Runaway (13 page)

See? That's all you needed to know.

But the good thing about being sick of writing was that I got up and went back into the water. And now I have one more thing that I want to tell you:

I learned how to bodysurf!

There were some other kids doing it, and I just copied them. Once you get used to the temperature of the water, it's fun. Really fun. My suit filled up like a fishbowl with every wave I caught (no fish, just sand and pebbles and bits of seaweed), but it drained right out (or if there was lots of sand, I dumped it out and went back for more).

I want to go again tomorrow, but I'm through for today. I've got to get completely dry before the sun goes down or I'll be shivering cold tonight.

         

Monday evening, August 23
^rd

I am fried! Oh,
man,
am I fried. Burnt to a crisp. “Ow, ooh, eech.” That's what I've been saying all day long. My shoulders and my back hurt the worst, but my knees and the tops of my feet are bad, too. They feel like road rash splashed with Tabasco sauce.

Man, am I fried.

         

7:45 p.m.

Have you ever watched the sun set from the beach? I hate to use this word because you used it WAY too much. (Every time you got excited about something, you'd use this word, and I thought it was really, REALLY corny.)

But now it's the only word that I can find in my head that works.

(See, I need a thesaurus because I don't WANT to use this corny word of yours, but it looks like I'm going to have to.)

Watching the sun set over the ocean is
breathtaking.

I guess you could watch it and not have your breath taken away, but only if you're not concentrating on what you're watching. If you're actually paying attention, it'll definitely take your breath away. This big, powerful ball of fire dipping slowly past the horizon, shooting flames of color across the sky and blinding light over the ocean. Quivering and shimmering and finally going under.

         

It makes you feel…peaceful.

And grateful.

And awed.

         

Have you ever watched seagulls fly across the sky at sunset?

High enough to catch rays of the sun,

The bottoms of their wings glowing red,

Rustling in your ears

They make you feel flushed

With a will

To stay free.

         

Have you ever heard the waves crash against the shore?

At night when the world is still,

Their power, their thunder,

Their command of the Earth

They make you feel humble

And weak

And small.

         

Have you ever seen the moon mirrored by the sea?

A looking glass of water, of light, of dreams,

It shimmers, reflects,

And washes your mind

It makes you feel lonely

But not

Alone.

         

I've been trying to figure something out: How did that turn into a poem?
Is
that a poem? It doesn't really fall into any of the categories on your handy-dandy poetry sheet (which is looking mighty tattered at this point). I guess it would be free verse?

What bugs me is, I started telling you about the sunset in regular sentences and then…
that
happened.

It was weird.

And I'm not sure if I like it or hate it.

         

A couple of days later

Every day at about 11:30 there's a parade of scraggly people that goes down the street along the ocean. Some of them wear backpacks, some of them push shopping carts, some of them walk along with nothing at all.

There's one guy in a motorized wheelchair. He wears a black hat and has a little red pennant on his wheelchair that flaps in the air behind him. There are a couple of men in camouflage shirts and others with guitars slung across their backs. It's a weird sight. Like some sort of defeated, retreating army.

The first time I saw them I thought, Man, I'm glad I'm not hanging around them! because I was sure they were a big group of homeless people being run out of town. But the next day I saw them again and I thought, What the heck…? Then I realized that there was only one thing that would motivate an army of homeless to march through the streets together.

Free food!

So I joined the parade (from a respectable distance) and discovered that this town has a rescue wagon!

The woman who runs the rescue wagon is very nice (in a gruff kind of way). She drives into the parking lot of a big church, opens up the side of the truck, and gives a cellophaned sandwich to anyone who wants one. No questions, no sermons, just food!

I met this girl at the rescue wagon yesterday. She's a year older than I am, and she told me her name is Venus.

Like I believe that?

So I told her mine was Gigi and lied to her about everything else, too. I said that I was from Denver and that my parents were a couple of mean drunks, so I was on my way to Oregon to live with my aunt.

“Oregon's awful,” she told me. “Rains all the time. And there are no movie stars there like there are around here.”

“Movie stars?” I laughed. “Have you ever actually seen any?”

Her eyes got huge. “All the time!” Then she rattled off a list of movie stars that she'd seen and said that one of them had even said hello to her. “I could have touched him, he was that close!”

She told me some more stuff about movie stars, and yeah, I thought she was a big, fat liar. Not like Camille, who knows what she's doing and does it to hurt other people. Like kids I've met at shelters. They tell made-up stories so much that they actually begin to believe them. I guess it's one of those, what do they call them? Defense mechanisms? A way to keep reality from creeping in too close.

Then she asked me, “Where are you staying?”

I shrugged.

“You're not living on the
streets,
are you?” She looked over both shoulders. “Some of these people are truly deranged!”

I shrugged again. Like, no biggie.

“Maybe you can stay at the manor with us,” she whispered. “It's exclusive, but I'll ask my mom.”

See? She expects me to believe she's living in an exclusive manor? Next she'll be talking about her
servants.

But I figured hearing about her fantasy life was better than talking to the wall. So I said, “A manor, huh? What's that like?”

“It's
awesome,
” she said. And I was thinking, Yeah, yeah, right. Only then she said, “It's right on the ocean and you can watch the sunrise and the sunset…. I've even seendolphins!”

My head started ping-ponging between
Really?
and
Oh, right.
It couldn't be true, but…I still
wanted
to believe her.

“Dolphins?” I asked.

“They swim in little herds!” she told me. “I wish I could swim. Did you ever see that movie?”

“What movie?”

“The one about the boy who lives on a desert island and becomes friends with blue dolphins?”

I shook my head.

“They save him! They swim him back to his parents!”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah!” she said and then told me the whole plot from beginning to end. When she finally stopped talking, I must have been looking at her a little strangely because she said, “What's the matter? What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” I told her, but I
was
thinking something.

I was thinking that I'd actually found another sea gypsy.

Even if she didn't know how to swim.

         

I'm going to wrap this up quick because Venus wants me to play cards with her. Basically, her mother said I could come home with them, and it turns out that the “manor” is a big house that's been condemned because of an earthquake. There are signs all over the place that warn you that you'll die if you go inside, but dozens of street people have moved in, and the house sure doesn't
feel
like it's going to fall down the cliff or anything.

I've staked out my own little place on the floor of an upstairs room with some extra blankets that Venus gave me. I'm right next to her, and her mother's off a little to the side. Everyone in this house sized me up quick, said come-on-in, and now they all call me Gigi. One of them even gave me a tube of lotion when she saw how bad my sunburn was.

So I'm feeling very strange. I'm pretending to be someone else, but that someone else almost feels like she belongs.

         

Next day, 4:00 p.m.

Venus and I spent the day at the pier. She's a total scam artist! She lies about everything, and she shoplifts like crazy! She stole a necklace, some toe rings, a surfboard key ring…what's she need a key ring for? I'm sorry I ever told her about us being sea gypsies (which I did when we were playing cards) because she says that's what gypsies do: steal.

She did get us a free ride on the Ferris wheel, though. I'd say the view was breathtaking, but really, I'm not in the mood.

         

5:00 p.m.

Things are going sour fast. Venus is so nosy! And pushy! She keeps wanting to know what I'm writing in this journal. She even grabbed for it once, but I yanked it away from her.

“What's the big deal?” she wanted to know. “You keep all your secrets in there?”

“No!” I said, then added, “That would be really stupid, wouldn't it?”

She reached for it again. “So why won't you let me see it?”

I knew if I acted too protective of it, she'd get even more curious, so I fanned through it for her and said, “It's just random stuff, see? Poems and notes about—”

“
Poems?
You write
poems
?” She squinted at me like I was the lamest person she'd ever met. “And that's more than notes. That's, like, a whole book!”

I shrugged and stuffed the journal inside my backpack. “I've been on the road awhile.”

She scowled. “Homeless people don't keep
journals.”

“Why do people keep saying that? What
else
is there to do? Besides, I'm not homeless.” I smiled at her, trying not to show how mad I was. “I'm a gypsy.”

“A gypsy,” she said, looking at me suspiciously. “And you're on your way to Oregon.”

“That's right.”

She got in my face. “You're a liar, gypsy-girl.”

I stared back at her and said, “Well, you're not a sea gypsy after all. You're just mean.” Then I got up and left.

         

Ha. Guess who I saw walking across the sand just now?

Venus.

She probably thinks I went back to the pier, but I'm right under the house. I'm not hiding or anything. It's big and open under here. There's sand all around and posts that hold up the house.

Hey, maybe I'll go up and snag some blankets while she's gone. I could sleep down here tonight….

But what if there's an earthquake? What if one of these posts gives way? I should probably not even be sitting here.

Yeah, I think I'll find someplace else to hang out….

         

9:15 p.m.

Venus apologized. And she talked me into coming back inside the manor. We watched the sunset and played cards. She's being nice. Too nice. I think she's scheming a way to steal my journal. I don't get it—it's just a stupid journal.

But the way she's acting is making me feel creepy. I hate not knowing what I'm up against.

Oh, crud. I hear her coming up the stairs.

         

I think it's Sunday, 4:10 p.m.

It's the journal, all right. She's always watching where I put it. Always asking casual questions about it. I feel like I can't even write anymore. I'm always looking over my shoulder for her. I've even been taking it to bed at night so she won't steal it when I'm asleep.

If she touches it, she's dead meat, you hear me?

Dead phony gypsy meat.

         

Tuesday, August 31
^st

I got it back!

         

I GOT IT BACK!

         

I hate that phony gypsy! I hate her mother! I hate the whole bunch of them that tried to stop me from beating the crud out of her. It's MY journal. My PRIVATE journal! You can steal my money, you can steal my food, but man, touch my journal and I'm going to beat the crud out of you! It's mine, you hear me?

         

MINE.

         

Wednesday, September 1
^st

So I'm not at the manor anymore. Who cares? I should never have gone there in the first place. Good riddance to all those losers.

I still have to put up with Venus smirking at me when I stand in the rescue-wagon line, though. “Neon is my night-light,” she singsonged at me today. “Neon is my night-light.”

“Shut up,” I told her.

“Make me,” she singsonged.

I might have, but I was really hungry and they don't allow brawls by the rescue wagon. I had to make a choice: fight or eat.

I decided to eat.

         

Still Wednesday, 4:00 p.m.

I'm back at this cave where I stayed last night. It's basically just a hole in the base of a cliff at the edge of the beach. It's not big enough to stand up in, but I like it. The walls are smooth and white. It stays pretty warm, especially with a little fire going.

It's still bugging me about Venus. I don't think she had the chance to read very much of this, but I don't
know
that. What if she found out my real name? What if she makes some anonymous call to social services or something?

But she called me Gigi today, so I'm probably worrying about nothing. And she doesn't read very fast, I know that. But still, this journal is
personal.
Her reading it feels like it did when Gemma Updike yanked down my pants in third grade. Maybe kids on the playground didn't see very much for very long, but for the rest of the time I went to that school, I walked around embarrassed, wondering who
had
seen what.

         

Still Wednesday, 9:30 p.m.

I've got a little fire keeping me warm, the sky is crystal clear and twinkling with stars, and the waves crashing onshore sound like the lullaby of the gods. Sometimes I get so caught up in my problems that I forget how amazing the world is.

But not tonight.

Tonight I feel blessed with this moment.

Toes in the sand.

Heart in the stars.

         

Thursday, September 2
^nd
, 3:00 p.m.

I got drenched last night!

The tide came into the cave, and I must have been zonked out because all of a sudden I was surrounded by freezing water. I grabbed the journal quick, held it high, then bashed my head trying to stand up. Another wave came gushing in and swirled around the cave, then another. Every time I tried to run out, water rushed in. It felt like I was wide awake and half asleep at the same time. Part of my brain was racing, but I was still going, Huh? watching all my earthly possessions get swept away.

I did rescue my backpack, but everything I'd left outside of it was gone. Blanket. Flashlight. Rescue-wagon leftovers. My
bathing
suit. Hand lotion…. Good thing I'd bundled up before bed and put my shoes back on or I'd have a lot more to worry about than looking like a drowned rat.

I was still wet when I went to the rescue wagon. Especially my shoes. Venus saw me and said, “Look at you! Were you out swimming with the dolphins?” She singsonged it in a real sarcastic way, so I just pretended she wasn't there and went up to the rescue-wagon window.

“Were you pretending to be a
mermaid
?” she asked, following me.

I got my food and murmured, “Thank you very much,” to the rescue-wagon lady.

Venus was right next to me now. “What's that
farting
sound?” she said, like she was totally disgusted. “You are so gross!”

It was my shoes, and it
was
embarrassing. Every step I took, my shoes went
sploosh-thwwwwwt, sploosh-thwwwwwt, sploosh-thwwwwwt….

The woman who'd given me my food leaned out the rescue-wagon window and growled, “Back off, you uppity homeless brat.”

I was so shocked I pointed to myself and said, “Me?”

“No!” She pointed at Venus. “You. I'm tired of you harassin' her. Now back off or I'm not servin' you tomorrow.” Then she pointed to two signs posted on the wagon that read:

FOOD SERVICE AT OUR DISCRETION

and

WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE

Venus gave her a hate stare but the rescue-wagon woman gave it right back, and finally Venus turned and ran across the parking lot, squealing, “Mama! That witch called me a uppity homeless brat! Mama!”

The rescue-wagon lady scowled and muttered, “Uppity homeless
cry
baby is what you are….” Then, without even-looking at me, she slipped another sandwich across the counter and said, “You look like you could use this.” Then she pulled the metal window-door closed.

That whole scene actually made me feel pretty good. I've been thinking about why that is, and I'm still not sure. It's not because someone came to my rescue. And it's not that someone called Venus an uppity homeless brat. Even though that
is
really funny.
Uppity
and
homeless
just do not go together, but somehow Venus manages it.

It's also not that I got an extra sandwich and Venus didn't.

So why do I feel so good?

I look gross and have farting shoes, I have no place to sleep and no blankets to sleep under, so why?

         

Maybe it's because the rescue-wagon lady noticed.

Yes. I think that's it.

         

It's because for once someone noticed that I
wasn't
the bad one.

I operate under the assumption that people don't notice the good in me. That's just how things always seem to play out. I get blamed, while con-artist kids like Venus and Camille and Gemma get believed.

But the rescue lady noticed.

In the background, just observing, she noticed.

And if
she
noticed, maybe other people in the background, just observing, notice, too.

But if that's true, why don't they step forward like the rescue-wagon lady did?

         

I feel like I have more questions than answers, but something about one person noticing that I'm
not
the bad one makes me feel better.

Less alone.

         

Still September 2
^nd
, 6:00 p.m.

You know what's hard to believe?

That it's September.

But it
is
September, and you know what that means:

School's back in session.

It must have started, right? When's Labor Day, anyway? Next Monday? Doesn't matter. School's already started. I can tell by how few kids have been on the beach this week. Which means that right now I'm supposed to be in some junior high somewhere getting an “education.”

I hate school. All the mean kids and mind games and stupid busywork.

I really, really,
really
hate school.

But I'm sitting here on the coast of California with palm trees towering above me and sandy beaches as far as I can see, and you know what?

I miss school.

What's
wrong
with me?

         

Friday, September 3
^rd

I've decided that what's wrong with me is that I don't have a plan. I
had
a plan, but now that I'm where I planned to go, I need a
new
plan.

You know what made me realize this?

A big, ugly brown-and-orange Chevy van.

Sounds stupid I know, but that's because you don't know about the big, ugly brown-and-orange Chevy van my mom and I used to live in. It was
just
like the one I saw today, which is why I did such a fast double take that I threw out my neck. I think I pulled a muscle or put a kink in it. Something. Every time I turn my head to the right now, it hurts.

Our big, ugly brown-and-orange van was really run-down and hard to start, and there were only two seats in it—one for me, one for Mom. The guy Mom got it from had taken the backseats out and had glued orange shag carpet on the walls and the ceiling. He'd even put carpet on the inside of the back doors and across the top of the dash. It was like being inside a big orange fuzz ball.

Mom added strings of beads and silk scarves everywhere she could hang them and hung about six silver crosses over the rearview mirror. When she was done, she giggled and said, “This is so rock 'n' roll!” like she was living a dream.

And since she thought it was cool,
I
thought it was cool. I guess that's how it is when you're eight and a half years old.

For a while it
was
fun, too. No screaming neighbors. No bugs. No people pounding on the door demanding money. We could drive anywhere, park where we wanted, sleep on the mattress she'd laid in back….

“See, baby?” Mom would say, flipping through a magazine as she kicked back on the mattress. “Who needs a deadbeat job? We've got this comfy rig and the wide open road. I'm into the freedom of this, aren't you?”

Somewhere along the line, that freedom meant I stopped going to school. I didn't really mind. I was happy just being with my mom and a pile of books, living inside our fuzzy orange van.

         

Still the 3
^rd
, 3:00 p.m.

What
was
my mother thinking? Was she planning to live in a fuzzy orange van forever? She had no job, we had no money, and we were always running on empty.

See? She had no plan.

She used to go out alone and bring food back to the van. But then she started taking me along and using me as a decoy to steal stuff. I'd “trip” and hurt myself while she stuffed her pockets with groceries. Then she'd make a big fuss over me and hustle me out of the store. My mom could score stuff like you wouldn't believe.

I didn't
like
being a decoy, but she always told me how great I'd been. “So dramatic, baby! So
real.
Honestly, we should see about getting you up on a stage!”