Runaway (18 page)

“They're coming at eleven?”

“Around eleven. That's what she said.”

I was already backing away from the kitchen when I heard him say, “Tiller's can't get me that tractor part until next week, but I located one in Santa Barbara. I'll be taking a quick trip up there this morning after I make the rounds.”

“But…what about the girl?” Valerie whispered. “What if she tries to run?”

“She'll be fine. Just keep her busy. I'll be back before eleven. And if she does try to run, call Hector on his cell. He'll spot her and bring her in.”

I hurried away, then made a noisy walk back to the kitchen. “Do you mind,” I asked them, “if I go back to bed? I…I'm still really tired.”

“No, of course not,” Valerie said.

So I went upstairs, stuffed the bed with pillows, shoved my things into my backpack, and climbed out the dormer window. It wasn't hard getting down because the top floor wasn't as wide as the bottom floor and there were posts and window ledges to hold on to.

I could think of only one way off the farm without being seen: Walt's truck. I managed to get to it before he did, but there was no place to hide in the bed. It was a 4-door, though, so I sneaked inside the cab through a back door and hid on the floor, camouflaging myself with a tattered tarp that was lying there.

I was still rustling around when the driver's door flew open.

I held my breath and waited, but nobody yanked me out of the truck. Instead, it fired up and rolled away.

Walt stopped and talked to several people before he finally hit the highway. And then he turned on the radio, and we just flew down the road for about an hour before he parked the truck and got out.

I gave it a few minutes, then looked out the window. We were at some tractor facility. But there were trees and shrubs right across the parking lot, so the first chance I got, I snuck out of the truck, hurried over to the bushes, then watched and waited.

It took only about ten minutes for Walt to saunter back to the truck. He had a box in his hands and looked like he was whistling.

“Have a nice life,” I whispered as he drove off. I meant it to be sarcastic, but there was a big lump in my throat when I said it. On the outside I was kissing them off, but on the inside I was thinking that maybe I should have told them why I didn't want to go back into “the system.”

Maybe I should have asked them to let me stay with them.

Maybe Valerie would have been able to talk him into it.

I felt like a stray dog that had wandered onto their property. A stray that half the family wanted to keep and the other half wanted to take to the pound.

Why didn't I wag?

Why didn't I beg?

Why didn't I
try
?

         

But I didn't.

And it's too late now.

         

A few days later…

No one's tracked me down, so that's good. And this town where I've landed is very easygoing. So I should be happier than I am, but something's really bugging me. I've been thinking about it on and off since I wrote what happened with Walt and Valerie, and I don't like the way it makes me feel.

It has to do with the first foster family they put me with after Mom died. Not the emergency-care family, the first permanent family.

I walked in the front door hating them. I'd been told they'd be like a new mother and dad. Well, she was not my mother and he was not my father. I didn't want to call them Mom and Dad. I didn't want to be their daughter. I didn't want to bathe every night and wear T-shirts with sparkly letters or brand-new jeans.

I hated that they were so cheerful when I was so sad. I hated that they were so nice to me and gave me all the things my mother couldn't, especially during the time when we were living on the streets. I hated that they called me sweetheart. I hated the clean sheets and the unicorn wallpaper and the Minnie Mouse night-light.

So one day I smashed it all and ripped it all and kicked it all and screamed, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” at the top of my lungs.

When they got rid of me, I was glad.

Good riddance to them.

I never really thought about them again. Never looked back. I just went from home to home, hating everyone I met and storing up a deep, dark reserve of anger. Anger that I started needing for survival when they quit putting me into “happy homes.” Anger I needed to fight back against people who tried to Sani-Flush me.

Or worse.

But I look inside myself now and wonder: Where is all that anger? It's still there when I think about the Fisks or the Benders, but it's not the big dark wall that used to be everywhere, all the time.

And I can't believe I'm saying this, but unicorn wallpaper sounds…nice.

Clean sheets are really…nice.

A bath every night would be so…nice.

Something feels different inside and I don't really know why.

Is it just the passage of time?

No, that can't be it. A lot of time passed before, but nothing got better. It just got worse.

So I don't know. But it is a strange feeling. It's like I've solved something inside me, but I don't really understand how, or even what the puzzle was.

         

October 4
^th

I can't believe it's
October.
It doesn't feel anything like fall. It's sunny and warm and I like this kicked-back town. People are friendly but mind their own business. It must be a pretty big city, but it doesn't
feel
that way. Lots of trees, lots of flowers, lots of green space.

I've been sleeping near a lagoon. At least I think that's what it is. It's not big enough to be a lake, and there's reedy grass growing out of it near the shores.

There's a path that goes around the lagoon that people use for jogging or riding bikes or pedaling these bright yellow “Rent a Surrey” contraptions. The surreys must be hard to steer because I've seen about six of them go off the path. Nothing serious. The riders just push them back on the path and keep going.

This area where I'm staying is perfect. It's a little wedge of land between the railroad tracks and the freeway on-ramp. It sounds like it'd be noisy, but it's not bad. And I really like the trees. They're tall, with smooth white bark and droopy branches that have long, spear-shaped leaves. I think they're eucalyptus trees. They smell good, and the dropped leaves make a nice soft pad to sleep on.

It took me a few days to figure out that I was near the ocean. It seems stupid now, but I kept walking in the opposite direction because that's where the food stores are. But yesterday I discovered that I am indeed still a sea gypsy!

The beach here is different from the one I was at before. There's lots of driftwood and seaweed on it, and the sand is not as white or as fine. There's actually
tar
in it. I have little black chunks of tar all over my shoes from walking across the sand.

There's also a long stretch of park that runs alongside the beach. It must be two miles long! It has a bike path on one side, a sidewalk on the other, and public bathrooms in between. It's very comfortable. Very relaxed.

I'd like to stay here.

It feels like it could be home.

         

October 6
^th
, Wednesday

It is my lucky day! There's an organic market right down the road, and I was on my way out of it (after pocketing an apple) when I noticed a five-dollar bill on the ground. It was folded in half twice, and when I unfolded it, I discovered that it wasn't just a five. It was a five and a ten and two ones! Seventeen bucks!

I'm rich!

         

A couple of days later (I'm pretty sure it's Friday)

I am so set up, it's great! Good thing I'm not going anywhere or I'd need a shopping cart! (And I swore I'd never, ever be a Shopping Cart Gypsy!)

Ever since I got here, I've had the best luck. First I find this wonderful little wedge of land that's comfortable, has perfect camouflage, and none of the bums around here seem to know about. (And there are quite a few bums around, by the way.)

Then I find that wad of money outside the store, and THEN I find some stuff that I'm sure was abandoned. I stumbled across it when I ducked behind some shrubs to ditch a cop who I thought had his eye on me.

After I was sure the coast was clear, I tried to figure out how the stuff got there. It wasn't really hidden. It was more just dropped. Maybe some guy was living under the overpass and it all fell down the embankment? Maybe he shoved it over the edge because he didn't want anyone to find it and then something happened to him? Maybe he got drunk and forgot where he stashed it?

I have no idea, but it sure looked abandoned, so before someone else claimed it, I hauled it all back to my camp.

I scored two big garbage sacks full of crushed aluminum cans (soon to be recycle money!), a grocery bag with cans of food, a small (but sharp) can opener, a dense foam mat, and a sleeping bag.

Can you believe that?

A
sleeping
bag.

It's not the roll-up kind, either. It's the stuff-in-the-sack kind, full of soft, fluffy feathers. It stinks a little, but it's so warm! And the mat may not look too comfortable, but it insulates you from the ground, which is wonderful. I wasn't cold at
all
last night (and usually I'm shivery from about 3 a.m. on).

         

Still Friday, quite a while later…

I tracked down a recycle center! It's about a mile from here, behind a supermarket. I found it by following a homeless guy who was pushing a shopping cart of bottles and cans. Took me right to it.

The center closes at four, so I don't have time to go back today, but tomorrow I get even richer!

         

Saturday the 9
^th

I may be in trouble. I got going early this morning and hauled the first sack of crushed aluminum cans all the way to the recycle center. I wanted to get there when they opened because I had two trips to make. Plus, most people don't get moving as early on Saturday as they do during the week, and the fewer people that saw me hauling a sack of garbage over my shoulder, the better.

What I didn't know was that this recycle center is a big morning-time homeless hangout. There must have been fifteen bums there! Their shopping carts were parked all over the place, and there were a few dilapidated bicycles leaning against the recycle trailer. The bums weren't there to turn in bottles and cans, either. They were just drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, shooting the breeze with the guy who works at the center.

I wanted to leave and come back later, but I had no place to go. Plus, I had this sack of cans that I was more than ready to unload. It was heavy, and I was thirsty and tired from lugging it so far.

So I took a deep breath and went up to the recycle guy, who was sitting in a chair inside the trailer. He looked homeless himself: tan, oily hair, worn jeans, bad teeth, dirty tennis shoes….

I made a mental note to buy myself a toothbrush, then asked, “Can I turn these in now?”

“Sure, sure!” he said, standing up. He came out of the trailer and handed me a tall wire-mesh container, saying,

“Looks heavy. You got glass?”

“Aluminum,” I answered, swinging the sack off my shoulder.

I opened the sack and let the cans cascade into the container, but before I was even done, he plucked out one of the cans and said, “Where'd you get these?”

I had a lie all ready for a question like this, but I was expecting to have to use it on a cop, not some homeless-looking recycle-center attendant. “Where'd I
get
them?” I asked. “My scout troop's been collecting them for months.”

He eyed me suspiciously and said, “Your scout troop.” Then he looked around and asked, “If it's for your scout troop, why you here by yourself?”

The other homeless guys were moving in closer and I really wanted to bolt out of there, but I tried to keep my cool as I said, “I got assigned, all right?”

“Hmm,”
he said, and swung the container of cans onto the scale.

“You think they're Hog's?” one of the bums asked the recycle guy.

The recycle guy didn't answer. Instead, he went into his recycle trailer and brought out an uncrushed aluminum can. “Crush this for me, would you?”

I took a quick look at the cans I'd dumped into the container. I knew they were crushed tight, but now I noticed that every one of them was crushed the same, with a sort of twist in the middle. There was no way I could duplicate that.

“You always give your customers the third degree like this?” I snapped. “I'm in charge of delivering cans, not smashing them. If it's any of your business.”

Other bums were pawing through the container now, saying, “These are Hog's, Mac.”

“Yeah, Mac. No one does a can like that.”

“Get back, you vultures!” I shouted. “They're
my
cans! Quit picking them apart!”

The recycle guy checked the weight, swung the basket off, and headed for his calculator inside the trailer, saying, “When a guy gets thrown in the slammer a few days and comes out finding his stuff missin', he tends to accuse eeeverybody he knows.”

“Yeah,” one of the bums grumbled. “And all this time it's been some
girl
scout. Imagine that.”

There was a little chorus of hobo sniggering, and one guy said, “Little girl, you don't want to be messin' with Hog
or
his dog. They'll tear you into little bite-size pieces and roast you.”

“And he ain't talkin' s'mores!” another bum said, which caused a full-blown chorus of hobo laughter.

“You know what?” I said. “I'm going to call the police.” I turned to the recycle guy. “Does your boss know you're running a homeless hangout here? Does he know you're intimidating customers?
Threatening
customers? You think me or anyone I know is ever coming back here to do business? I'm telling my leader and my teachers and my parents exactly what I had to go through to turn in these cans, and they're going to—”