Running Barefoot Read Online Free PDF Page A

with. Because Joby didn’t play sports he always rode the bus, holding court way in the back, making many a kid’s life miserable.
    One particular morning in early fall, I climbed on the bus, nervous and desperate for a seat as usual. Tara waved at me and pointed excitedly to the name tags stuck on each seat. Mr.Walker, the bus driver, had made seat assignments. I felt a rush of relief and started looking for my name. Assigned seating meant never having to find a place to sit,and I was ridiculously grateful as I searched for mine. I began to notice that most of the younger, smaller, kids had been seated with older kids, making the three to a seat rule a little more comfortable. As I neared the back of the bus, red heat crawled up my face as an all too familiar voice rang out.
    “Josie Jensen! Come to Papa!” Joby Jenkins called out in a sing song voice. Everyone around him burst into laughter. “Hey, we can play Cowboys and Indians! Don’t worry, Jos, I won’t let Sammy here make you his squaw.”
    I’d found my assigned seat. My name was on the seat just across the aisle from Joby. Joby was sitting with his legs in the aisle so his knobby knees and big feet in unlaced Reeboks made it impossible for anyone to get by without confrontation. He patted the green plastic seat next to him. Sitting inside the seat beside him was Samuel Yates.
    Samuel Yates was the grandson of Don and Nettie Yates who lived just down the road from me. Don and Nettie’s son, Michael, had served a Mormon mission on a Navajo Indian reservation twenty plus years ago. After his mission, he ended up going back to Arizona for some job. He’d married a Navajo girl and they had Samuel. A few years later, Michael Yates was killed when he’d been thrown from a horse. I don’t remember the details; it all happened before I was born, but in small towns everyone’s story becomes known eventually.
    I’d heard about Samuel when several women, including Nettie Yates, had gathered in our kitchen to do some canning. Every year since my mom had died my neighbors would bring fruit and vegetables from their own gardens and can all day, filling our shelves with their labors. That August, the kitchen was uncomfortably warm and smelled of stewed tomatoes. I listened to the women visit as I wished for freedom from the endless canning, although my gratitude would not allow me to leave. I found myself drawn into the conversation out of sheer boredom. Nettie Yates was venting her concerns to the other women -
    “He’s gotten so his mother can’t handle him. She remarried, you know. Seems Samuel doesn’t get along too well with his step dad and his step siblings. My opinion is there is some alcohol involved - the step dad drinks to much, I think. Samuel’s gotten in several fights this year and was kicked out of the school on the reservation. He’s an angry boy, and I’m a little worried about having him come live here.” Nettie Yates paused for breath and then continued. “I just hope people are good to him - it’s what Michael would have wanted. We’d have taken him when Michael died, but his mother wouldn’t hear of it. We told her to bring Samuel and come live with us, but she ended up going back to the reservation to live with her mother. Can’t say I blame her. It’s what she knew, and there is comfort in that, especially when you lose someone you love.
    “We’ve barely seen the boy all these years. Don’s looking forward to having Samuel help with the sheep. Them Navajos know about sheep, you know. Samuel’s helped his grandma tend sheep since he was six years old. Anyway, he’ll attend school here for his senior year and hopefully graduate. Then he’ll be old enough to decide what he wants to do.” Nettie had finished the telling with a long sigh as she continued to slice ripe tomatoes into her bowl, never breaking rhythm.
    Samuel looked up at me as I tried to slide past Joby into my seat. Samuel’s dark eyes and wide mouth were