Runaway (3 page)

So now my backpack's got stolen goods
and
a weapon. Here's your chance to expel me!

Bring it on!

Like I'm coming back anyway.

         

Monday, last recess

You made me lie to you again, but how stupid can you be? Camille didn't tell you that I ate food out of the trash because she was concerned. She told you because she thinks I'm disgusting.

And yeah, the truth is that I did fish food out of the trash. I'd eaten all my own lunch because I was, big surprise here,
hungry.
But I wanted to stash away some food so I don't have to break into my ten dollars and seventeen cents tonight, and the chicken nuggets that Camille and her stupid friends threw away were perfectly good. I'm sorry they saw me, but come on, what's the big deal? You don't get all worried when someone pulls a sweatshirt from the lost-and-found, right? Food in the trash is like the
tossed
-and-found.

Besides, as my mom used to say, it was above the rim.

         

Monday, 3:17 p.m.

So this is it. I'm on the school bus like I'm supposed to be, but we just passed my stop. Good riddance, Benders! Sayonara, snake-breath! Adios, bozos! I'll miss you like a nightmare.

Oh. I just remembered.

Blackie.

Oh, crud.

I wish I could take him with me….

         

Still Monday, 10:30 p.m.

I'm sitting in a booth in a fast food joint, chowing down on some of Camille's chicken nuggets, rounded out with salad bar freebies. They're not supposed to be freebies, but no one's going to hassle me for snagging a little supplemental nutrition, right? People do it all the time.

I love the croutons,
mm-mmm.
And don't worry, I'm balancing things out with some pineapple chunks and even some of that mixed bean stuff that all salad bars have but nobody likes. You know what I'm talking about—red beans, tan beans, onions, vinegar. My mom always made me eat it, so that's why I'm doing it now.

So where am I?

You're not going to believe this, but I made it over the state line. In one day! I have totally escaped!

This is what I did: I took the school bus to the farthest stop, found a city bus stop, figured out the map, told a lady who was waiting at the stop that I'd lost my money and didn't know what to do. She bought me a ticket, and I just stayed on that bus until it turned north, then I got off.

So, okay, I'll interrupt myself to tell you that I do have a destination.

West.

I don't care
where
west, just somewhere warm. So southwest, I guess. It's hard being homeless in the snow, okay? I'm not doing that again.

Oh, and one more thing—I've decided I'm
not
homeless. I'm a gypsy. I'm a gypsy and my home is the great outdoors.

Hmm. I wonder if I could get to Hawaii somehow. It would be fun to be a sea gypsy! I'd live down by the ocean and eat coconuts and pineapples and mangoes. And I'd go swimming with the dolphins. Or I'd go swimming with other sea gypsies. That'd be so much fun! A bunch of gypsy kids riding waves, laughing, and playing in the surf. And afterward we'd build a big bonfire and roast fish that we caught in a big net that we made out of seaweed, and we'd tell stories all night and just sleep there by the fire and look up at the stars.

Yeah, it'd be great to be a gypsy in Hawaii.

I wonder what kind of dogs they have there….

         

Thinking about Hawaii has made me hungry for more pineapple. I'll be right back….

         

The manager gave me the evil eye, but what do I care? I smiled and took the pineapple anyway. He's not even close to kicking me out. There's a group of goth kids in the back booth that he's a lot more annoyed with.

Anyway, after I got off the city bus, I went across the street and used the bathroom at a gas station, then went inside the station's mini-mart thinking I'd try and lift a map. If I don't know where I'm going, I might wind up back where I started, right? That would be bad, bad news. And stupid, too!

So while I was pocketing a map, I overheard a man say
this
into his cell phone as he picked out a bottle of Mountain Dew and a bag of pretzels: “No, I'm just going straight through. I'll drop Shooting Star in Aaronville, then come on home…. That'd be nice, hon…. Uh-huh…uh-huh…don't worry, I'll be fine.”

I'd seen a horse trailer hitched to a truck out in the gas lanes, and Shooting Star sure sounded like the name of a horse to me. Plus, the guy was wearing cowboy boots.

So I beat it outside, hid around the corner, looked up Aaronville in the map's index, and when I saw that it was due west, I got real excited.

Just so you know, I have a rule that I stick to:

I don't hitchhike.

Ever.

But that rule does not apply to stowing away!

Hey, the Stowaway Gypsy, that's who I am! You don't want to leave your trailer unlocked around me! I'll hop inside, and I'll take a ride.

         

Hmm.
That's got a little rhythm. Like a poem. Or maybe a rap. Why didn't you include rapping in your handy-dandy poetry sheet, anyway? You don't think it's real poetry? No…what do you call them…? Oh yeah,
iambic pentameters.

Well, check this out:

I'm the Stowaway Gypsy and I need a ride

I'm gettin' in your trailer and I'm gonna hide

I'm snoozin' and cruisin' and havin' a rest

While Shootin' Star and me get chauffeured out WEST

I actually laughed out loud just now. The goth kids even looked over. But hey, let 'em glare. That was fun.

Anyway, I was going to tell you that I didn't exactly ride
with
Shooting Star—the door was locked. But as I was hurrying around the trailer looking for a window I could climb through, I saw another door near the front of the trailer, and it was
un
locked.

The truck fired up, so I opened the door quick and hopped inside. And do you know where I wound up?

Inside a cowboy changing room! That's what it seemed to be, anyway. It was amazing! It was totally walled off from the horse stalls and had all sorts of cowboy clothes hanging on hooks and poles and just kicking around. Shirts, hats, gloves, boots…that sort of stuff. There was also tack gear or whatever you call the stuff they put on horses. Saddles, ropes, bits or bites or, you know—horse stuff. The floor was metal, which would have made for a long, hard ride, but there was a fat stack of horse blankets under the rack of clothes. I couldn't believe my luck! As soon as we were onto the interstate, I made myself a mat of blankets, lay down, and just conked out.

I've learned that you should sleep when you can. There are a couple of reasons for this: Your body temperature drops when you sleep, and if you're stuck on the streets in the cold and you're so tired that you fall asleep, you can freeze to death.

Another reason is, people don't like homeless people sleeping on their property. They're afraid they're going to burn the place down with their cigarettes or steal their stuff or pee on their posies or something. I can't really blame them because I've known a lot of homeless people, and yeah, most of them would pee on your posies.

Do you have posies, Ms. Leone?

I don't even know what they are, to tell you the truth. Some kind of flower, I think. Like a pansy? Mom used to sing that old kids' song. She sang real airy. Real dreamy.

“Ring around the rosy

A pocket full of posies

Ashes, ashes,

We all fall down.”

It took me a long time to figure out she sang like that when she was high.

It took me even longer to understand that the song's about death.

         

Is it a song, Ms. Leone? Or is it a poem?

         

I guess it doesn't matter.

It's still about death.

         

Tuesday, May 25
^th

This journal is helping me remember what day it is. Because you know what? When you're a gypsy, you lose track. Like right now it feels like a week ago that I ran away, but it's been less than 24 hours.

And I know I didn't finish telling you about sneaking
out
of the trailer and all that, but I got so bummed thinking about my mother that I just didn't want to write anymore. I shouldn't talk about her at all. It always makes me want to throw things.

Or cry.

Besides, right after I wrote that stuff about “Ring Around the Rosy,” the manager caught the goth kids drinking from a flask and kicked them out. And I could tell he was on his way over to kick
me
out, so I just packed up quick and split.

It was after midnight, anyway.

I just realized something. I wrote in this journal for almost two hours straight last night. That's crazy! Why am I writing, which I hate to do, to someone I don't like and will never see again?

Why?

I'm just killing time, that's all. So don't get it in your head that I
like
doing this. I'd way rather be reading a book. I love books. Or what I
should
be doing is reading the weather section of the newspaper. When you're a gypsy, you've got to know about the weather. It's one of your main survival tools. You need it to plan the day, and especially the night.

I was cold last night, and today it's cloudy and I'm afraid it might rain. Plus, I've got to figure out exactly where I am so I can figure out how to get
out
of here. Although if it's not going to rain, I might just take the day off from traveling, because despite the cold I actually slept okay last night. I put on everything and wrapped myself in the horse blanket that I snagged when I left the trailer. Then I slipped inside a Hefty sack to keep the dew off of me, and nestled in some bushes behind a building that's about a quarter of a mile from the fast food joint. There were no animals rustling around, no people bugging me…it worked out okay. Last night I thought the building was an old folks' home, but it turns out it's the
library.

Same difference if you ask me.

Oh, lighten up, Ms. Leone. If you paid attention at all, you know I love the library. Where else can a person like me get books? But you have to admit old people use public libraries a lot more than young people.

Excuse me, not old people,
seniors.

They're seniors and I'm a gypsy.

I'm a pretty hungry gypsy, actually. So I'm going to eat the rest of my cafeteria stash, then head over to the library and snag a book. (I'm sick of writing in this one.) So chow for now!

(Actually, now I'm remembering that the goodbye
chow
isn't spelled that way. It's
ciao
or something weird like that. It's Italian, right? But I'm not an Italian gypsy, I'm a hungry gypsy. So spelling it
chow
makes total sense.)

         

Still Tuesday, 9:30 a.m.

The library doesn't open until
noon,
can you believe that? The clouds are clearing and it looks like the perfect day to hang around outside and read a book. But I won't be able to get my hands on one until
noon.

Stupid library.

         

11:30 a.m.

I tried fishing a book out of the night return, but they make the slide thing so your arm can't bend around it. I also walked around town for a while, but mostly what I've been doing is reading this stupid journal. It's weird to read your own writing, you know that? It's embarrassing.

And okay. I've been sitting here thinking a long time about whether to say this or not, but what the heck. Here goes:

You know “Almost”? My first official poem that I wrote a few pages back? And you know how before the poem there's the explanation of what happened? Well, I think “Almost” explains it better than the explanation.

At least it makes me
feel
it better.

         

Something about that really bothers me.

         

10:30 at night

I've got to get out of Aaronville. This is a podunk little town, and I swear everybody's giving me the who-are-you-and-where's-your-mother look.

Dead, you morons! Dead!

I hate that look because it reminds me.

Plus, it usually means the police'll come sniffing around.

         

So, Holly, you ask, it's ten-thirty at night…are you back in the bushes?

Are you crazy? Am I wasting battery power writing this with my flashlight on?

No chance!

Or as my mother would say, “No chance in France!”

She always wanted to go to France. And when she talked about it, she'd always wind up singing some song about breaking through to the other side.

Break on through to the other side,

Break on through to the other side…

Have you ever heard that song? There were more words, but that's all I remember.

Crud. I've got to stop talking about my mom. What I was telling you about is where I am, which is inside Aaronville's
other
fast food joint. There's no salad bar here, but when I scoped out the place where I went last night, that same manager guy was walking around the dining area, so I came here instead.

That's the pain about being a gypsy child instead of a gypsy adult.

People call the cops a lot quicker.

But it turns out that this place has a great dollar menu. And since I was all out of Camille's cafeteria food, I broke down and spent my first buck. I ordered a double cheese-burger, and when I asked if veggies were extra, the girl who rang me up said, “Nah.” So I asked for pickles and onions and lettuce and tomatoes. “Lots!” I told her.

She looked at me like I was a dweeb, and when my burger arrived, it had about six inches of veggies on it. I suspect they were making fun of me, because the place is pretty dead and they don't seem to have much to do, but the joke's on them. I took all the veggies off, got a little plastic fork and knife and a few mayo packets, cut the mayo into the veggies, tossed it all with salt and pepper, and
mm-mmm.
One delicious
free
salad.