Girl Runner Read Online Free Page A

lets me do without question.
    I ignore Cora, who has climbed up from the stable below to stand at my elbow, her breathing laborious.
    “What are you doing?” she says.
    “What does it look like?”
    “You’re not getting them straight.” She examines the nail I’ve just finished.
    “Am too.” I snatch the nail out of her hand. The metal is still hot to the touch. I hammer it some more. Cora crosses her arms and observes. I can feel her judgement and the hammer lands wrong, bounces up.
    “Stop watching me.”
    “You’ve had your chance, now it’s my turn. It’s only fair.”
    “Find something else to do.”
    “I won’t.”
    Now that the hammer is silent, we can hear Mother calling our names. Father hears too.
    “Go on,” he says, just that, no more. We must obey.
    I RUN TO THE LADDER ahead of Cora. She makes no appearance of trying to beat me, but steps on my fingers coming down. I’ve underestimated her.
    We burst out of the stable door at the same moment, Cora calling sweetly, “Here we are, Mother. We were helping Father.”
    “Does he want help?” Mother frowns. “You’re meant to be working in the garden, Aggie. And Cora, there’s laundry to pull off the line and ironing.”
    “I finished in the garden,” I say, knowing that it is quite impossible ever to be finished in the garden.
    “Olive’s doing the ironing,” says Cora. We’re the same height, though I’m younger by two years. I can see eye to eye with her. We’ve been told that we look the same, like twins , which neither of us takes as a compliment.
    “I’m looking for Fannie,” says Mother, “have you seen her?”
    “No,” I say quickly.
    “I saw her going down the lane with you.” Cora stares at me hard, and I say, “That was ages ago,” and Cora says, “Well that’s the last I seen her,” and Mother says, “Saw her, Cora, saw her. That’s the last you saw her.”
    “Yes,” says Cora. “That’s the last I saw her.”
    Mother waits. “Well?” she asks me, and I shake my head to erase trouble from my face, a trick accomplished more easily than expected.
    “You two can run an errand for me, in Fannie’s stead. Take this on over to Edith’s. Tell her: two teaspoons in a glass of water three times a day, starting now.” Mother hands Cora a small jar made of brown glass and stopped with a cork. Cora agitates the liquid like Mother’s just done. “Can you remember that?”
    “Two teaspoons in a glass of water three times a day,” Cora says as I chime in a fraction too late on every word. I know Cora would like to kick me.
    “If Edith looks poorly you must tell me,” says Mother. “And stay and do her washing up.”
    “She said to run,” I tell Cora as soon as we’re out of Mother’s sight, and I take off flying down the lane. I run past the graveyard, and past the place where Fannie walked into the corn, and I make myself not look at it. I make myself keep running.
    Cora doesn’t even try to keep up. It isn’t much fun to best her when she isn’t even trying. Maybe that’s what makes me do it. Maybe. I don’t know what makes me, but as I get farther and farther on, with Cora lagging behind, not even trying, I decide to hide in the corn by the side of the road. I’ll surprise Cora. In a flash, I’m standing in the corn, listening to my own ragged breath and thumping heart and the whoosh of stalks swaying.
    I’m excited, impatient. I try to hold my breath. I mark Cora’s slow approach, measure her strides. Here she comes, proudly carrying the bottle of Mother’s tincture, marching with her chin in the air—and why should Mother trust Cora with the bottle just because she’s older? Here she comes, nearer and nearer, looking as if she’s forgotten we are meant to do this together.
    My exit could not be more perfectly timed.
    Cora is opposite my hiding spot when I rush out with a thrilling whoop.
    Cora shrieks. Into the air shoots the bottle.
    “It’s just me!” I laugh.
    But she isn’t