Runaway (5 page)

Trains make an awesome rumble. It's ferocious but musical. If they just chug-chugged, they'd be only ferocious. But they
chuga
-chuga, and it changes everything. It turns a train from a ferocious iron beast to a ferocious iron beast with a song in its heart.

Anyway, I went over to the tree, shinnied about halfway out on the branch, and then you know what I did?

I totally panicked.

This was crazy! I was up way too high! It could not be done!

I'd
die.

Have you ever been twenty feet up in the air over railroad tracks?

You'd mess your shorts bad, Ms. Leone, honest you would.

But I made myself take a deep breath and I told myself, “You can do this. You can do this…. You can do this, you can do this….” And then words started chugging through my brain in rhythm with the train:

Chuga-chuga, chuga-chuga…
(
You can do this, you can do this.
)

Chuga-chuga, chuga-chuga…
(
You can do this, you can do this!
)

I looked back and forth, waiting. I couldn't tell which direction the train was coming from.

Then it rounded the bend.

It was westbound!

You can do this, you can do this.

The train was chugging slower than before. Much slower!

But the closer it got, the
faster
it seemed to be going.

You can do this, you can do this.

I scooted out farther on the branch. The whole tree shook as the locomotive approached and passed underneath me.

You can do this, you can do this.

This was it. It was time!

I swung my leg around. I lowered myself until I was hanging from the branch.

You can do this, you can do this.

But the cars weren't the open-bin kind. They were flat-cars with logs and bricks and pipes.

I couldn't land on those!

You can do this, you can do this.

More bricks, more pipes, more logs. I hung there for an eternity. My arms were aching.

You can do this, you can do this.

No, I can't! It's too far down! There's nothing to land on!

You can do this, you can do this!

The whole train's passing me by!

You can do this, you can do this….

I can't hold myself like this much longer! I'm going to die!

And then I saw something.

Potatoes?

Yes! Three cars of potatoes!

You can do this, you can do this….

The first potato car was under me, under me, under me, gone.

You can do this, you can do this….

The second one was under me, under me, under me, gone!

Do it, Holly—do it, Holly—do it, Holly,
then the whistle blew,
DOOOOOO-IT!

And I did.

         

Don't think it was like landing on marshmallows, Ms. Leone. I landed
hard,
then catapulted forward and slammed into the rear of the car.

I think I passed out for a minute, and I could barely move my arm for about five. So it'd be a lie to say that I'm not battered and bruised, but hey, nothing's broken. And now here I am, safe and sound on a mountain of potatoes, getting a free ride west.

Woo-woooo!

         

June 8
^th

I can't believe it's June 8th. I was wiped out for over a week? I must have eaten too many potatoes. Or maybe it was the berries. My stomach was cramping so hard that I could barely walk. And my bruises were so tender and looked
so
bad. Then I got a fever, and I don't know, I've just been wiped out.

Maybe it's not really June 8th. The people here lie about everything. Although they were nice to let me camp with them. There are four of them living under this bridge near the switching yard where I got off the train. They've been pretty nice about food, too. After I could eat again, they started giving me their leftovers. I even got some lasagna from this old guy, Frankie, today. It was actually still a little bit warm.

         

Next day (so I guess that's June 9
^th
)

Frankie says I've got to help him panhandle today. Says he'll get way more money if there's a kid with him.

Says I owe him for the lasagna.

         

7:00 p.m.

I hate panhandling. It's humiliating, but I hate it doubly because of the law. If I'm doing it on my own, the cops'll haul me over to social services. If I'm doing it with a “parent,” that's okay.

Frankie scored over a hundred bucks today. He gave me twenty.

From now on I'll buy my own lasagna.

         

June 10
^th

Frankie tried to steal the twenty bucks back last night when he thought I was sleeping. I elbowed him in the face, which made him curse and say, “I did all the work! All you did was sit there!”

He was slurring and staggering and looked like he was going to kick me, but instead he stumbled down the embankment and passed out.

It didn't take long for the others to swoop in and pick his pockets clean.

The creeps.

         

June 11
^th

One of the women that's staying under this bridge keeps asking me what I'm writing in. For some reason she thinks I'm a narc. Every time I open this journal she screeches, “The narc's at it again!”

Oh, brother, there she goes again.

         

Okay, I just shouted back, “I'm not a narc! I'm just writing in a journal!”

She screeched, “A
journal
?” Then one of the other women yelled, “Homeless don't write in journals! We want to forget this life, not write about it!”

“I'm not homeless,” I shouted back. “I'm a gypsy!”

Well, stupid me. You should see them now. They're all huddled up arguing like crazy. Maybe they think I'm going to put a curse on them.

         

I can't believe it. They're coming up here?

Oh, crud. Frankie's got a stick.

         

June 12
^th

It really is June 12th. I saw a newspaper stand at a gas station where I used the bathroom. Pukiest bathroom I've ever been in. I should've found some bushes.

But forget that. The thing about it being June 12th is that it's
Saturday,
June 12th, which means the last day of school came and went and I didn't even know it.

Before I ran away, I used to think about the last day of school all the time because I
didn't
want it to come. Not because I'd miss you or my stupid classmates. I didn't want school to end because I knew it would mean having to deal with the Benders more, no seeing Blackie, and longer laundry-room lockdowns. But now that I'm gone and I'm not worried about those things, I can't help wondering what the last day of school was like. Did you have a big stupid end-of-the-year-have-a-great-summer party?

I'm sure you did. You're the kind who would. I can just see you welling with tears, telling all the kids, “You were such a special class! I'll miss you! I'll miss you! I'll miss you!”

Admit it—you say that every year, and every year you close the door and forget about them.

Same way, I'm sure, you've forgotten about me.

         

Saturday, 10:30 a.m.

It's bugging me that I can't forget about
you.
Why do I keep writing to you like you can hear me? How many times have I told myself that I'm through writing in this journal? Then I pick it up and write some more.

Okay, this is stupid but I'm saying it anyway because sometimes when I say things “out loud,” I can tell whether they're true or not. Don't ask me why that's so, it just is.

So here it is. Here's the reason I might keep thinking about you:

Maybe I was too mean to you.

Maybe you really did care.

         

Oh, crud. Why am I crying?

I hate myself for believing that.

Even if it's just a little.

         

Still Saturday, 3:00 p.m.

Okay. The
real
reason I'm writing in this is because I'm bored. You got that? Bored. And here's proof of just how bored I am:

I read your handy-dandy poetry sheet like ten times today.

See?

I'm B-O-R-E-D!

So don't think that I believe any of the stuff I said before, because I don't.

By the way, it may surprise you to know that I've had a spectacular day. Once I got away from Frankie and escaped into downtown, I discovered that this is a great city! It's no podunk Aaronville, population 500 busybodies, that's for sure. I'm not going to tell you which city it is because I've been thinking that if this gets into the wrong hands, that could spell really bad news. You think I want social services tracking me down? No chance! No chance in France!

Anyway, what was I saying?

Oh, yeah. My spectacular day.

It took me a while to get my bearings straight, but when I did, I found a big park with miles of grass and willowy trees and daffodils or daisies or, you know, happy little flowers everywhere. It also has a lake with birds galore, and a footpath that goes around the water. And if that description doesn't make you say, Ah, lovely! wait until you hear what I did all day.

I watched the Parade of Dogs!

It wasn't an official parade, but I swear everybody in town with a dog came out to the park today to go for a stroll. There were so many dogs that I even pretended I was a judge at the Westminster Dog Show. My favorite breed is mutt, by the way. If I was in charge of the Westminster Dog Show, I'd have a mutt category. Maybe I'd call it Magnificent Mutts to give it some dignity or whatever, but I'd open up a category for mutts and I'd judge on friendliness. Mutts would win Best of Show every year.

Anyway, here's the kind of great day I had: Not one person gave me The Look. They let me pet their dogs, they were friendly and patient, and no one acted like, I really don't have
time
to let you see my dog, or even said, Uh…where's your mother?

So it's been a happy, relaxing day, and sleeping here last night was great, but you know what? I need a shower. I need a shower
bad.
I'm keeping my hair under my hat, which I'd do anyway because it helps me look like a boy, but right now I've got it under my hat because I can't stand having it loose. It's just too gross.

The other thing that I need is a toothbrush. If I don't want to end up
looking
like a homeless person, I've got to get my hands on a toothbrush. Toothpaste would be nice, too.

And a change of clothes.

Especially underwear.

(Don't wrinkle your nose. They don't exactly have laundry machines under bridges, you know.)

So this is what I'm thinking: There's a shelter in this city and I need to get inside it. I don't like homeless shelters because every one I've ever been in is depressing.

Besides, I don't belong in a homeless shelter.

I'm a gypsy.

But I can't even get into shelters anymore because I'm a “minor without a parent.” I tried to sneak into four different shelters after I ran away from the Fisks. “Out,” they all told me. “You can't be in here.”

I even said, “Don't worry, my mom said to meet her here,” but every time they just pointed to the door and said, “Until she shows up, you've got to get out.” They made me feel like a mouse begging for crumbs. But instead of giving me food they set traps, which is how social services caught me and how I got stuck at the Benders'.

I've got to face facts, though: I may be a gypsy, but I'm a really gross gypsy, and a warm meal, a shower, a toothbrush, and a change of clothes sounds wonderful.

I've got to figure out a way to get inside.

         

Still Saturday, still the 12
^th
, 9:30 p.m.

I found a new “mother.” She's a homeless hag with no front teeth that I spotted at the bus station. She looks eighty but according to her ID, she's Louise K. Palmer, and she's only forty-eight.

She's got definite mental problems, which I could tell from across the station. She was squatting in a corner, one hand clutching the handle of a little two-wheeled metal basket of junk. Her eyes were closed and she was singing a song about Jesus loving the little people.

She sounded like a strangled bullfrog.

When I thought the time was right, I went up to her and asked, “Mom?”

She opened her eyes, then blinked at me a whole bunch. “Lisa? Oh, Lisa! I've been praying that you'd come!”

At first I felt horrible. Did she have a long-lost daughter named Lisa? Did losing Lisa make her crazy?

But then she blinked again and said, “Wait. You're Linda, aren't you.” She cocked her head to the side. “Linda?”

“Uh, no,” I said, then picked the most far-fetched name I could think of, just to make sure she hadn't had
two
daughters who'd maybe died in a horrible fire or something. “I'm Gigi, remember?”

“Oh, Gigi!” she said. “It's wonderful that you're here!” She had a state ID hanging from a lanyard around her neck, which I was happy to see. Some shelters will cut adults slack if they tell them their ID got stolen, but it's a lot less hassle to just show the ID and sign in.

And, believe this or not, kids don't need an ID if they're with a “parent.”

So she was it. My ticket into the shelter. I put out my hand to help her up and said, “Come on, Mom. We've got to get home before they lock us out.”

“They'll lock us out?”

“Curfew, remember? We have to be home by six or they'll lock us out without supper.”