Runaway by Wendelin Van Draanen

  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 24th

  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 t
hey’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.

  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 unlocked.

  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 25th

  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.