“Where’s your dad?” I asked as we walked down the driveway and to the street.
“He’s in town looking for work today,” she said. “Not here, like Palm Valley. But Palm Springs. You know, the casinos on the side of the highway. He was a blackjack dealer back in…where I came from.”
“Out East and south and whatever?” I repeated.
She smiled and fell in step beside me. She was limping but wasn’t as self-conscious about it, which gave her a unique rhythm all her own. “Gulfport. Mississippi. We lived there before the…before we had to come here.”
“Why this place of all places?”
“We like dates?” she suggested. She cleared her throat and then stopped, her attention on one of the date palm rows. “Hey, ever climbed one?”
“Not really on my list of things I like to do for fun. Have you?”
“I can’t.”
I shot her a look. “Afraid of heights?”
She kept her eyes on the palm trees, hesitant to look at me. She waited a few beats before saying, “No. I don’t have…I mean…my leg…I can’t…” She sighed and started walking quickly down the street, her gait stiff again.
I watched her and then trotted after her, holding onto my hat with one hand so it wouldn’t blow away. Once I caught up to her, I grabbed her hand and pulled her back.
“Ellie,” I told her. I let go of her hand once I was certain she wasn’t taking off again. “Ellie, it’s okay, whatever you’re too afraid to say.”
“You think I’m afraid?” she asked defensively. “Of what?”
I smiled gently. “It’s the same look I see when I catch a glimpse of myself in public. I look like…I’m on guard or something. On watch. I look afraid. So do you. But I don’t know what of.”
“Why are you afraid?”
“Oh, you know. Because sometimes I think I’m going to get hurt, really hurt, and it will all be for nothing. That people, bullies, bad men...fathers, will get away with shit and not get punished.”
“Does your father hurt you?” she whispered, taking a step toward me, her dark eyes warm and concerned. “Why?”
I shrugged as casually as I could. “He’s the sheriff. He thinks I’m asking for it. He thinks I’m gay.”
She raised her brows. “And…you’re not?”
“Is that a surprise?”
“No, actually. I didn’t think you were. I just thought you were kind of emo or goth.”
I gave her a wry look. “Well, emo is pushing it.”
“What does your father do…does he hit you?” she lowered her voice over the last words, her eyes darting around as if someone could hear us.
“Usually, yeah,” I said. I could tell it shocked her that I was being so open about it, so blasé, even though nothing could be further from reality.
“But that’s…against the law. You could get him in trouble. Big trouble. He shouldn’t be allowed to hurt you.”
“I could get him in trouble. But come on, he’s who he is and I look like this. Who are they going to believe?” I looked down at my nails; the black was faded away in spots. “Besides, I don’t know. I hate my father sometimes, I really do. But he’s still all I have. I feel like I should make the best of it. Shouldn’t I?”
A dawning light came into her eyes, like she’d just realized something. “Yeah, I get it and stuff. But still. Parents shouldn’t treat their kids like that.”
“And bullies at school shouldn’t either. But they do.”
“But it’s wrong. They need to pay for it.”
“They do. I stand up for myself. Or I try to. I don’t act afraid, even if I am.”
“Do you stand up for others?”
That took me off guard for a minute. “What do you mean?”
“When you stand up for yourself, do you think you’re standing up for just you or for everyone who has ever been bullied?”
“I…” I didn’t know, actually. I brushed my hair behind my ears and licked my lips. They tasted like salt. “I think I’m the only one here who gets picked on.”
“You’re not,” she said with conviction. Her eyes began to well up with tears, a sight that made my heart break a little.
I frowned. “Did…have you been bullied? You just moved here.”
Ellie sighed and looked down the row of date palms again to a ladder that was leaning against one of the trees. “I don’t want to climb it but do you want to go over there and sit? Better to talk there than out here.”
I nodded, eager to learn more about her, yet my chest was starting to squeeze a bit, anticipating the pain she was holding back in her eyes.
We walked down the row of palms, the air immediately cooler between their spiky trunks, and took a seat on the lowest rung of the wide metal ladder. I placed my backpack on the earth and thought about all the stuff I brought with me, the stuff I was going to impress her with. But we were already opening up to each other like kindred spirits or old friends.
We sat in silence for a few moments before I had to coax her onward. “Who bullied you? What happened?”
She wiped her hands on her jeans, back and forth and back and forth, and stared up at the sky. “I walk funny. I know I do. I…have something wrong with me. Something happened to my leg. I have horrible scars and I can’t, like, ever show it. Like, ever. Or people would run screaming. Believe me. It’s happened. And I can’t do anything about it. But people, they look at me funny, you know? They say things about me when they think I can’t hear. Not just kids, but older people too. And they look at my mom like they pity her and stuff and…anyway, it sucks. It’s like…I can’t even just fucking walk anywhere without it being a big deal. I feel like I can barely…live. I can’t even explain it.”
“You don’t have to,” I said quietly. I didn’t have the same