Runaway (3 page)

I have to make a list. I
need
to make a list.

I flip through pages until I come to an empty one. Then I slide to the floor, lean against the bed frame, and write:

Top 10 Reasons Why Dakota Brown Doesn’t Belong on a Nice Farm

Five

Top 10 Reasons Why Dakota Brown Doesn’t Belong on a Nice Farm

1. Nice farm is too far from Nice.

2. Nice is too far from Chicago or any other city.

3. Barking dog(s).

4. Shy, shedding cat.

5. Who knows what’s in the barn!

6. No air-conditioning.

7. Popeye and Annie are too over-the-top lovey-dovey.

8. Computer is in the kitchen.

9. People do chores here. Some of them outside.

10. People on Nice farm are too nice. I’d never fit in.

It takes me a half hour to come up with my list, and that worries me. I’ve made the same kind of list in the last four foster homes, and each time I performed the task in under 10 minutes. I must be slipping.

There’s a tap at my door, so soft I’m not sure I really heard it. Then it comes again.

“Come in!” I tuck my notebook into my backpack.

“You’re awake!” Kat sounds way too happy. “Dad cooked fried chicken.”

“Seriously?” I like fried chicken. No doubt that’s what the folks ate in that
Little House on the Prairie
, too. Only no way the man of the house would have been the cook.

“And mashed potatoes and gravy,” Kat adds.

I can smell it now that the door’s open. Suddenly I’m starving. “Okay.”

Downstairs, the others are already sitting at the table. Hank and Wes are next to each other, talking. The Coolidges sit at the head and foot of the table, so Kat and I take the two empty seats closest to the kitchen. Hank officially introduces Wes to me.

I can tell they’re waiting for one of us to say something, so I say, “I like your dog, Wes.”

Wes’s face transforms from street punk to choirboy. “Rex is the best.” He smiles at the dog, who’s lying patiently beside his chair. “He won’t beg for food at the table, even when we have hamburgers.”

“Yeah?” I lean so I can see the dog better. His head is between his paws, and his tail is wagging.

“Wes is a natural dog whisperer,” Hank says. “He’s the one who trained Rex.”

I’m glad to have the dog to talk about. Otherwise, I’d have no idea what to say. “So, did you have a German shepherd before you came here?”

“Nah,” he answers. “Unless you count the police dogs I used to run from.”

Nobody laughs. I’m not sure if he’s kidding or not.

The food’s sitting on the table: chicken, mashed potatoes, broccoli, biscuits, applesauce. Plus Siamese cat salt and pepper shakers.

“Lord, what a fine meal this is!” Mr. Coolidge exclaims.

I start to say something to agree with him when I notice that the others have their heads bowed. Then I get it. He’s praying. I bow my head, but my eyes are wide open.

“You are so good to us, Father. Thank You for this food and for loving us
so
much.”

Mrs. Coolidge chimes in. “And thank You for my wonderful husband, who prepared everything for us.”

Back to Mr. Coolidge. “And tonight we’re the most thankful to You for bringing Dakota Brown into our home. Help us to be what she needs. We know she’s what we need. Amen.”

Murmurs of “amen” flicker around the table. Then chairs squeak and laughter and conversation flow over everything.

I try to act normal, but I’m not sure I’ve ever been prayed for, and I know I’ve never been prayed for at dinner.

During dinner, I get the feeling Wes is watching me. I think I do okay, answering questions and making small talk. But when dinner is over, Wes carries his dishes to the kitchen, makes a turn to come up behind me, and whispers, “How long you staying?”

“What?” I ask.

He leans in so nobody else can hear. “You’re planning on taking off first chance you get, right?”

“That’s crazy.” I try to laugh, but he’s not buying it.

“I know the signs,” he says. “Don’t worry. I won’t be sticking around here much longer either.” He calls to Kat. “Your turn to wash.”

And just like that, the moment passes. But I feel more pressure than ever to make a run for it. What’s to keep Wes from telling them what he knows?

Hank comes back to clear the table. “Soon as they’re out of the kitchen, I can show you how to get online, if you want. Dad said you were asking about the computer.”

“Great,” I answer, trying not to sound too anxious. But I
am
anxious. Neil is my best hope of running away. He’ll be waiting for my e-mail.

* * *

It takes an hour to clean up after dinner. There’s no dishwasher, so I grab a towel and help Wes dry.

“They’re the only white people in the state who don’t have a real dishwasher,” Wes complains, loud enough for the Coolidges to hear. They’re bustling around the kitchen, still putting away food and cleaning counters. “Popeye refuses to get a dishwasher because he calls this ‘quality family time.’”

“Popeye?” I repeat. I’ve been calling Mr. Coolidge “Popeye” in my head since the first time I met him. But I’d never say it to his face.

“Isn’t that cute?” Annie Coolidge says, hugging her husband from behind while he struggles to put two bowls into the open fridge. “Wes has always called Chester ‘Popeye.’”

“What about you, Dakota?” Mr. Coolidge asks. “You can’t go on calling me ‘Mr. Coolidge.’ How does Popeye sound?”

This is too weird. “I don’t know.”

“Or ‘Dad,’” Kat offers. She sets the last bowl in the drying rack.

“Popeye works,” I say quickly.

Nobody’s clearing out of the kitchen, so I walk outside and sit on the edge of the porch. The sun’s down, but night hasn’t taken over yet. A breeze carries the scent of flowers and grass.

Hank comes out and sits beside me. For a minute, neither of us says anything. Then he motions toward the barn. “Tomorrow I’ll show you the horses.”

I don’t say anything. The only horses I’ve been around were plastic toys in one of the homes or pictures in books.

“Must be tough to land here for the first time,” Hank says.

I shrug. “I’ve moved around a lot.”

“Do you remember much about your family?”

Without thinking, I rattle off the story I tell everybody. “My brother was a lot older than me. He joined the army to help support the family. When he got killed, my mother couldn’t take it. She died that same year, when I was five. Dad stuck it out until I was nine, but he never got over losing my mother.”

“I’m sorry, Dakota,” Hank says.

I ache inside, almost as if what I’ve just recounted is true. I’ve told the story so often, it feels like the truth. I can’t really remember my brother, but he was killed in a gang fight. My mom had already run away by then because my dad beat her. I don’t remember her at all. I was nine when my dad died of a liver disease you get from drinking too much.

“Could we check the computer now?” I ask.

“Sure.” Hank gets up, and I follow him in. The only light comes from the kitchen. Upstairs, voices and footsteps filter down to us as whispers and creaks.

Hank moves the mouse, and the computer screen lights up and goes straight into e-mail. “This is Mom’s account, but e-mails from the Pet Helpline come here.”

He scrolls down to one from Winnie the Horse Gentler. “Great! She got back already.” Hank grins at me. “Mind if I read this one before we get you going?”

“Go ahead.” I scoot my chair so I can see what this Winnie person wrote.

Hey, Hank!

Tell Starlight that Nickers says hi.

Hank glances at me. “Nickers is her horse. Starlight is mine.” He goes back to the screen:

Sorry you’re still having trouble with Lancelot. From what you’ve told me, though, I think it’s Lance’s owner who has the problem, don’t you? Tell her to quit looking directly into the gelding’s eyes when she wants to catch him. Don’t let her walk up directly from the front or from behind. Tell her to approach from the side. Then Lancelot will see her coming and won’t be so surprised. That horse sounds smart to me, Hank. There’s a good reason he doesn’t want his owner to catch him.

Say hi to everybody for me. Catman says, “Peace.”

Winnie

“She nailed it.” Hank leans back in the computer chair. “She always does. I’ve read so many books on training horses, but Winnie just knows this stuff.”

He gets up and turns the computer over to me. “I’ll be out in the barn if you need me.”

I wait until he leaves, then I go to my e-mail account. As I click my way through pop-up ads and junk offers, my heart starts pounding. Neil said he’d write. He said he’d be working on a way to get me out of here. Neil already has his driver’s license. In another year he’ll be out of the holding tank home, but he doesn’t want to wait that long. Ever since we’ve known each other, we’ve talked about running away to LA.

But that’s just the way Neil is. Chances are, he might forget all about me and make plans with other people. People are drawn to Neil.

I scan through spam claiming to help me lose 50 pounds in 10 days, invest my finances, vote for some politician, enhance my body parts.

Then I see it. Neil has sent me an e-mail. And the subject line reads:
California, here we come!

Six

My hands are shaking as I click on Neil’s message. I check over my shoulder to make sure nobody’s watching. Then I read:

Good news, Dakota! We’ve got a way out to California and a job once we get there. Remember DJ from LA? He’ll fix us up. And it gets better. He’s coming to Chicago for some reunion thing. So you better get on it right now and work out a way to get up here. We’re leaving the Fourth of July. Then we’re home free!

Neil

P.S. What’s it like down on the farm? Ha!

My first reaction is to jump up from the computer chair and scream, “California, here I come!” I jump up, but I don’t scream. And I sit back down. DJ isn’t a guy I’d choose to travel with. I only met him once, and he gave me the creeps. But if he can get me to California, then he’s okay by me.

I reread Neil’s e-mail. Then I hit Reply.

Neil, cool! Count me in, and tell DJ to save me a seat to California. One small detail—how am I supposed to get up to Chicago on the Fourth?

* * *

The next morning, I wake up to the sound of rushing water. I jump out of bed and glance wildly around the room. It takes me a second to remember where I am and to figure out that the rushing water is only a toilet flushing, the one I share with Kat.

I grab the blanket off my bed and wrap it around my shoulders. Then I close the windows and wait until I hear Kat leave the bathroom. But when I open my door to the john, her door springs back open.

“You’re up!” Kat sticks her head in, and it’s all I can do not to gasp. The red hair is gone. In its place is long, straight black hair down to her waist.

“Your hair?” I say stupidly.

“Like it?” she asks, doing that angel smile of hers. She rubs her cheek against the kitten she’s holding.

“It’s different,” I say, trying to decide if
this
is the real Kat.

“Thanks! I like different.”

“Me too.” I reach out to pet her kitten, but it squirms to get away.

“Don’t take it personally,” Kat says. “Kitten’s shy. I’m going to write Catman about her.” She runs her finger along the kitten’s gray-white head. “Better hurry. You missed Mom, but Dad made breakfast.” She dips out, closing the door after her.

“Morning, Dakota!” Popeye calls when I come downstairs.

“Morning . . . Popeye,” I answer, trying the name out loud. He doesn’t flinch.

“Sad, sad, sad that you missed Miami. She looked radiant today. I tell you, that woman gets more beautiful every day! Don’t you agree, Wes?”

“Whatever.” Wes is working through a stack of pancakes that appear to be dog shaped. Rex is at his feet.

I pour myself a glass of juice. Dogs are barking somewhere. “Is that coming from upstairs?”

“Yeah.” Wes says this like I’ve challenged him to a duel. “So?”

Popeye smiles at both of us. “You’ll have to get Wes to tell you about his dog business. He’s placed over two dozen dogs, and none have been returned.”

“Cool. Mind if I check e-mail?” I ask.

“Be my guest.” Popeye stabs a bacon strip and slaps it into the frying pan. “Never quite took to the e-mail. Give me
real
junk mail, the kind that shows up in the mailbox out front. And love letters! What would have become of all my love letters to Miami if they’d been love e-mails? Which reminds me . . .” He grabs a handful of letters from the counter and hands them to Wes. “Wes, would you run these out to the mailbox and put the flag up so the postman will take them? He’ll be here any minute.”

Wes sighs, but he does it.

I move to the computer. When the screen pops on, I’m in someone’s in-box. “Okay if I close out of this account and go to mine?”

“Go right ahead,” Popeye says, still frying up bacon. “Miami forgets when she’s in a hurry, which she always is. Now, she’s a different story when it comes to e-mail. Uses it all the time. Why, I remember one time when . . .”

I’m only half listening as I log in to my account.

Yes!
Neil’s written me back already. Right below my question “How am I supposed to get up to Chicago?” Neil’s written one word:
Drive.

This is so Neil. Just because he never worries about anything and always finds a way to get what he wants, he thinks everybody should be like that. I check when he sent the e-mail. Three minutes ago. I don’t see instant messenger on this computer, but there’s a chance I can catch Neil while he’s still online.

As fast as I can, I type a reply:

Neil, how am I going to drive to Chicago?

A. I don’t have a car.

B. I don’t know how to drive!

I hit Send and wait.

“Dakota, would you like a short stack of pancakes?” Popeye asks.

“No thanks,” I answer, staring at the screen, willing an e-mail to appear.

“We must eat to keep up our strength,” Popeye insists.

“Okay.”

Ding.
New mail.

It’s from Neil. He’s actually there, at the other end of cyberspace. Neil has typed in answers to my twofold question:

Dakota says: I don’t have a car.

Neil says: GET ONE.

Dakota says: I don’t know how to drive.

Neil says: LEARN.

Thanks a lot, Neil.

I log off, knowing that’s as far as I can take this with Neil. What he’s saying between the lines is:
Dakota, grow up. If I can get you from Chicago to California, the least you can do is get to Chicago.

And he’s right. It’s up to me.

As soon as I sit at the table, Popeye sets down a plate of horse-head pancakes. “Would you prefer cats or dogs?” he offers.

“Horses are good,” I assure him.

Wes comes back from the mailbox, snaps a leash on Rex, and leaves without a word. This kid really doesn’t like me.

Kat walks through the kitchen, carrying four cats and tossing me a smile before going outside.

I wolf down the pancakes, which turn out to be pretty good as long as I don’t think of it as biting off a horse’s ear. Then I head outside, glad for the alone time. I need to work things out. How am I going to learn to drive, and what can I drive to Chicago?

As I walk toward the barn, I gaze up at the blue sky streaked with wisps of white.

“Heads up!”

I turn in time to see Hank riding a big, brown horse straight at me.

“Dakota! Out of the way!” he shouts.

I scurry backwards as horse and Hank race by me in a blur. A few yards up the hill, the horse stops. It trots in small circles for a while before settling to a prancing walk.

My heart is still pounding at the close call, but I can’t take my gaze off the beautiful horse with a black mane that flows over its arched neck. It looks like the pictures I used to cut out of horse magazines and get in trouble for when the library reported on me. I think it’s a bay, but what I know about horses only comes from books.

When I was kid, I went through a horse-crazy stage, which was pretty stupid since I’d never even touched a real horse. I used to beg my dad for a horse. He’d laugh. Then I begged him to take me somewhere so I could at least see a real horse. He’d raise his arm and pull it back, like he was going to hit me. I don’t have a single photo of my parents, but that’s the picture of Dad I carry around in my head: one arm raised, ready to hit, the other hand wrapped around a beer can.

After Dad died and I went to live with the first foster family, I checked out horse books from the library and read every horse story I could find. I stopped when I realized I’d never own a horse of my own, no matter what I did.

Hank rides up to me, but I can tell he’s in control now. He’s riding English—no saddle horn, and a four-rein bridle. “Dakota, I’m sorry. He just got away from me. You okay?”

“I’m okay,” I answer, breathing in the smell of horse. It’s sweet and powerful. This is the closest I’ve ever been to a horse. I want to touch him so much.

Hank reaches down and strokes the horse’s sweaty neck. The bay relaxes, but his eyes flick, like he’s watching for the enemy.

Hank keeps scratching under the bay’s mane.

The scratching stops, and Hank grins sheepishly at me. “I’m really sorry about that. I’m trying to work the kinks out of this fella so his owners won’t trade him in. He’s a good horse. He’s just never been handled right. I can’t believe they’ve been riding him with this bit. It’s a bad fit. He caught it between his teeth, held on, and that was that. I couldn’t control him. I’m switching to a snaffle.”

“With the break in the middle?” I ask, picturing a page of bits from one of the library books I memorized when I was a kid.

Hank looks surprised, but he doesn’t ask. “That’s the one.” He leans forward and smooths the bay’s mane.

“He’s beautiful.” I reach to pet him, but he tosses his head.

“Come on, Lancelot,” Hank coos. “You’re such a good boy. You’ve just got more than your share of bad habits. Not your fault.” Hank smiles at me. His mouth is crooked, in kind of a cute way. “This is the horse I wrote Winnie about yesterday.”

“Maybe you better write her again,” I suggest, wondering if he’ll get the tease.

He gets it. I can tell by his crooked grin. “You want to meet a truly great horse? Meet me in the barn.” He starts off on Lancelot, then pivots around. “Give me 15 minutes to cool this one down. Then I’ll introduce you to Starlight. She’s worth the wait.”

“Starlight?” I repeat. “As in Starlight Animal Rescue?”

“Yep!” he calls back. “Don’t go anywhere.”

This reminds me that I need very much to go somewhere. Chicago. Why am I fooling with horses when what I really need is a car?

Annie Coolidge’s red sports car is out of the question. She probably drives it to work every day. I’d be afraid to borrow it anyway. I need something older. When I get to Chicago, I’ll let them know where they can pick it up. I’m not a car thief.

There’s not another car in sight on the property. Still, I can’t imagine they’d be stuck out here without one. With his duties as a part-time fireman, Popeye’s got to have wheels.

I decide to explore. I circle the house, but there’s nothing. Then I lap the barn. Parked at the far end is an old beater pickup, with a snub nose, rusted high fenders, a metal truck bed, and a missing tailgate. I’m guessing this monstrosity has got to be 50 years old. Could it still run?

I walk closer. The tires are good. I glance both ways, then get in. The seat’s huge, with gray tape stuck at weird angles to hold in the foam stuffing. It smells like hay and manure. My feet don’t reach the pedals.

I go for the glove compartment and bump into the knobbed stick on the floor. Great. So not only do I have to learn to drive, I have to learn to drive a stick shift.

I feel around the glove box for a key. Nothing. I check the visor. It’s there. At least I can find out if the old truck will start. I stick the key in the ignition and turn when someone yells:

“Hey! What are you doing in there?”