Runaway (15 page)

Maybe I'm the one rationalizing now. Maybe stealing food is the same as stealing nail polish. What if hunger just overrides the
other
feeling in your gut? The one that tells you when something's wrong.

What is that, anyway? Where do we get that gut feeling? Do we learn it? Are we born with it? Where does it come from?

I wish I could ask my mom if she really believed what she was saying.

Maybe she was just trying to talk the feeling in her gut away.

         

Still Saturday, 8:10 p.m.

The shoreline is so graceful. It's like a shallow bay, curving to the left, curving to the right.

Today I sat cross-legged in the sand and faced the ocean. The surf was quiet and the ocean was almost glassy. After just sitting for a while, I started pretending that I was at the bottom of a great, blue, sand-crusted world of water, holding it up like Atlas does with the Earth. I wasn't holding it on my shoulders and back like Atlas, though. I was holding it high, with my arms up, strong and wide, the setting sun floating like a fiery Maraschino cherry in my great blue water world.

It was so strange. My arms weren't even actually up. It was more like my mind wrapped energy around the ocean, sand, and sun and held them safe.

I felt like I'd stepped into a different realm.

A place where I had a purpose.

Where I had power.

THE POWER OF ME

The sand,

infinite,

timeless.

The sun,

fiery,

commanding.

The ocean,

yawning,

merciless.

I held them all, and for just a moment

I stepped into

the power

of me.

         

Monday, September 6
^th

It was hot yesterday and is today, too. The main beach has been packed with every imaginable size and shape of person having summer's last hurrah. I did a lot of wishing for my ugly swimsuit. The waves have been so nice today. So inviting. Plus, I think my body's thirsty. Maybe it's all the sand or salt air that does it, but no matter how much water I drink, my skin feels thirsty.

Mostly, though, I've been thinking about a plan. I don't
have
one yet, but I know I need one. I'm sick of seeing Venus and her mother at the rescue wagon. I'm sick of walking endlessly through the sand. I'm sick of having nothing to
do.

         

Tuesday, September 7
^th

I saw myself in a mirror today. I look awful! My nose is red and peeling, my face is a deep red-tan, and I have wrinkles! I must have been squinting into the sun a lot because there are little lines of not-tan (or not-as-tan) around my eyes. They don't just look like wrinkles, they
are
wrinkles! My hair's filthy, and I'm still wearing the shirt and corduroy jeans I got from The People's Church. I don't look anything like a gypsy. I look homeless!

I need a plan. I need a plan bad.

         

September 8
^th

Okay. Here's my plan:

I find someplace more permanent to live. I get a bunch of books and homeschool myself. I adopt a dog from the pound. I get him a red bandana. (Could be blue.) We hang out together all day, learning stuff and going on field trips together when it's safe (like when other kids are out of school). I'm happy. I'm safe. I'm learning stuff
and
I've got a friend.

That's my plan.

If I really try, I can make it work.

I have to.

         

Still Wednesday, 2:45 p.m.

I've been thinking that any plan I come up with will revolve around one key thing:

Staying near the rescue wagon.

If I'm hungry, I can't think about anything else. I spend my whole day trying to make the pain in my stomach go away. But since the lady at the rescue wagon's been giving me two sandwiches every day, I haven't had to worry about food.

What's making me nervous, though, is that for the past two days I've been the only school-age kid who's shown up. There's usually Venus and a couple of other younger kids, but yesterday and today it was just me.

I don't think you're allowed to be homeschooled if you don't have a home.

         

5:30 p.m.

When I was in first grade, there was this boy with a buzz cut named Barry. He was absent so much that kids would ask the teacher, “Did he move? Is he sick? Is he ever coming back?”

The teacher would never really answer, and then one day, like magic, Barry would be back.

“He doesn't
look
like he's been sick,” the kids would whisper, and finally one of them would go up to him and ask, “Where
were
you?”

“I was sick,” Barry would say with a sniff, but everyone could tell he was faking.

Then some of us started noticing that on the days Barry did come to school, the teacher would take him into the art cubby for a few minutes where we couldn't see them. When they came out, one of two things would happen: Either Barry would sit down at his table and the teacher would act like nothing weird was going on, or Barry would
leave
and the teacher would act like nothing weird was going on.

We all knew that something weird was definitely going on.

This girl named Tiffany figured it out by spying on them. “Lice!” she whispered. “She's checking him for lice!”

I asked my mom about lice when I got home from school. “Oh, baby,” she said, “stay away from him!” Then she jumped up and grabbed the phone. “If that boy has lice, he should
not
be in school!”

She made such a fuss. Such a huge fuss. And it seems ironic now that she had absolutely no sympathy for him. Even after talking to about ten different people on the phone and finding out that Barry's father had abandoned the family and that Barry and his five brothers and sisters were living with their mother in a
camp
ground, she still said, “I don't care what their situation is. If the boy has lice, he should not be in school!”

I couldn't get the picture of all those kids living in a tent out of my mind. I thought it sounded like fun. Flashlights, campfires, marshmallows, scary stories…I thought they were doing it because they liked to camp, not because they had nowhere else to live.

Looking back on it, I understand what was going on.

Barry was the first homeless boy I ever knew.

         

Thursday, September 9
^th

I spent the day walking. I wore my backpack and tried to look like I was on my way to school or on my way home from school, but what I was doing was scouting out a new place to live. Under the porch has been fine, but that's because it's summer and it's warm. It gets pretty damp at night, though, and I've been cold a lot. So I walked from here, past the church where the rescue wagon stops, and kept going about an hour, looking the whole time for some better place to live.

You know what I found?

Nothing.

There is no place.

I swear, there's only one cave on this coast, and I about drowned in it.

There are lots of houses, but none of them look boarded up or abandoned. I hate to admit it, but after all the searching I did today, I'm wishing I could still be at the manor. Of course, I can't go back, but why can't there be someplace like the manor that's
not
the manor?

There's probably not, though, because if there was, all the bums I saw today would have found it by now. Once you get off the beach and walk through town or on the street along the beach, it's amazing how many bums there are around here. You see them sleeping on park benches, pushing their carts of junk around, panhandling, or just hanging out, smoking. There doesn't even seem to be a Bum Alley in this town. Just bums scattered everywhere, sort of hanging out with nothing to do.

         

Still Thursday, 6:30 p.m.

You know what?

I'm MAD!

I'm mad that Venus gets to live in the manor and I don't!

I'm mad that Venus gets to go to school and I don't!

I'm mad that it's foggy!

I'm mad that my clothes are ugly!

I'm mad that my nose is peeling!

I'm mad that I don't have a dog!

I'm mad at my plan! (It stinks!)

I'm mad at my mom!

I'm mad at my dad!

I'm mad at YOU!

I'm mad at everything and everyone.

Why am
I
having to go through this?

What did
I
ever do to deserve this?

It's not fair, you hear me?

IT'S JUST NOT FAIR!

10:05 p.m.

I don't want your SYMPATHY

your PITY

your BAND-AID on my MISERY

I don't want your WELFARE

your “I CARE”

your SHE'S-NOT-LOOKING-NOW-LET'S-STARE

Just give me a CHANCE

a FAIR

FIGHTING

CHANCE

Friday, September 10
^th
, 9:15 a.m.

I'm glad I raged yesterday. I feel better today. And I've been thinking that if I could just find a place to live, I really would spend my time reading schoolbooks and studying different subjects.

Even math.

I promise, I'd even study math.

I'm not worried about how to get the books. Lifting them won't be hard. I found a middle school about 20 blocks from here when I was on my endless walk, looking for a place to live.

Once I had the books, I think it would be pretty easy to teach myself. Read the section, do the problems. Read the section, do the problems. How hard is that?

And maybe if I save up all my work, I can turn it in to the superintendent of schools (or whoever) when I'm 18 and say, “See? I went to school. I just didn't
go
to school.” He could check it all over and give me a diploma.

Hmm.
Maybe I'll start my own school. It could be called the Sea Gypsy Institute. Or how about Sacred Heart of the Sea Gypsy. Or wait! The GypSea Academy! Ha ha! That's funny! Yeah. The GypSea Academy!

And let's see…the school mascot could be the dolphin. Nah. Forget dolphins. The whole time I've been here I haven't even seen one. The school mascot should be a sea dog! Like the ones they have on pirate ships. Scruffy, with perky ears and a happy (yet serious) bark. Yes. That's it. School mascot: sea dog.

And school colors?
Hmm.
How about blue and orange? Blue for the sea, orange for the sun.

And a school motto…How about “Ride with the Tide”? Or maybe “Bark at the Shark.” Or wait! Here's one you would like: “Sailing the Seas of Success.”

Nah, forget that. “Bark at the Shark” is way better.

         

1:30 p.m.

I've been daydreaming about the GypSea Academy. I know it's stupid, but it was fun to think about, and now I'm in a really great mood because (and you're not going to believe this…) I've come up with a
song
for the Academy.

It started as a little chant and just kept building and building. Maybe it's more a lively poem than a song, but I'm calling it the “GypSea Academy
Song.
”

Ready or not, here it is:

Ohhhhh, we're seafarin' gypsies, we learn on our own,

Heigh-ho to school we go!

The world is our campus, we haven't a home,

Heigh-ho to school we go!

No desks, and no rulers, and no chaperones,

Heigh-ho to school we go!

We don't have a lunchroom, so toss us a bone!

Yeaaaaaah…

We're seafarin' gypsies, each day is a test

Heigh-ho to school we go!

Of gettin' to class without an arrest!

Heigh-ho to school we go!

We pillage supplies, people think we're a pest,

Heigh-ho to school we go!

But we're seafarin' gypsies and we are the best!

WE'RE SEAFARIN' GYPSIES AND WE ARE THE BEST
!

         

Doesn't that put you in the best mood?

Does me.

         

Friday, 5:30 p.m.

You are not going to believe what happened!

On my way over to the rescue wagon I passed by the manor and what did I see?

Cops!

It was a total shakedown! The cops had Venus's mother and a bunch of the other squatters lined up on the street. They were checking their IDs and frisking them and not letting any of them leave. Then they put them in a paddy wagon that looked like a big armored truck and drove them away.

I know it was childish, but inside I was rooting, Yeah! Haul 'em off! Shut 'em down! Get 'em out of here!

I wasn't the only one, either. I was standing off to the side, in the shadows of a bunch of other spectators, and a lot of them were grumbling “Took them long enough” and “It's about time.”

Then the man in front of me said to the woman next to him, “They'll be back. Them or a new group. I give it a week, max.”

“Maybe not,” the woman replied. “This is the beginning of that sweep they've been planning.”

The man snorted. “Yeah, right. And where do you suppose they're sweeping them
to
?”

The lady shook her head. “Anywhere's better than here.”

After that I felt sort of sick inside. Sure, I was mad at the people at the manor for siding with Venus, but if I hadn't gotten in a fight with Venus, I'd still be living there. I'd be a squatter, just like them.

It was the word
sweep
that got to me. When I think of sweeping, I think of a broom whisking dirt away. Or I think of that expression about sweeping things under the rug. About taking dirt and hiding it where no one can see it. It doesn't make the dirt go away. It just helps you forget that it's there.