Runaway

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  “Just in summer,” she answers.

  I can’t tell if she’s being funny on purpose or not. A quick look around shows long windows wide open. “Don’t you have air-conditioning?”

  She doesn’t answer. “This way.” Kat points to a big kitchen off the hallway. There’s a wooden butcher block in the center and counters on three sides. “You don’t have to ask when you want something to drink or eat.”

  “That’s good,” I say, my eyes searching for the computer. I spot it sitting on a small desk between the kitchen and the dining area. I’m dying to get online and write Neil, but I don’t want Orphan Annie watching over my shoulder.

  “Up here!” Kat’s halfway up a narrow stairway that leads to the second floor. “Bedrooms are up here. Mom and Dad’s is down the hall.”

  Mom and Dad’s?

  If this kid weren’t so fragile and shy, I’d warn her about counting chickens that may never hatch. She’s setting herself up for a fall, calling the Coolidges Mom and Dad before things are official. Adoption is a tricky business.

  I follow her into a medium-size room with two single beds and one dresser. I’ve had worse rooms. Once I shared a room this size with three other girls, who were known as “the crier,” “the screamer,” and “the snorer.” I was “the runner.”

  The only thing wrong with this picture is the pictures. Cat posters on the walls, cat curtains, cat trinkets on the dresser.

  “You really like cats, huh?” Both beds sport identical cat bedspreads.

  “I love cats,” she admits. “Do you know Catman?”

  “Hank’s cousin, right? Nope.”

  “Catman knows everything there is to know about cats,” Kat explains.

  “You don’t say.” I’m barely listening to her as I size up the windows in this room. No locks. Two stories, but one big, climbable tree outside the far window. Easy exit.

  “Yeah,” Kat continues. “Whenever I have a question about cats, I e-mail the Catman, and he always knows the answer.”

  Something moves on one of the bed pillows, and I see it’s a real cat, a kitten that was blending in with all the bedspread cats. It’s small, white, scraggly, and pretty ugly.

  “This is Kitten,” Kat says, tiptoeing toward the scroungy cat. She reaches the bed and sits down without jiggling the pillow. She just sits there, her hands in her lap.

  The kitten eyes her, then backs away. “Kitten is shy,” Kat whispers, without looking at it. “It took three weeks to get her to come inside the house.”

  Slowly, the kitten creeps toward Kat. She waits. She’s so still I don’t think she’s breathing. Finally, the kitten rubs against her leg. Then it puts one paw on her leg. Then the other. After another minute, it settles on her lap, and Kat strokes its matted fur.

  “You can have either bed you want,” Kat tells me.

  I choose the bed she and the cat aren’t sitting on. Fine with me. Closer to the escape window.

  There’s a commotion outside. I hear brakes squeal, a car door slam. Then voices are shouting. Mr. Coolidge’s cry comes through the open window: “Miami! I missed you!”

  A woman’s cry matches his. “My Chester! Come here to me!”

  “Is that Dr. Coolidge?” I ask.

  Kat nods. “That’s Mom.”

  “How long has she been gone?” I ask. I can still hear them declaring how much they’ve missed each other.

  Kat laughs. It sounds like purring. “Mom left early this morning. They do this every day though, even when she doesn’t go in early. You’ll get used to it.”

  Thunderous footsteps sound on the stairs. “Dakota? Where are you?” Annie Coolidge’s curly brown hair appears at the top of the stairs. Before I can answer her, she jogs into the bedroom. “Please forgive me for not being here when you arrived! Surgery. Still, no excuse.”

  “That’s okay, Dr. Coolidge,” I answer.

  “Annie,” she says. “You’re not going to go around calling me Dr. Coolidge. I’m sure not calling you Dr. Brown.” She seems shorter than when I met her in Chicago. And rounder. I can’t imagine being wheeled into the hospital and finding out she’s my surgeon. She’s probably a great doctor, like Ms. Bean said. She just so does not look the part.

  She glances at Kat, who’s still petting the kitten. “Hi, Kat. Hi, Kitten.”

  “Hi, Mom,” Kat answers. “Doesn’t Dakota look good in here?”

  Dr. Coolidge—Annie—narrows her eyes at Kat. “Katharine Elizabeth?”

  Hank bounds up the stairs and sticks his head into the room. “Hey, Mom. Dakota, sorry I bailed on you. I needed to feed the horses. I dropped off your stuff in your room. Is everything okay?”

  I glance around the room, but I don’t see my suitcases. “Where did you put my stuff?”

  He jerks his head down the hall. “Your room.”

  “My room? I thought this was my room.” I glance at Kat. “Our room.”

  “Heavens, no!” Annie Coolidge exclaims. “You have the room next to Kat’s.” She glares at Kat.

  Kat grins at us. “I just told her she could have either bed, and I meant it. Yours to keep, if you like, Dakota.”

  Annie sighs. “Kat, we’ve been through all this. Dakota is almost 16. She needs her own room.”

  “Come on,” Hank says. “I’ll show you which one is your real room.”

  I follow him next door and walk into a room that’s bigger than Kat’s. The floors are dark wood with narrow slats, and there’s a white hooked rug beside the wood bed. The white bedspread makes me think of snowflakes. Sheer white curtains hang on four long windows that open into the trees. I’ve never had a room to myself, and this one is something out of a book.

  “I put your bags in the closet. You and Kat share the bathroom between your bedrooms. Don’t be mad at Kat. She’s just real glad you’re here.”

  “I’m not mad.” But I don’t know what I am. I need to be alone, by myself, so I can think. “I’ve got a headache.” It’s the excuse I always use when I want to be left alone. I’ve been planning all along to use it as soon as I got here. Only this time it’s true. I really do have a headache.

  “Well,” Hank says, ducking to go through the doorway, “lucky for you, there’s a doctor in the house.”

  He starts to call his mom, but I stop him. “Please don’t, Hank. I just need to lie down. I don’t want to make trouble, okay? I just need to rest for a little while. Will you tell them I want to take a nap?”

  I can see him thinking it over. Then he says, “Okay. Your call.” He pulls the door shut as he leaves.

  I hear low voices next door. Then footsteps sound on the stairs, and I know I’m alone. I sit on the bed and feel panic seeping in through the pores in my skin.

  I try to lie down, but my whole body is twitching. There’s no way I’ll fall asleep. After a minute, I give up and climb out of bed. I find my backpack in the closet, drag it onto the bed, then fish out my list-book.

  I have to make a list. I need to make a list.

  I flip through pages until I come to an empty one. Then I slide to the floor, lean against the bed frame, and write:

  Top 10 Reasons Why Dakota Brown Doesn’t Belong on a Nice Farm

  Five

  Top 10 Reasons Why Dakota Brown Doesn’t Belong on a Nice Farm

  1. Nice farm is too far from Nice.

  2. Nice is too far from Chicago or any other city.

  3. Barking dog(s).

  4. Shy, shedding cat.

  5. Who knows what’s in the barn!

  6. No air-conditioning.

  7. Popeye and Annie are too over-the-top lovey-dovey.

  8. Computer is in the kitchen.

  9. People do chores here. Some of them outside.

  10. People on Nice farm are too nice. I’d never fit in.

  It takes me a half hour to come up with my list, and that worries me. I’ve made the same kind of list in the last four foster homes, and each time I performed the task in under 10 minutes. I must be slipping.

  Th
ere’s a tap at my door, so soft I’m not sure I really heard it. Then it comes again.

  “Come in!” I tuck my notebook into my backpack.

  “You’re awake!” Kat sounds way too happy. “Dad cooked fried chicken.”

  “Seriously?” I like fried chicken. No doubt that’s what the folks ate in that Little House on the Prairie, too. Only no way the man of the house would have been the cook.

  “And mashed potatoes and gravy,” Kat adds.

  I can smell it now that the door’s open. Suddenly I’m starving. “Okay.”

  Downstairs, the others are already sitting at the table. Hank and Wes are next to each other, talking. The Coolidges sit at the head and foot of the table, so Kat and I take the two empty seats closest to the kitchen. Hank officially introduces Wes to me.

  I can tell they’re waiting for one of us to say something, so I say, “I like your dog, Wes.”

  Wes’s face transforms from street punk to choirboy. “Rex is the best.” He smiles at the dog, who’s lying patiently beside his chair. “He won’t beg for food at the table, even when we have hamburgers.”

  “Yeah?” I lean so I can see the dog better. His head is between his paws, and his tail is wagging.

  “Wes is a natural dog whisperer,” Hank says. “He’s the one who trained Rex.”

  I’m glad to have the dog to talk about. Otherwise, I’d have no idea what to say. “So, did you have a German shepherd before you came here?”

  “Nah,” he answers. “Unless you count the police dogs I used to run from.”

  Nobody laughs. I’m not sure if he’s kidding or not.

  The food’s sitting on the table: chicken, mashed potatoes, broccoli, biscuits, applesauce. Plus Siamese cat salt and pepper shakers.

  “Lord, what a fine meal this is!” Mr. Coolidge exclaims.

  I start to say something to agree with him when I notice that the others have their heads bowed. Then I get it. He’s praying. I bow my head, but my eyes are wide open.

  “You are so good to us, Father. Thank You for this food and for loving us so much.”

  Mrs. Coolidge chimes in. “And thank You for my wonderful husband, who prepared everything for us.”

  Back to Mr. Coolidge. “And tonight we’re the most thankful to You for bringing Dakota Brown into our home. Help us to be what she needs. We know she’s what we need. Amen.”

  Murmurs of “amen” flicker around the table. Then chairs squeak and laughter and conversation flow over everything.

  I try to act normal, but I’m not sure I’ve ever been prayed for, and I know I’ve never been prayed for at dinner.

  During dinner, I get the feeling Wes is watching me. I think I do okay, answering questions and making small talk. But when dinner is over, Wes carries his dishes to the kitchen, makes a turn to come up behind me, and whispers, “How long you staying?”

  “What?” I ask.

  He leans in so nobody else can hear. “You’re planning on taking off first chance you get, right?”

  “That’s crazy.” I try to laugh, but he’s not buying it.

  “I know the signs,” he says. “Don’t worry. I won’t be sticking around here much longer either.” He calls to Kat. “Your turn to wash.”

  And just like that, the moment passes. But I feel more pressure than ever to make a run for it. What’s to keep Wes from telling them what he knows?

  Hank comes back to clear the table. “Soon as they’re out of the kitchen, I can show you how to get online, if you want. Dad said you were asking about the computer.”

  “Great,” I answer, trying not to sound too anxious. But I am anxious. Neil is my best hope of running away. He’ll be waiting for my e-mail.

  * * *

  It takes an hour to clean up after dinner. There’s no dishwasher, so I grab a towel and help Wes dry.

  “They’re the only white people in the state who don’t have a real dishwasher,” Wes complains, loud enough for the Coolidges to hear. They’re bustling around the kitchen, still putting away food and cleaning counters. “Popeye refuses to get a dishwasher because he calls this ‘quality family time.’”

  “Popeye?” I repeat. I’ve been calling Mr. Coolidge “Popeye” in my head since the first time I met him. But I’d never say it to his face.

  “Isn’t that cute?” Annie Coolidge says, hugging her husband from behind while he struggles to put two bowls into the open fridge. “Wes has always called Chester ‘Popeye.’”

  “What about you, Dakota?” Mr. Coolidge asks. “You can’t go on calling me ‘Mr. Coolidge.’ How does Popeye sound?”

  This is too weird. “I don’t know.”

  “Or ‘Dad,’” Kat offers. She sets the last bowl in the drying rack.

  “Popeye works,” I say quickly.

  Nobody’s clearing out of the kitchen, so I walk outside and sit on the edge of the porch. The sun’s down, but night hasn’t taken over yet. A breeze carries the scent of flowers and grass.

  Hank comes out and sits beside me. For a minute, neither of us says anything. Then he motions toward the barn. “Tomorrow I’ll show you the horses.”

  I don’t say anything. The only horses I’ve been around were plastic toys in one of the homes or pictures in books.

  “Must be tough to land here for the first time,” Hank says.

  I shrug. “I’ve moved around a lot.”

  “Do you remember much about your family?”

  Without thinking, I rattle off the story I tell everybody. “My brother was a lot older than me. He joined the army to help support the family. When he got killed, my mother couldn’t take it. She died that same year, when I was five. Dad stuck it out until I was nine, but he never got over losing my mother.”

  “I’m sorry, Dakota,” Hank says.

  I ache inside, almost as if what I’ve just recounted is true. I’ve told the story so often, it feels like the truth. I can’t really remember my brother, but he was killed in a gang fight. My mom had already run away by then because my dad beat her. I don’t remember her at all. I was nine when my dad died of a liver disease you get from drinking too much.

  “Could we check the computer now?” I ask.

  “Sure.” Hank gets up, and I follow him in. The only light comes from the kitchen. Upstairs, voices and footsteps filter down to us as whispers and creaks.

  Hank moves the mouse, and the computer screen lights up and goes straight into e-mail. “This is Mom’s account, but e-mails from the Pet Helpline come here.”

  He scrolls down to one from Winnie the Horse Gentler. “Great! She got back already.” Hank grins at me. “Mind if I read this one before we get you going?”

  “Go ahead.” I scoot my chair so I can see what this Winnie person wrote.

  Hey, Hank!

  Tell Starlight that Nickers says hi.

  Hank glances at me. “Nickers is her horse. Starlight is mine.” He goes back to the screen:

  Sorry you’re still having trouble with Lancelot. From what you’ve told me, though, I think it’s Lance’s owner who has the problem, don’t you? Tell her to quit looking directly into the gelding’s eyes when she wants to catch him. Don’t let her walk up directly from the front or from behind. Tell her to approach from the side. Then Lancelot will see her coming and won’t be so surprised. That horse sounds smart to me, Hank. There’s a good reason he doesn’t want his owner to catch him.

  Say hi to everybody for me. Catman says, “Peace.”

  Winnie

  “She nailed it.” Hank leans back in the computer chair. “She always does. I’ve read so many books on training horses, but Winnie just knows this stuff.”

  He gets up and turns the computer over to me. “I’ll be out in the barn if you need me.”

  I wait until he leaves, then I go to my e-mail account. As I click my way through pop-up ads and junk offers, my heart starts pounding. Neil said he’d write. He said he’d be working on a way to get me out of here. Neil already has his driver’s license. In another year he’l
l be out of the holding tank home, but he doesn’t want to wait that long. Ever since we’ve known each other, we’ve talked about running away to LA.

  But that’s just the way Neil is. Chances are, he might forget all about me and make plans with other people. People are drawn to Neil.

  I scan through spam claiming to help me lose 50 pounds in 10 days, invest my finances, vote for some politician, enhance my body parts.

  Then I see it. Neil has sent me an e-mail. And the subject line reads: California, here we come!

  Six

  My hands are shaking as I click on Neil’s message. I check over my shoulder to make sure nobody’s watching. Then I read:

  Good news, Dakota! We’ve got a way out to California and a job once we get there. Remember DJ from LA? He’ll fix us up. And it gets better. He’s coming to Chicago for some reunion thing. So you better get on it right now and work out a way to get up here. We’re leaving the Fourth of July. Then we’re home free!

  Neil

  P.S. What’s it like down on the farm? Ha!

  My first reaction is to jump up from the computer chair and scream, “California, here I come!” I jump up, but I don’t scream. And I sit back down. DJ isn’t a guy I’d choose to travel with. I only met him once, and he gave me the creeps. But if he can get me to California, then he’s okay by me.

  I reread Neil’s e-mail. Then I hit Reply.

  Neil, cool! Count me in, and tell DJ to save me a seat to California. One small detail—how am I supposed to get up to Chicago on the Fourth?

  * * *

  The next morning, I wake up to the sound of rushing water. I jump out of bed and glance wildly around the room. It takes me a second to remember where I am and to figure out that the rushing water is only a toilet flushing, the one I share with Kat.

  I grab the blanket off my bed and wrap it around my shoulders. Then I close the windows and wait until I hear Kat leave the bathroom. But when I open my door to the john, her door springs back open.

  “You’re up!” Kat sticks her head in, and it’s all I can do not to gasp. The red hair is gone. In its place is long, straight black hair down to her waist.

  “Your hair?” I say stupidly.