Icy Sparks by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

didn’t know how to lie; I knew—without a doubt—that every good thing she said about Johnny Cake was true.

Chapter 9
    â€œM atanni,” I yelled, racing in from school, my anger so intense I thought my body would ignite and burst into flames. “I’m going for a walk!” Before she had a chance to say howdy, I was out the door again—running. In the cool October afternoon, still wearing my school clothes, I sprinted over the hills like a runner on the Ginseng High School track team. Although it wasn’t cold, I ran so hard I felt blood rising in the back of my mouth the way it felt when I ran on a very cold day. As I moved, the sturdy edge of my left shoe cut into my skin, and with each step I endured a stab of pain, but I didn’t care. If the pain diluted my anger, it didn’t matter if a blister the size of a silver dollar formed on my heel.
    Throughout September, my anger had grown bigger, more unruly each passing day, until it was determined to get out. In Mrs. Stilton’s classroom, it escaped in little gestures directed her way—a pop here, a jerk there—each time she had issued an order, usually when her back was turned. The minute I got home, so much rage was shoving against the backs of my eyeballs I feared they might fly out. So I had run.
    I ran until my dress was drenched in sweat, until the balls of my feet ached, until I could barely breathe. I ran until I came to Icy Creek, where I collapsed on the bank. Through the sieve of multicolored leaves, I looked up at the sky, listened to the rumble of water, and prayed. “Dear God,” I whispered, “please help me.” A squirrel was gathering nuts a few feet from where I lay. Every so often a bird twittered, and once I spotted the white fluff of a rabbit beyond the creek in the woods, but try as I might, I recognized no sign from God, no gesture to let me know that He heard me. But then I wondered how any god could love me. Who could hear my prayers above the turmoil of my jerks and pops? Who could see the real me through the wall of angry urges that set me apart? Miss Emily didn’t know who I really was; she was blinded by too much love. And if my grandparents knew the truth, I was certain it would kill them. My mother had been as sweet as a pasture rose. “That girl didn’t know bad,” Patanni had said. And my father had been hardworking. Honest, he always was. Whenever he popped out his eyes, he had done it right in front of people. There was no running away, no hiding in a root cellar for him.
    â€œHit ain’t right that your mama never knowed you,” my grandmother had said. “Hit ain’t right that your daddy died so young. They kilt themselves to have you and got none of the pleasure, none of the joy of seeing how you growed up.” None of the joy of seeing me grow up, I thought, rolling over, feeling the cool moss through my dress. “None of the shame of seeing how disgraceful I’ve become,” I said, burying my head in my arms, my eyes avoiding the sky, God’s dwelling place. “Hit just ain’t right,” I said, sobbing so loudly that not even the thunder of Icy Creek could drown me out.
    As the light started to fade, I eased myself up, wiped the strands of moss off the bodice of my dress, and headed home. It was nearing suppertime. I knew that Matanni would be cooking, waiting for me to set the table. Weary from the run, exhausted from crying, I felt depleted. Tonight, perhaps, I wouldn’t have to dash to the root cellar and vomit forth every pop, jerk, and thought that had demanded repetition during the day. Tonight I wouldn’t be forced to cast wild, unfettered shadows in the candlelight against the root cellar walls.
    When I banged through the front door, my grandparents were sitting in the parlor. Matanni was putting a new hem in an old dress of mine. Patanni was dozing in his chair. “I’m sorry I’m