Anyway, it may be awful, I wouldn’t know. (Although could it be any worse than the example on your handout? Who speaks with ’tis and thou and thee anymore? Honestly, Ms. Leone, you need to update your sheet.)
But awful or not, here it is:
THE BALLAD OF LADY LOUISE
By a new moon was born a sweet baby, Louise,
So innocent, perfect, and precious was she!
She learned how to curtsy, say thank you and please,
The bonnie young baby Louise.
The girl, she grew quick and so did her hair,
It tumbled in ringlets right down to her chair!
“Oh my, but the lass is so lovely and fair,
We must call her Lady Louise.”
Soon suitors came calling with chocolates so creamy,
She ate sweets and thought each young man was quite dreamy.
But a renegade boy is who made her all steamy,
That naughty young Lady Louise!
She ran off with him and the story turns sad,
For dashing or not, the boy was a cad!
And not at all ready to be a new dad,
He left our poor Lady Louise.
She blossomed into an enormous bouquet,
People gossiped and gasped, “She must be due any day!”
But triplets take room and were still months away,
The babies of Lady Louise.
When her children were born, they were instantly taken,
’Twas best all around, but were they mistaken?
For the void left her lost and terribly shaken,
The heartbroken Lady Louise.
Years wandering streets she would call out their names,
Her efforts were futile, were lost, all in vain.
Still it howls through the night on the wind of her pain,
The voice of poor Lady Louise.
Now the moon is half full and so is her head,
And many believe she’d be better off dead.
But she waits at the station and hopes to be fed,
The homeless old lady, Louise.
Well, I just read that over and you know what? You may hate it, but I kind of like it. Except that it’s sad. And I can’t believe I used ’Twas. I had to, though. Nothing else fit.
Funny thing, too: I don’t know what Louise K. Palmer’s real story is, but in my mind now, that’s it.
I hope no one ever writes “The Ballad of Holly Janquell.”
Or if they do, that it’s funny. And full of sass.
Hey! “The Ballad of Gypsy Janquell”…that would be good!
There once was a gypsy so clever and spry
Your pockets she’d pick in the wink of an eye
And if asked the truth, she surely would lie,
The Gypsy of…
Well, crud. I can’t think of a rhyme. And double crud because I can’t believe I’m wasting my time trying. Like I haven’t spent the whole day doing this? I’d better not start thinking in stanzas, you hear me? I would be really, really ticked off if I started thinking in stanzas.
Monday, June 14th, 5:00 a.m.
I can’t sleep. This place is a nightmare. No one’s allowed to smoke inside the shelter, but they all smoke outside all day, then hack up their smoky lungs all night. The air reeks. I feel like I’m breathing in death and disease.
So I’ve decided: I’m taking a shower, I’m packing my stuff, and after breakfast, Louise or not, I’m out of here. I probably won’t be able to come back, but so what? I’ll be good for another week. Maybe two. And Louise won’t miss me. She doesn’t even seem to know who I am half the time. Besides, that day-shelter manager’s definitely got a bee in her britches where I’m concerned, and I don’t want to push my luck.
7:30 a.m.
Diversionary tactic. Write in the journal. Look calm. Act normal. Don’t make eye contact….
Why?
There are cops here! They’re cruising through the tables looking for someone.
Please not me, please not me, please not me…
7:45 a.m.
They just left. All they did was look and leave.
“Adieu! Au revoir!” Loony Louise croaked after them.
I’m not delaying this any longer. I’m grabbing some supplies and I’m out of here.
Tuesday, June 22nd
It’s been over a week? Well, I guess I’m bored again, is why I’m writing. Not that I haven’t been bored during the week, but I scored some books at the library, so that’s been a lot more entertaining than writing in this thing.
I guess I’m also writing because I need to bounce some ideas around. Life in the park isn’t as peachy as it was a week ago. I’ve been getting The Look from people who’ve seen me more than once, and they’ve stopped letting me near their dogs. Not that I’ve been hanging out in the same spot every day, but the park seems to be getting smaller by the minute.
I’ve also noticed cops cruising by a lot.
I keep having to hide.
It makes me very, very nervous.
So what am I going to do? I can’t go back to the shelter, and I can’t stay here much longer. I’ve either got to find someplace else to hang out or move on.
See? Just talking about it makes me know what I should do.
It’s time to move on.
Wednesday morning (the 23rd)
So here I am at the bus depot, waiting. And you know what? I am totally freaked out. I was in the middle of figuring out the Greyhound schedule, because I’ve got a great plan to get a free ride and I wanted to make sure I stowed away on the right bus, when this guy came up to me and said, “Real sorry about your mother.”
It was like a slug to the gut by a ghost. It hurt bad, but it also didn’t feel real.
Nobody had to tell me this guy was homeless. Scraggly beard, hunched posture, missing teeth, sun-baked face—he had homeless written all over him.
But how could he know my mother? How could he be this far from home in the same bus station as me? How could he even recognize me? I’d changed a lot since my mom had died.
“She looked so peaceful,” he said. “Like an angel.”
She had looked peaceful.
Just like an angel.
Which had made it torture to let go of her. The police had had to pry me away.
So while I was thinking about that, the man pressed four dollars on me and whispered, “It ain’t much, but I hope it helps.”
I think I was in shock, but as he walked away it dawned on me that he wasn’t talking about my mother.
He was talking about Louise.
I wanted to call out, “Wait! Are you sure? What happened?”
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t take knowing.
When he’d gone around the corner, I told myself, Get a grip, Holly! The guy’s just demented. A schizo. An old meth-head. An Ecstasy casualty.
But in my gut I know that isn’t so.
You know what? When I started writing this entry, I was totally freaked out. But right now I’m doing okay because I’ve decided that if Louise did die, she died happy. Clean hair, clean clothes, warm soup…And I can just picture her arriving at the pearly gates, curtsying for Saint Peter and saying, Bonjour, monsieur!
How could he refuse to let her in?
And you know what else? I’ve come up with a final stanza to her poem. Working on it felt better than crying. It felt…nice.
Are you ready?
Here it is:
So comb out the knots of this tangly tale,
For the angels have come and their ship’s set to sail.
They’ve got her on board looking peaceful and pale,
Adieu, au revoir, sweet Louise.
Now if that lousy bus would show up, I might be able to blow this joint.
Wednesday night
Well, crud. I didn’t have a prayer of a chance on the first westbound bus. And I got thrown off the second one. It was so comfy inside, too! Tall, soft seats, plenty of room to stretch out…talk
about the lap of luxury! Man, I wish I could buy a ticket.
But forget that. I bought a one-dollar double cheese-burger instead. And even though this McDonald’s where I am is open 24 hours, I’m beat. I need to get some sleep.
But where?
I’m afraid to go back to the park because I’m sure the cops are on the lookout for me. Especially if Louise really is dead. I can just hear the conversation:
Cops: I was told she had next of kin. A daughter?
Day Manager: That girl wasn’t her daughter. She just latched on to her for a free meal. I did some checking and found the girl’s picture in the runaway database. Here’s a copy.
Cops: Thanks. You’ve been a big help.
Day Manager: You need to find her so we can get her back into foster care.
Cops: Will do.
I should have left a week ago.
I can’t believe it. I’m actually thinking about going back to the bridge. It seems like a lifetime ago that Frankie chased me off with a stick. And what’s weird is, right now being back at the bridge seems safer than staying in the park.
I do not want to get picked up by cops.
I’d way rather defend myself against a man with a stick than a social worker with good intentions.
Sunday, June 27th
I’m still in the same town and you’re going to laugh, because you know where I’ve been living since Wednesday night?
A school!
I was heading for the park when I saw this SCHOOL crossing sign and thought, Hey, maybe I’ll sleep at the school. It’s summertime, right? The place will be deserted.
It turned out to be a high school, and it’s big. After walking around awhile, trying all the doors, I spotted an open window on the back side of the gym. It was way up high, but right underneath it was this big storage cage they’d built for trash cans and other junk that I guess they don’t want people messing with. So I climbed the cage, pulled the window open as far as it would go, and squeezed through.
I wound up in the girls’ locker room, and you know what? It’s perfect! There are mats to sleep on, showers with hot water, toilets that flush, and the gym teachers’ office is loaded with stuff. Books, a radio, a TV that plays movies (which there’s a whole shelf of!), a microwave (and popcorn to go with it!), a refrigerator (with yogurts, burritos, fruit cups, Cokes…yum!).
I could live the rest of my life here.
Monday, June 28th
I came into the office this morning and tidied up because my garbage was spread everywhere. And while I was doing that, you know what I found?
A phone.
It’s one of those big ones with two hold buttons and a bunch of different lines. I found it stashed in a desk drawer, of all places.
At first I thought it was just an old dead phone, but when I pulled it out, there were cables attached, and when I held up the receiver and pushed the LINE 1 button, I got a dial tone.
So I’ve been sitting at this desk for the longest time, thinking. And it’s really bummed me out, because of all the millions of people there are in this world, I have no one to call.
No one.
Still the 28th, 2:30 p.m.
I hate cheerleaders. I bet you were a cheerleader, huh, Ms. Leone? Popular, friendly, pretty, enthusiastic.
Yeah. You were a cheerleader.
Camille’s going to be one, too. Like there’s any doubt? I actually saw a Camille-of-the-Future today. Little pleated skirt, red and white pom-poms, blinding white shoes…but it was her voice that made think of Camille. She talked just like Camille.
How’s that, you ask?
Well, check this out. This is what the rah-rah girls were saying (and don’t tell me you can’t tell which one’s Camille-of-the-Future):
“Ms. Sanders says someone’s been, like, living in here!”
“Seriously? Who?”
“Like, some homeless creep! She says he’s been sleeping on the gymnastics mats!”
“Oh, gross!”
“He’s, like, eaten all her food! And she thinks he might, like, still be in here!”
“Really?”
“Yes! She, like, heard something crash when she unlocked the door.”
“Maybe we should get out of here?”
“And leave her, like, alone with him? Besides, she’s, like, already called the police. They’ll be here any minute!”
See? You know which one’s Camille, admit it. And I got this wonderful reminder of how much I missed my very best friend in the whole wide world, because the cheerleaders were having their little gossip session right by my hiding place.
The minute I’d heard people coming into the locker room, I’d cut and run, but I couldn’t make it to the back door in time, and the only place I could find to hide and hold was a full-length locker.
There was barely enough room for me, let alone my backpack. I wish I’d used the backpack as a seat, but I didn’t have time to think that through. I wound up folded at the knees and neck, hugging my backpack. By the time the police arrived, I’d gone from feeling like a sardine in a tin can to feeling like a pretzel of pain in a coffin.
The cops looked around awhile, then one of them started asking that Ms. Sanders lady questions.
Cop: There’s a back door, correct?
Ms. Sanders: It’s locked.
Cop: And the door to the gym?
Ms. Sanders: It was locked, too.
Cop: But you can exit either way without a key?
Ms. Sanders: Correct.
Cop: Is there access from here to the boys’ side?
Ms. Sanders: No.
Cop: You said the phone was used?
Ms. Sanders: Yes, sir.
Cop: That might get us somewhere. [Pause.] But no vandalism?
Ms. Sanders: Not that I’ve seen.
And here’s where Camille-of-the-Future came skidding up to them, squealing, “Look what I found, look what I found!”
And what do you suppose she’d found?
My backup undies.
Of course she held them out like they were putrid and revolting, but all they were was tattered and damp. I’d washed them and hung them to dry over a stall divider in the bathroom.
Through the vent, I could see the cop take them and inspect the size tag, and I thought, Oh, crud!
Damp meant they were recently washed.
The size meant he was dealing with a kid.
And the type meant the kid was a girl.
I was totally busted.
Sure enough, he sighed and said, “It looks like your visitor was a girl we’ve been trying to track.”
“A runaway?” Ms. Sanders asked him.
He nodded. “Her name’s Holly. She ran away from foster care.”
“How old?” Ms. Sanders asked.
“Twelve.”
All the cheerleaders gasped. Then Camille-of-the-Future asked, “Is she, like, dangerous? Armed? Into drugs?”
The cop didn’t answer her questions. Instead, he said, “If you see her around, just call us. Do not approach her or try to befriend her.”
“Because she’s, like, dangerous, armed, and into drugs?”
Again, the cop didn’t answer. He just said, “Because we don’t know how she’ll react. Just call us.”
The other cop had been combing the locker room, and one of the things he’d done was open and close a bunch of full-length lockers. But the locker room was big, so after a while he stopped.
When they were done talking, Ms. Sanders walked the cops out, and the instant she was gone, the cheerleaders got all gaspy and gossipy about homeless people:
“I was walking by Macy’s? And I, like, accidentally touched one! It was so, so gross!”
“My mom bought this homeless guy a sandwich once, and when she drove past him later, she saw him feeding it to his dog!”
“Last week there was one laying on the sidewalk right around the corner from where I get my nails done! I thought he was dead!”
“I saw one passed out at that
bus stop by the mall? He was lying in a puddle of pee!”
“Ooh! Gross!”
When Ms. Sanders came back, she told the rah-rah girls to get into the gym. They scurried out, and suddenly it was very, very quiet.
I was dying to get out of that locker. I was pinched and aching and my feet were numb, but I told myself to hold. Give it another few minutes. Make sure everyone’s really gone. Hold.
And then I heard Camille-of-the-Future’s voice whispering, “Holly? You can come out…we won’t hurt you….” She walked right past me. “Holly? You don’t have to be afraid, we want to help you….”
That made me so mad. She got grossed out just brushing up against a homeless guy, and I was supposed to believe that she wanted to help me? What a phony!
Ms. Sanders came to my rescue, calling, “Liz! Out here now!”
After that it was quiet again. And when my body just couldn’t hold anymore, I worked up the latch and eased out of the locker.
At first I could barely walk. But I hobbled into the bathroom and hid in a stall until blood had found its way back into all the pinched-off places. Then I let myself out the back door, climbed a fence, and beat it out of there, checking for cops the whole time.
And now I’m back at the Greyhound station, waiting for the 6:55 bus to take me west.
I am going to get on board this time.
I’ve got a plan.
Not a foolproof plan, but it’s better than the last one.
What makes me nervous is, it involves fire.
Same day, 7:15 p.m.
I am so stoked! And I’m wasting battery power to tell you that I am on board the Greyhound bus, heading west!
Why are you wasting battery power, you ask? Don’t Greyhound buses have reading lights for their passengers?
Why, yes, they do. If you happen to be riding above. But I’m not riding above. I’m in the luggage hold.
The Stowaway Gypsy strikes again!