Tuesday, September 7th
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 8th
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 campground, 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 9th
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 10th, 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 wo
uld 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.
Nobody likes feeling like dirt.
Nobody wants to be swept away.
Nobody wants to be hidden under a rug and forgotten.
It wasn’t just the manor that got swept today. It was the whole town, including the church parking lot where the rescue wagon pulls up.
When I arrived, the rescue-wagon woman was hurling wrapped sandwiches through the service window.
“Stop that!” one of the policemen yelled at her.
“You stop it!” she yelled back. “When’s the last time you’ve been hungry, huh?” She hurled another one.
“You’re the reason this town’s got a problem!” the policeman yelled, coming toward her.
“I’m the reason?” She snorted and sidearmed a sandwich. “You’ve got a skewed view of the world, mister!”
“I’m warning you, ma’am. Stop throwing sandwiches or I will have to put you under arrest!”
She stopped and looked at him. “You’re going to arrest me for feeding hungry people?”
“No, ma’am. I’m going to arrest you for interfering with police business.”
She thought for a second, then managed to rapid-fire about ten sandwiches before he charged the rescue wagon and handcuffed her.
Meanwhile, the church pastor was striding across the parking lot, shouting, “What is the meaning of this? These people are in our care. You have no right to do this! This is private property!”
I couldn’t hear what the cop who intercepted him said because I was keeping my distance, looking at all this go down from behind a tree near the church. But the cop showed him some papers and talked a bunch, and even though the pastor argued with him, the cops went ahead and did the same thing they were doing at the manor: checking IDs, letting a few people go, but putting most of them in a paddy wagon.
I lost track of what happened to the rescue-wagon lady. I think they took her away in one of the police cars. But when the parking lot was cleared and the cops were gone, the pastor circled the rescue wagon a couple of times, then closed the service window and went back inside the church.
The rescue wagon might have been closed, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t locked. And since it was 2:00 and I hadn’t eaten all day, I snuck across the parking lot and tried the back door. It opened with a creak, so I climbed in quick and stuffed my backpack full of as much food as would fit.
Now I’m safely back under the beach house, with enough food for the next few days. But the truth is, I’m worried. If they’ve shut down the rescue wagon for good, my plan is in the toilet. I’ll be back to scrounging food and just surviving.
I wonder how thoroughly they’re planning to sweep.
I wonder if they’ll check the corners of town.
And the beaches.
And under porches.
Still Friday, 8:30 p.m.
This is really stupid, but I’ve been thinking about Venus.
What happened when she came home from school? Were there cops waiting for her? Did she freak out when she found out everyone was gone? Is she there now? Does she know what happened to her mother?
I thought about going over to the manor to see if she was all right, but see? That’s stupid.
What do I care?
Saturday, September 11th
I walked from here to the manor, to the church, and back. The beaches and boardwalks are packed with people, but I didn’t see one homeless person. Not on benches, not at the park, not panhandling at the corners, not at the manor…not one.
All of a sudden I’m scared.
What am I going to do if they find me?
And what is my plan so they don’t?
Tuesday, September 14th
For three days I’ve been on the run, cursing the do gooders who discovered me under the porch. “We want to help you,” they said. “You shouldn’t be living like this!”
They weren’t cops or social workers, but I didn’t even have the chance to ask, Uh…what do you have in mind? before one of them moved toward me, saying, “There are social programs that help runaways just like you!”
I’d heard enough. I tore up the embankment and cut across the street before they could catch me.
“Wait! We want to help you!” they called after me.
No, you want someone else to help me. Some social worker somewhere who helps runaways just like me.
Gee.
How kind.
So all I’ve been thinking about for the last three days is what I don’t have. No home, no family, no food, no soap…And I’ve been mad. Really, really mad.
But tonight I was in a market scamming supplies, and just as I’d slid a can of chili into my jacket, one of those gimpy wheelchair guys rolled down my aisle. He was probably about my age, and his mom was pushing him along, putting groceries in a little basket attached to the wheelchair.
The boy’s hands wer
e all inward on top of his tray, and his head was lolling to the side as he made gurgling sounds. His mom could have passed for his grandmother, but I don’t think she was actually that old. She just looked old. Old and tired.
I got out of there, found a safe spot on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and ate cold chili. And all I can think about is how ungrateful I’ve been. I can walk, I’m healthy…. I’ve got a lot more than I think I do.
Why is what you do have so much harder to see than what you don’t?
I think it’s Friday, but I’m not sure
This road I’m following winds along the coastline, and it’s really busy with cars driving at crazy speeds, but other than that it’s got nothing. No trees, no grassy areas, no place to hide. It’s just cliffs down to the sea on one side and cliffs straight up on the other. I don’t even know where it’s taking me. All I know is I’m going north.
I’ve run out of my rations from the market. (This is not a complaint, just a fact.) And since I’m hungry and feeling pretty worn out from walking so much and not sleeping enough, I almost said, Sure, when this man pulled over and asked me if I wanted a ride.
A ride would have been SO nice.
But, like I said before, I don’t hitchhike.
My mom and I used to hitchhike once in a while when the van wouldn’t start, and we never had any problem. People were nice and friendly and helpful. Then came the day that Eddie crashed the van. Mom and I had been hiding out in the woods for hours and hours and hours, but Mom was in a bad way. She was shivering and having the dry heaves, and finally she said, “Baby, I need to get to a doctor.”
So we walked back to the road, and Mom put out her thumb. After a while a dark blue SUV pulled over, kicking up a big cloud of dust. The driver rolled down the passenger window and said, “You need a lift back to town?”
He was friendly and nicely dressed, and my mom managed to smile and say, “Yes. Thanks so much!”