mitch laughed and wheezed at the same time, but to prove some kind of macho point.
“You got an issue, Lewis,” Brando had said. “You face me, not the train.”
“Same.” Mitch took in a lungful of air and held his stomach. “Same thing, Fausti.”
Brando took him by the shoulder and squeezed. Mitch met his eyes, nodded, and then gave me a look that I took as remorseful. Someone else in the crowd mentioned “racing the train,” and now here I stood, watching something my brother used to do unfold.
Back in the day, each guy couldn’t wait to leave the small town, and they would line up along the tracks, wait for the train, and when it approached, take off running. The winner touched whatever street sign came first. The victor won the prize of symbolism. The winner wouldn’t be stuck in Natchitoches forever.
I wondered how often Brando won?
I wasn’t doing this for symbolic meaning. After Mitch’s stunt, I realized what I had to do. The need burned like an itch that couldn’t be scratched.
I watched the line of males with intense concentration, Brando included, standing in a runners line, waiting for the train to get close enough.
“Elliot shared the same anatomy!” Violet hissed out of the side of her mouth. “Brando is going to pop his lid. The only reason he didn’t leave with you is because you promised him that you were all right.”
“I am!”
“You’re not!” She shook my arm. “Look at them, lined up like idiots! They take this seriously.” She glanced behind her, at the girls giggling and tossing their hair, ready to cheer on their runner. Apart from the itch, another reason for me doing this had to do with me hating to be left behind. “You need a penis for this, Scarlett!”
It took some squirming and maneuvering to remove my wrist from her grasp. She was right, but it didn’t matter. Taking a deep breath in, I released the air in slow puffs. I closed my eyes, focused my attention, and felt for the hum, listened for the whistle, and prepared myself for the sheer power of steel.
The next whistle became a gun blast, signaling the start of the race.
This train wasn’t going slow. Neither was I.
The guys had a head start, and I easily overtook three of them. Ballerinas were graceful creatures, on purpose, but that didn’t mean we didn’t train hard to look as though we could defy gravity and float.
The beast tore through the town on the left. Anger pulsed in my ears as loudly as the mighty clack, clack from its relentless stride.
I pushed myself harder and harder, until the only two runners ahead of me were Brando and Mitch. I could see the camaraderie between them; occasionally they would look at each other and laugh. Mitch must have been breathing hard. The sweet smell of rum wafted in the air behind him.
His smugness infuriated me. I pushed even harder, taking him without looking at him. I heard him say, “Wha—the—?” and then his voice drifted behind me as I left him in the dust.
Neck and neck with Brando now. He glanced at me and his jovial mood turned to something else. Shock? Anger?
It didn’t matter.
I picked up the pace. He picked up his. If he really wanted me, there was no doubt he’d have me, but he let me run.
What drove me? Besides the fact that Mitch’s stunt still had my stomach in knots?
I’d see the train coming in my dreams almost every night at the same time. I’d hear the clunk of its wheels and its trembling boxcars, and I’d see its light—the last thing I imagined my brother saw before he was killed, if he saw anything at all. All of the pure white snow drenched in blood.
I’d wake up in a sweat, in a spiraling panic that turned me in helpless circles.
That’s what drove me—insane, most days.
“Scarlett!”
I jumped over an eroded divot in the ground and landed with a grace that would impress Maja Resnik. I sailed past a sign, the end of the sprint, but I continued ahead, fueled by madness and a grief that refused to leave me. It clung like a ferocious ghost.
Brando had had enough. He caught me, setting his body between the train and me, a stonewall barrier. The look on his face, his grip, spoke