Runaway (2 page)

You know what else?

Mrs. Bender
loves
the shopping network. I swear she spends the whole day watching jewelry twinkle on TV.

So you know what I think?

I think she wants stuff that her creepy husband won't let her get. I think she wants to peg me as a thief because
she
's been stealing money out of his wallet.

Money social services gives him for taking care of
me.

         

May 22
^nd
, nighttime

What are you supposed to do in a laundry room all day? They did let me out for ten minutes when I pounded on the door and shouted that I really had to use the bathroom, but I got locked right back in. And around six Mrs. Bender shoved a plate of cold mashed-potato mush at me and said, “You need to think long and hard about your actions, girl, because actions have consequences.” That was it for the entire day.

So you know what I did? I read that stupid book you gave us. “Don't read ahead, class. Do NOT read ahead! We want to stay together and discuss it as a group. If you want to do extra reading, read from another book.”

Well, guess what? I don't happen to have another book. There's no library tucked away inside this luxurious laundry room. All I happen to have is my binder, this stupid journal, and your little discussion book.

So sue me. I read ahead. Clear to the end.

And I knew it. I just knew it. The girl dies. Why do teachers think books where people die are such good books? They're rotten, you hear me? Who wants to read about people drowning or getting cancer or finding out their parents are dead? Or you know what's even worse?
Dogs
dying. If a teacher's having you read a book with a dog in it, the dog's going to be dead by the end of the book. I hate that! Why do they always have to kill off the dog?

Maybe you teachers think books like that open our eyes and prepare us for life, but guess what? All they do is teach us that life is cruel and people are mean and there's not squat we can do to change it.

Like this is something I didn't already know?

         

Sunday, May 23
^rd

Sundays terrify me. Every Sunday morning at 9:30 Mrs. Bender leaves the house to pick up her mother and take her to church. After church they go shopping and out to lunch, which means I'm home alone with Mr. Bender from 9:30 until about 2:00.

“Are you going to be a good girl today?” he always asks through the laundry-room door when she's gone.

I used to argue that I
had
been good and that I hadn't meant to make them mad, or whatever. But it didn't take long to get the picture that there was no way I was going to win that argument, so I'd just grumble, “Yes, sir,” and he'd let me out and fix pancakes and bacon and eggs, chatting about nothing the whole time.

It's not like the Benders starve me, but if it wasn't for my school lunch card and Sunday morning breakfasts, I'd have, like, zero hot meals a week.

Not that hot lunch is actually
hot,
but it's a whole lot better than the slop Mrs. Bender shoves at me through the laundry-room door.

So Sunday mornings are torture for me. I love the smell of bacon. I love pancakes and syrup and butter. My mouth's watering just thinking about them.

But Mr. Bender is so creepy, and being alone in the house with him makes me real skittish. He always says, “Relax, Holly. We'll just have us a nice breakfast and get to know each other a little better.” Then he gives me a snaky wink as he cracks open an egg and says, “It'll be our little secret, all right?”

So I've started thinking that the breakfast isn't worth the price of admission. I don't like putting up with his snaky ways for the rest of the day. He brushes up against me. Touches my shoulder while I'm doing the dishes. Says “soothing” things to me that tie me up in knots. I'm always relieved when his witchy wife pulls up and he tells me it's time to get back in the laundry room.

You think I'm overreacting, don't you? Inventing. You think maybe Mr. Bender is just being fatherly and I'm ultra-sensitive because of Mr. Fisk? Well, guess again. Today when Mrs. Bender left and he said, “Are you going to be a good girl today?” I decided, Forget it. “No, Mr. Bender, I'm not,” I told him. “I'm a liar and a thief and I do drugs, so you'd better not let me out of here.”

He opened the door anyway. Then he laughed and said, “Come on, Holly, let's have us some breakfast.”

“No,” I told him. “I'm sick of you accusing me of stuff all week and then acting like nothing's wrong when your wife's gone.” I stepped out of the laundry room and headed down the hall. “But I
will
use the bathroom.”

So I locked myself in the bathroom, which wasn't much better than being in the laundry room.

Except that I could flush, of course.

But after a minute he knocked and said, “Are we having breakfast?”

“No!” I shouted through the door. “Just leave me alone!”

Next thing I knew, he had the lock popped and was
inside
the bathroom. I was on the toilet and he just barged in!

“Get out, you pervert!” I screamed at him, but he just stood there. So I grabbed this can of Lysol spray that was right next to the toilet and
voooooosh,
I sprayed it in his eyes while I called him every awful name I could think of.

He yowled, then smacked me across the head so hard I fell off the toilet. Then he grabbed me by my hair, slammed up the toilet seat, shoved my head in the bowl, and flushed.

“Don't you
ever
use language like that in my house!”

“You're sick!” I screamed at him when he let me up for air. Regular contaminated toilet water would have been bad enough, but the Benders use that disgusting blue Sani-Flush stuff in their toilets, and my eyes were stinging from the chemicals. I yanked up my pants and called him all sorts of names
again
because I was mortified and totally grossed out.

So he grabbed me by the hair
again,
shoved my face in the toilet and flushed
again,
and this time I thought I was going to drown.

He shouted, “You have a lot to learn about your place in this world, girl! This is
my
house and you'll do as
I
say or there'll be consequences!”

My heart was beating so fast, my arms were flailing around, I couldn't hold my breath much longer. And as blue water seeped into my ears, I heard him say, “You need to learn who's boss around here.”

When he finally let me up, I coughed and sputtered, and he could tell what I was thinking, because he threw a towel at me and said, “No one'll believe you. Now get back in your room, girl.”

I knew he was right. They hadn't believed me about Mr. Fisk, either, and there had been a lot more proof than a Sani-Flushed head. So I took the towel and staggered back to the laundry room, where I just lay down on my mat and cried.

I hate crying. I hate even saying that I did it, and I sure don't want people
seeing
me do it. And I wouldn't even tell you that part except that the crying made me mad, and getting mad is what made me get off my duff and wash my hair.

How did I wash my hair?

Well, I'm not stupid, you know.

Okay, maybe you don't know, considering my grades, but I don't care about those. I care about getting disgusting blue chemicals off me.

What I did was, I turned the washer on
HOT
, stuck my head in, and rinsed my hair as well as I could. Then I took the liquid-laundry-soap cap, filled it up with water, swished it around until it dissolved the little bit of soap inside it, and washed my hair with that.

I'm really glad I didn't go for the direct soap. Laundry soap is
strong.
Even the little bit I used sudsed my hair up like crazy. Then I rinsed again and used the cap for reaching the parts I couldn't get by sticking my head in the washer.

I also washed my face and rinsed my mouth out real well.

That blue stuff is
vile.

Hey, you should try it sometime, just for the experience. Just to see how poetic my life really is.

Oh, wait. How about this for the rhythm and feel of my poetic life:

Blue face

Disgusting taste

Flush it

Shush it

Cold disgrace

I don't think it fits into any of the categories on your handy-dandy poetry sheet, but I don't seem to fit in anywhere, either, so what the heck.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. So I got all cleaned up, and I started making a mental list of what I need to survive on my own. And you know what I've decided?

I only need one thing: a Hefty sack.

Last time I ran away I brought stuff like food and
toilet
paper.

Like you can't survive without toilet paper?

I was dumb. Food you can steal. Toilet paper you can go into any fast-food place and
use.
That kind of stuff is disposable, and you don't need to lug it around and have it slow you down.

What you can't really survive without is warmth, and the biggest enemy of warmth is wet. You get wet, you get cold. Easy as
brrrrrrrr.

So to keep from getting cold, you need something waterproof. Even when it's not raining, the air gets damp at night, so you get wet, you get cold.

Camille, I'm sure, has a whole wardrobe of ponchos, raincoats, umbrellas, and rain boots to choose from, but me, I've got nothing but a pathetic umbrella that turns inside out in the wind.

I'm not looking to score a whole wardrobe like Camille's. Although if I stole all her stuff and left her with my inside-out umbrella, that would be pretty funny. But I don't want all her stupid junk. What I want, and all I need, is a Hefty sack. A hole for my head, holes for my arms, and
ta-da,
I've got a poncho. Plus, it rolls up to nothing and I can tuck it in my backpack, no problem.

So that's all I need, although right now I've got to tell you—I'm thinking a lot about food. You already know what happened at breakfast, lunch never arrived, and for dinner Mrs. Bender said through the door, “Howie told me what you did today, and I'm sorry, but you're going to have to learn that that sort of behavior is just not acceptable in this household. There'll be no supper for you tonight.”

Who knows what he told her, but I know what they had for dinner—pot roast. I could smell it. Pot roast with whipped potatoes and, I think, buttered carrots. And probably some pie for dessert. They always have pie for dessert.

I could hear their utensils clinking. I could hear their voices going back and forth. The whole time they were eating, my stomach gurgled and grumbled and growled. My mouth watered and I wanted to beat on the door and beg for a plate. I wanted to break down and say, “I'm sorry! I promise I'll be good!”

But I didn't.

I didn't, and I won't.

I can still taste the Sani-Flush in my mouth. Still hear the water rushing into my ears. Still feel Mr. Bender's hand ripping my hair and crushing my face.

Tomorrow I'm out of here.

Hefty sack or not, I'm out of here.

         

Monday, May 24
^th

I actually almost told you, you know that? I actually almost told you why my eyes were so red. Not from crying, like you thought. From Sani-Flush water.

And then you whispered, “Have you tried journaling?” and I actually almost told you, Yes! And it helps about as much as a hammer to the head!

And then, when you asked if there was anything you could do, I actually almost said, Believe! That's what you can do! Believe me when I tell you about Mr. Bender and the laundry room and the Sani-Flushing.

But of course you wouldn't have. Or if you did, you'd think you were doing something by, wow, calling social services. Then they'd “investigate” and discover that I'm a liar and a thief and a drug user.

Ooh. Big help.

So I didn't tell you.

Now quit pretending to care.

ALMOST

(an official poem, which came to mind after reading what I wrote above)

You asked me why my eyes were red,

I actually almost told you.

You asked if I'd been journaling,

I actually almost told you.

You asked me what the matter was,

I actually almost told you.

But instead

I said

“Kiss off!”

Crud. I feel kind of bad now. Maybe I should have told you. Running away does scare me.

Still Monday, lunchtime

I am ready! I've scored so much stuff! Lost-and-found is a gold mine! There was even money in it! First I found a couple of quarters in a jacket I tried on, then I searched
all
the pockets of
everything.
Kids have way too much stuff, you know that? They lose all sorts of things that they don't even miss. Why? Because they've got so much
other
stuff to take its place. Me, if I lose my jacket, I know it.
Brrrrrrr,
do I know it! But in lost-and-found there's money, jewelry, purses, hair bands, shoes, jackets, sweaters, scarves, blankies,
backpacks.
…How can you lose your backpack and not go look in lost-and-found? What do you have, another one as a backup? Just in case? Does your mommy go out and buy you a new one because you lost your old one?

What kind of life is that?

Backup backpacks.

Whatever. What I was saying was, I scored big-time. I found an awesome jacket. Way better than mine. It's so great that I even wrote my name on the tag in case someone sees me with it and says it's theirs.

I also found mittens, a ski scarf, a ball cap, a working
watch,
and a whopping ten dollars and seventeen cents! Then I went to the janitor's room and scored not one, but two Hefty sacks (with those you can
use
a backup!). And excuse me, but while I was at it, I dug around and found a box cutter, a lighter, some twine, and a flashlight. It's an awesome flashlight, too. Small but powerful.