Away Running by David Wright Page A

cannot leave my house, much less the country, without my permission!”
    The second conversation was even worse. She had called from her office and begun by announcing, “Your father is here with me,” and I knew I was screwed. My parents were never in the same room at the same time if they could help it. They only talked through their lawyers.
    “Hi, Dad,” I said.
    He didn’t say anything, but I could feel him there.
    My mom was pacing back and forth; I could hear her heels clacking against the hardwood floor. I’d seen her turn in circles, like a lion in a cage, a gajillion times before.
    “The bank called yesterday.” Her voice was icy calm and echoed because of the speakerphone. “Not only do you leave the country without permission, but you steal money to do it?”
    I didn’t answer right away. I mean, how do you tell your parents that you just want to play ball one last season, that you’re tired of thinking about your screwed-up family, that you’re tired of living one week at your mom’s new penthouse with her new boyfriend and the other with your dad at the old family home while it’s waiting to be sold?
    “Well,” I said, “it is my money, after all.”
    That was when she lost it. I won’t even repeat what she said. I mean, I just won’t repeat it.
    My dad had still not said a single word. The entire time, he never did. It was the worst thing he could have done.
    “I just needed to get away,” I told Freeman now. “My mom’s a hotshot magazine editor, and my older brother and sister have big careers.”
    He stopped washing and stared.
    “I’m good with it,” I said. “With the expectations. I just needed a little break first.”
    “They didn’t know you were coming?”
    “They do now.”
    “My man Matt, a runaway!” He laughed. “Am I going to see your mug on the back of a carton of milk?”
    “The season’s over in April, and then I have my whole life to get degrees and good jobs and to make money.”
    “Dang, son,” he said, “you got big cojones. Beaucoup big.”
    “You’re one to talk about the size of someone’s cojones,” I said. “Acting tough but afraid to go skiing.”
    “Afraid?” Freeman made a sucking sound through his teeth— tsst —something between irritated and dismissive. “Please.” He kept scrubbing the salad bowl when it was obviously clean. “It’s just bad timing is all. The trip falls right between our game against the Ours and the one against the Anges Bleus.”
    He’d told me one day at practice that his host family had invited him to go skiing with them in a few weeks but he didn’t think he would go. “You can catch the TGV down after the game…” I said.
    “The TGV ?”
    “The high-speed train,” I told him. “You can catch it on Sunday and be back by Tuesday. You’ll only miss one practice, a walk-through.”
    Juliette had gone to her room to study. He handed me the salad bowl.
    “I used to love family ski trips,” I told him. “My mom and dad, Marc and Manon. Sometimes my uncle Pierre would bring his kids—my cousins. We’d be all together, you know. There’s nothing better.”
    “These folks aren’t my family though.”
    “For the next four months they are.”
    There were no more dishes, but he stood there with the hot water running into the empty sink. I reached over and turned it off.
    “Is it about money?” I tried to be tactful. “I mean, I can front you some cash if you need it.”
    “Naw, it ain’t that. They’re paying for everything.” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “It’s just that I should be home, that’s all,” he said. “Sometimes it feels like I ran off too, like you did. I should be back there, helping out.”
    If we didn’t do better than we had earlier, I wanted to say, he would be home soon enough.
    “There’ll be time for all that,” I said instead, because I was sure there would be. “Time’s the one thing we’ve got lots of.”
    “Lots of time,” Freeman said, suddenly