Runaway

Contents

Title Page

Begin Reading

Author's Note

Also Available from Laurel-Leaf Books

Copyright

May 17
^th

It's cold. It's late. I'm trapped in here, trying to sleep under this sorry excuse for a blanket, and I've just got to tell you—you don't know squat. You
think
you know what I'm going through, you
think
you know how I can “cope,” but you're just like everybody else: clueless. Writing. Poetry. Learning to express myself. “It'll help you turn the page, Holly. Just try it.”

Well, I'm trying it, see? And is it making me feel better? NO! Giving me this journal was a totally
lame
thing to do. You think writing will get me out of here? You think
words
will make me forget about the past? Get real, Ms. Leone!

Words can't fix my life.

Words can't give me a family.

Words can't do jack.

You may be a teacher, Ms. Leone, but face it: You don't know squat.

         

May 19
^th

Oh, you really took the cake today. “Put your most embarrassing experience in the form of a cinquain poem.” What did you expect me to do? Write the truth? I knew you'd read them out loud, and you did! How do
you
spell
idiot
? I spell it L-E-O-N-E.

Did you like my little poem about spilling my milk in a restaurant? Stupid, I know, so give me an F, see if I care. Like I can even remember ever
being
in a real restaurant.

You want a cinquain poem about a most embarrassing moment that actually happened to me? Okay, here you go:

Prisoner

Chained outside

Shivering, huddling, sobbing

Naked in the rain

Alone

Oh, yeah. That makes me feel SO much better.

         

May 20
^th

My mom died two years ago today.

I'd been scamming food, she'd been shooting up. I miss her.

More than I have tears to cry, I miss her.

         

May 20
^th
, again

You want to know why I was crying at recess? That cat Camille is why. She called me a homeless freak. Told me I had a face only my mother could love. Normally, I would have told her to eat dirt and die, but today I just couldn't take it.

I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't believe me. Everyone knows she's your favorite. “Miss Leone, do you need some help?” “Miss Leone, do you want
me
to pass those out?” “Oh, Miss Leone, you look so pretty today!” Adopt her, why don't you?

Oh, that's right—she already
has
two parents.

         

May 20
^th
again, again

When they moved me in with the Benders, the social worker told me that they were “very kind and very patient people.” What a laugh. They're phonies, is what they are. Mrs. Bender is a heartless witch, and Mr. Bender is a total creep. He's always touching me. On the shoulder. On the hair. On the hand. He gets that same look that Mr. Fisk used to get when
his
wife wasn't around.

Social services won't believe me if I complain. They'll say I'm just looking for trouble. Lying. Faking. Overreacting. “Self-inflicting.”

Well, I'm not going through that again. I'd rather DIE than go through that again. So tonight when Mr. Bender started massaging my shoulders, I told him, “Stop it!”

He didn't. “I'm only trying to help you unwind,” he said in his snaky voice.

“Stop it!” I shouted. “Don't touch me!” And I slapped his creepy hands away.

That brought Mrs. Bender running. “What is going on in here?” she asked, and after
he
explained it to her, I got locked in my room. Not the room they show the social worker. That's the room they tell me I'll get when I'm a “good” girl. The room I
really
get is the laundry room. They give me a mat, a blanket, and a bucket to pee in.

So sweet dreams, Ms. Leone, in your feathery bed or whatever you have.

Do you really believe
words
are going to keep me warm and safe tonight?

         

May 21st, early morning

Why am I doing this? Why am I writing to you again? I'm shivering in this room, huddled under this blanket writing to you, and why? What good is it? I'm hungry, I can't sleep, I'm locked in here, and I've got to pee. I hate using the bucket, I just hate it.

Man, I've got to go. Hold on a minute.

         

Oh, that's better.

Maybe I can get back to sleep now.

         

Nope. I'm too cold.

         

So you want to hear how I get a drink when they trap me in here on weekends? I turn on the washer. Pretty sly, huh? I used to put my blanket in the dryer and get it roasting hot, but the dryer quit working and of course I got blamed.

I don't mind the size of this squatty little room, it's the cold that gets me. Why can't they give me a better blanket? How about a sleeping bag? Would that kill them?

Whatever. No matter how much I try, I'll never be “good” enough to sleep in the real room.

I've got to come up with a plan to get
out
of here.

         

May 21
^st
again, lunchtime

What is it with you and poetry? It's like some crazy obsession with you. And I couldn't believe your stupid “Life is poetry” statement. Maybe
your
life is poetry, but mine's a pile of four-letter words. “Find the motion. Find the rhythm. Find the
timbre
of your life.” Whose idea
is
all this? Yours? Did somebody teach you this stuff? How's this ever going to help me in life?

And guess what? You can forget it. I'm not doing it. Write your own stupid poem about your own poetic life.

Mine would just get me sent to the office.

         

May 21
^st
again again, after school

I hate you, you know that? I hate you for making me write that poem. I hate you for making me lie about my life. But most of all I hate you for acting so sweet to me. You don't
really
care. I'm a job to you, like I am to everybody else. I know it, so quit pretending you care.

And you probably think you're doing a
good
job, but guess what? You're not. I can see right through you, so just leave me alone, would you? Forget I'm even in your class. Forget you're supposed to be trying to “help” me. And quit making me write poems!

         

May 21
^st
again again AGAIN, after school

How stupid are all these
agains
, huh? I'm not doing that anymore. Four entries in one day is ridiculous, anyway. But before I turn the corner and go into the Benders' house, I just had to tell you that there
is
something good in my life.

Dogs.

I love dogs. They're so happy and loyal and soft. The Benders don't have one, are you kidding? Wouldn't want to mess up their perfect house. But on my walk home from school I usually get to say hello to a few, and there's this one black Labrador I call Blackie that I get to see every day.

Blackie's old and pretty lame and sleeps on the side of the street where the asphalt can warm his bones. First time I saw him, I thought he was a dead homeless dog because he looked like some of the dead homeless
people
I've seen. But after I checked him out, I discovered he was fine, just really old. I brought him scraps from the cafeteria the next day, and ever since, he waits for me on the corner. He's a sweet old guy, and I sit and talk to him a lot. He's a real good listener, and I think he'd follow me home if he could.

Me and him cuddled up on the laundry-room floor.

Sounds like heaven.

         

May 21
^st
, evening

This journal's nothing but trouble, you hear me? I ought to just throw it away and be done with it.

How can a journal be trouble, you ask?

Here's how:

For two months I've been walking home to the Benders' instead of taking the bus. I figured out in a hurry that there was no sense in rushing home. So for two months I've been enjoying that little half hour of freedom when I'm not in school having to listen to Camille kiss up to you, and not at the Benders' getting blamed for something. I walk through the park, visit with Blackie…it's the best part of my day.

But today I went and made the mistake of sitting on the curb and writing in this stupid journal. I just
had
to tell you about Blackie.

What a moron I am. It's not like you actually heard.

It's not like you'd even
care.

But I had to go and stop and sit and write, and what did it get me?

All upset, for one thing. I don't
like
to talk about stuff like wanting a dog. What's the use in it? It's never going to happen, so why waste time dreaming about it?

But on top of getting me upset, it also made me late, and late to the Benders' meant that I was buying drugs.

“I wasn't buying drugs!” I told them. “I was petting a dog!”

They tore apart my backpack, shouting, “Don't lie to us, girl! Where have you been? Why weren't you riding the bus? How long have you been lying to us?”

I skipped the riding-the-bus question. Like they'd believe me anyway?

But I told them fifty times that I didn't do drugs, didn't buy drugs or sell drugs or want anything to
do
with drugs, but when they didn't find any drugs in my backpack, they still made me strip down to my underwear.

And when Mrs. Bender had gone through every nook and cranny of those, you know what she muttered when she shoved my clothes back at me?

“Well, your mama sure did.”

I almost hit her. But I started crying instead.

I
hate
that.

I hate
her.

And here I am in laundry-room lockdown again.

For being a “bad girl.”

Excuse me for walking home.

Excuse me for petting a dog.

Excuse me for wanting to breathe some
air.

So see? If I get in trouble for
that,
what would've happened to me if they'd bothered to look inside
this
? They don't care beans about my schoolwork. Everyone knows I'm a “behavioral problem,” so it's not their fault that I'm flunking sixth grade, right? They're the saints who've taken me in when nobody else wanted me.

But if they had even bothered to flip through this book, they would have read what I wrote about them, and then look out! I would have been in way worse trouble than lockdown with no supper.

Bottom line, this journal's not only stupid, it's dangerous.

Tomorrow, first chance I get, I'm burning it.

         

May 22
^nd
, morning

Before I burn this, I have to tell you one more thing. You'll faint when you hear.

Ready?

I dreamt a
poem
last night.

Hey (slap-slap-slap), wake up! You should have been sitting down (ha ha).

You want to hear?

Okay. Here goes:

There once was a doggie named Blackie

Who couldn't exactly attacky

But he drooled and he licked

Drowned the Benders real quick

Floated off and they never came backy!

Funny, huh? It's a limerick! (Yeah, yeah, you already knew that, I know.)

Okay. That's it. Now I'm torching this.

I just need to score a match.

         

May 22
^nd
, midmorning

Crud. I'm going to have to wait for Monday to burn this because it looks like I'm not getting out of the house until then.

Why?

Because I got busted looking for a match.

“What are you stealing now, girl?” Mrs. Bender asked when she saw me looking through a kitchen cupboard. Then she yanked me back by my hair until I was looking up at the ceiling.

I hate when she does that. It makes me want to cut my hair short. But I did that when I ran away from the Fisks and my neck was cold the whole time.

Big deal, huh? It's just your neck, right?

Wrong. When your neck's cold, so's the rest of you. Try sleeping outside sometime with everything covered but your neck. It makes your whole body shivering cold.

So I've got hair that covers my neck, but the trade-off is that now I've got to put up with people like Mrs. Bender grabbing it and steering me around.

And while she had me looking at the ceiling, you know what saintly Mrs. Bender did?

She called, “How-ie!” across the house at Mr. Bender. “This girl's ransacking our cupboards!”

“I wasn't ransacking!” I croaked. “I was just looking for a toothpick!”

What's the harm in taking a toothpick, right? But she pulled harder on the fistful of hair and said, “And you think stealing our toothpicks is okay?”

“I wasn't stealing them!” I gasped. “I just need
one.
Or some floss. Can I have some floss? I have food stuck between my teeth.”

It was a pretty good lie, don't you think? And I sounded pretty convincing, too. But she just shouted, “How-ie! I told you! This girl's a thief!”

So see? I use drugs and I'm a thief.

Then Mr. Bender came into the kitchen, saying, “I just checked my wallet—there's fifty dollars missing!”

They searched my stuff again.

Stripped me down again.

Called me a thief and a liar and a bad girl again.

Which is why I'm in lockdown for the rest of the weekend.

Again.

         

May 22
^nd
, afternoon

I've been thinking: The way Mrs. Bender went through my stuff looking for the missing money wasn't very thorough. Nothing like when she was searching for drugs.