Runaway

Sometimes I get so caught up in my own problems that I forget how amazing the world is.

I miss school. What’s wrong with me?

You told us over and over that you don’t think you could live without books, but the ironic thing is, you’d probably die before you’d think to rip pages out of one to start a fire. Am I right? Well, get over it already. Better to be warm then well-read.

I operate under the assumption that people don't notice the good in me. That's just how things always seem to play out. I get blamed, while con-artist kids like Venus, and Camille, and Gemma get believed. But the rescue lady noticed. In the background, just observing, she noticed.

(Actually now I’m remembering that the goodbye chow isn’t spelled that way. It’s ciao or something weird like that. It’s Italian, right? But I’m not an Italian gypsy, I’m a hungry gypsy. So spelling it chow makes total sense.)

I don’t think you’re aloud to be homeschooled if you don’t have a home.

Okay that’s it. Now I’m torching this. I just need to score a match.

Blue Face Disgusting taste Flush it Shush it Cold disgrace

Holly, I understand that you are upset because Gemma pulled down your ants, but why did you think pouring motor oil inside her backpack is the way to solve the problem?

Street people use cardboard all the time, and bum alleys are just shanties or lean-tos, though. They’re nothing like my house! Mine is deluxe! It’s a big, thick, super sturdy refrigerator box that I found at an appliance store!

It’s funny to hear priests and nuns argue with each other.

She was married to my dad, and everything was fine until he got killed in some freak tractor accident. Yeah, that’s what I said, a freak tractor accident.

Thank you for helping me turn the page.

Food in the trash is like the tossed-and-found.

I’m not going to be able to sleep a wink tonight. I hate shelters. People coughing and snoring and hacking up who-knows-what. It’s a nightmare. But I do have clean teeth.

Summers there are awful! Winters there are awful! Why do you stay? You ought to run away! Hop a train! Stow away on a bus! What am I saying? You could just buy yourself a ticket. It would be interesting to talk to you if you did it the other way, though. We could compare scars and bruises. It might be fun.

Words can't fix my life. Words can't give me a family. Words can't do jack. You may be a teacher, Ms. Leone, but face it: You don't know squat.

scraps of love torn and tattered faded, scattered trashed threads of hope frayed and tangled broken, mangled dashed backing, buttons yarn and batting quilted tenderly wrapped up in this warm repair my patchwork family

I've decided this is all your fault, Ms. Leone. I've run away before, you know, but stowed away or jumped trains or broke into buildings, I just ran away and got caught. But I think all that stuff you told us about the Underground Railroad got lodged in my subconscious, and somewhere inside it gave me the strength or courage or insanity to really get away. So see? This is all your fault.

I’d way rather defend myself against a man with a stick than a social worker with good intentions.