Runaway (21 page)

I've gone back to town a couple of times to get supplies. Cans of food, toilet paper, bottled water, fresh batteries for my flashlight…and right now I'm snuggled up in my sleeping bag, warm and cozy, looking around at this place, and I can't believe it. I've got a house!

A home!

This is heaven!

I'VE GOT MY VERY OWN HOME!

         

November 3
^rd

I took the day off yesterday and read my library book. It was pretty good until the end, which just sort of fizzled. But it was fun to hang around my own house and read! It does get pretty warm in here during the day, but at night it's perfect.

One day off was enough, though. I wanted to get going on learning math and science so I can become a veterinarian! So early this morning I went back to that junior high school, and when kids started arriving, I walked onto the school grounds like I belonged and asked some boy where the science teacher's room was.

“Mr. Pence?” He pointed. “Right over there.”

So I went over to Mr. Pence's room. No other kids were in the classroom yet, but there was a man setting up microscopes on a long table.

Mr. Pence, I presume!

He barely noticed me. Didn't say good morning or even nod, so neither did I.

I scanned the room quick. There was a big stack of books on a back counter, so I sidled up to them, slid one off, and slinked out the back door.

It was definitely worth the risk. You should see this book! It's amazing. I read a section about how eyes work. It's fascinating! It also explained that dogs don't just see in black and white (something I've always thought, but people told me I was wrong). Dogs have blue and green receptors in their eyes (just like humans). The only thing we have that they don't is the red photoreceptor (which means that they can't see red, and may see orange and yellow as gray).

So it's been a really great day, but now I've got to get over to the soup kitchen before they close. I'm hungry!

         

7:15 p.m.

A little information about the soup kitchen:

It's run by priests and nuns, and the nice thing about that is, they don't ask any questions. You just get your food and go. I've been going in on the heels of somebody I pretend is my parent, but it doesn't seem to matter. The people who work there don't really seem to
see
you, which is perfect for me.

It's funny to hear priests and nuns argue with each other. It's just not something you expect, but these do it a lot, and because of that I've picked up some of their names:

There's Brother Phil, who's paunchy and balding and bossy and doesn't seem to like anybody. Then there's Sister Mary Margaret, who is very nice, and Sister Josephine, who's a hunched-over battle-ax! You wouldn't believe her. She's old and crabby and slams her cane around whenever someone (especially Brother Phil) makes her mad.

So from overhearing them talk and argue, I've pieced together that they're from St. Mary's Church (which is a few blocks away from the soup kitchen),
and
today I overheard Sister Mary Margaret talking to Josephine about the church's Thanksgiving food drive. It went like this:

         

Mary Margaret:
I'm worried. Last year at this time we had so much more!

Josephine
(
muttering
): You worry every year, Sister.

Mary Margaret:
But this year feels different! This year—

Josephine
(
still muttering
): This year'll be just like every year. The foyer'll fill up. The families will be fed.

Mary Margaret:
But what if—

Josephine
(
slamming down her cane, shouting
): Sister! It's only the third of November! Give it time!

         

See? Isn't that very un-nunlike? They're always like that. It busts me up.

         

Next morning

I woke up with a brilliant idea!

If St. Mary's Church is having a food drive, maybe I can help myself to some of it when no one's looking! I'll be a gypsy squirrel, collecting cans for the winter!

It sounded like they're just having people drop off stuff in the church foyer….

I'm going to go check it out!

         

12:30 p.m.

I went to the church. Didn't see any food at all. I didn't stay very long because I had a weird feeling being there. I'll check better later.

There's a school next door to the church. Kids in uniforms were playing on the blacktop. Squealing, laughing, shouting. I never really listened to the sound of a playground before. It sounds happy. Lively. Exciting.

I don't remember it that way.

I just remember the fear.

Wait. Maybe way early on it was more excitement than fear, but after we started moving around so much…and then after Mom died…and after the Fisks…fear is what I remember most.

Right now I'm back at Bullfrog Junior High. (That's not the real name of the school, but it should be.) I don't know why I came, really. I wasn't planning to get myself a math book or anything. I've barely started on the science.

I wound up sitting in the weeds behind the back fence, and I've been watching the girls' PE classes play softball. Softball in November, can you imagine? And you know what else is amazing? None of the girls have acted like sissies. Some of them aren't very good, but they all really try. And everybody chatters and shouts and cheers when their team does something good. It's like they're playing some big game, only it's just PE.

I used to hate PE at school. Two times a week (oh, that'll get you in shape!), lame games (you call “duck-duck-goose” PE?), choosing up sides (took up half the class and made you feel rotten for the rest of the day), and no action (like anyone's going to pass the ball to a kid they don't know or like?).

Yeah, I used to hate PE, but
this
kind of PE looks like it could almost be fun. So I'm sitting here wondering what it would be like to be on a real team. To have people rooting for you…to feel like you were part of something…electric.

         

6:30 p.m.

I didn't see Charlene at the soup kitchen this afternoon, but I saw Martin, which was much worse. His body's so covered in snakes that I think he's
become
a snake. Maybe he doesn't have fangs (his teeth are all rotten), but he sure seems to slither around. And you know how a snake's tongue flicks in and out? Martin
looks
at things like that. He flicks looks here and there, and I can tell he's watching, thinking, scheming. It scares me because whenever I catch him flicking looks my way, I get the feeling that he's coiled up tight, waiting for the right opportunity to strike.

Walking home tonight, I really watched my back.

No one would ever hear me scream out here.

No one would know if I went missing.

         

Friday, November 5
^th

I checked out St. Mary's Church again. No boxes or bags of food in sight. I even wandered
into
the church and looked around from the safety of a shadowy back pew.

There's something spooky about churches like St. Mary's. Any little noise echoes off the stained-glass windows and seems to amplify before it dies out. Voices carry. Everything seems close, even when it's far away.

There was nobody inside the church besides me, but there
was
a strange sound. I couldn't figure out where it was coming from or how far away it was, but the longer I sat in that shadowy back pew, the more it sounded like it was someone
gnawing
on something.

Then a priest came into the church, looked around, and whispered, “Gregory?” He whistled softly. “Gregory? Here, boy. Come along, lad!” He had some sort of accent. Irish, I think.

I heard Gregory pad through the church, then saw him pass by the aisle. He was the cutest wirehaired terrier, and he was carrying a
carrot
in his mouth.

I almost burst out laughing. And I wanted so badly to jump out and say, “Oh! Can I say hi to your dog?” But I just watched him join the priest and disappear through a side door.

I stayed in the church a little while longer, but I wasn't thinking about getting my hands on food-drive donations. I was thinking about getting my hands on a dog. Not Gregory. I would never steal somebody else's dog! What I mean is a dog from the pound. Or a stray. Or a poor, neglected, abused, chained-up dog.

Maybe it's finally time to get one.

My heart's beating fast just thinking about it!

And you know what? I
need
a dog. Not just so I won't be so alone, but for the protection. Dogs are great at defending their territory.

They also know how to scare off snakes.

         

7:00 p.m.

I am so mad! The pound won't let a kid have a dog unless a parent signs for it. Can you believe that? They'd rather “destroy” (their way of sugarcoating
kill
) a dog than let a kid have it! I hate adults! I hate them, I hate them, I hate them!

         

8:15 p.m.

The pound is like death row for dogs, only the dogs haven't done anything wrong! (Except maybe pee on some old bat's posies…) I'd rescue them all if I could.

Poor sweet things.

         

Saturday the 6
^th

I've been trying to read my science book, but some of it isn't making sense and my mind keeps drifting. I keep picturing dogs getting gassed. And every time I hear a sound outside, I think it's Martin. He was slithering around the soup kitchen again today, and after I left, I caught him following me. I didn't let on. Instead, I led him to the mall, then ditched him. It was easy, but I don't like having to do it.

And now I'm
really
thinking that I need some way to protect myself.

One of those softball bats I saw at the junior high would be good.

A nice, heavy metal one.

         

9:30 p.m.

There's a whole pack of coyotes howling. It's so loud I swear they're right outside my house! I keep telling myself: They're dogs, they're dogs, they're dogs! But I'm still scared. Coyotes kill cats and rabbits and other
dogs.
What if they're so hungry they'll kill
me
?

How ironic would that be?

Holly Janquell, aspiring veterinarian, killed and consumed by dogs.

If I live through the night, I'm gathering rocks.

And I'm getting my hands on a baseball bat!

         

November 7
^th

It's Sunday, so I couldn't get my hands on a baseball bat, but better yet, I have made a deadly spear! I scored a broom handle from a trash bin outside the mall (the threads are messed up, but other than that it's perfect), and I traded a sack of sweaters I scored at the Salvation Army for a knife at Cece's Thrift Store. (The Salvation Army is real near the soup kitchen, and they were having a
warmth
drive today. The whole front porch was covered with sacks of clothes, and the woman in charge was so busy yakking with someone else that she didn't notice me waltz off with one. I picked out a change of clothes for me, then traded the rest for a knife.)

This is no little whittling blade, either. It's wicked! Thick and jagged and long. Cece was cool about it, too. No questions, no raised eyebrows. She just dug through the sack of clothes and said, “Fair trade. It's yours.”

I've duct-taped the knife to the broom handle, and now I have a spear that could bring down a bear!

I'm feeling much, much better.

         

9:15 p.m.

I overheard a little of the sermon at St. Mary's when I slipped inside the church this morning to check the foyer for food. (There was nothing.) The priest with the Irish accent was saying how the whole month of November should be devoted to giving and thanking.

I split after about thirty seconds.

Like I need to hear that garbage?

But tonight it's really cold out, and it's making me remember past Novembers. Especially the one when I didn't have a down sleeping bag and a heavy jacket to keep me warm; when there was snow on the ground and no place to sleep and no refrigerator box to keep out the wind. That was a November when I really
couldn't
imagine a single, solitary thing to be thankful for.

So I'm realizing that this year
is
different. There have been better Novembers, sure, but this year I
am
doing okay. Even having no family at Thanksgiving doesn't really bother me. I miss my mom, but it's not like I ever had a huge family to share a turkey feast with.

Actually, I've never even had a turkey feast.

Ever.

Even in the days before we were on the streets, my mom used to get two boxes of KFC—chicken, mashed potatoes, and biscuits—and that's what we'd have for Thanksgiving dinner.

I remember asking her once when we were sitting down to KFC, “Can we please, please,
please
roast a turkey next year?”

“Oh, baby,” she said. “You have no idea what you're
not
missing. Turkey's a
tough
bird. A tough, disgusting, wattley bird that, honestly, no one
really
wants to eat.”

“But—” I said, but she cut me off.

“Don't let the tradition of turkey fool you, baby. Turkey is all that was available to the Pilgrims at the time.” She flicked out a napkin and said, “Our founding fathers didn't have KFC at their disposal or you can bet your bottom dollar they'd have ordered a bucket of Extra Crispy instead of roasting an ornery, oversize rooster!”

I still felt like I was missing out, so I asked, “But can't we try it? Just once?”