Hey, it was no easy plan to pull off, Ms. Leone. You probably don’t know anything about this because I’m sure you fly everywhere you go, but when a bus is loading, the driver stands at the foot of the steps, taking tickets and checking luggage. He does everything. And it’s hard to sneak on board or into the luggage compartment because he can see both and he watches both. Every driver I’ve seen has had the eyes of a hawk.
So having learned this the hard way, I knew I needed a distraction. And I knew if the distraction worked, I shouldn’t get greedy. I’d been tossed off the bus before when I thought I was safe, and I didn’t want to go through that again.
So what was my distraction?
Well, there was this wire-mesh trash can outside that I made sure was full of crumpled newspapers, and when the bus was in the middle of boarding, I knelt beside it and used my lighter to set it on fire.
It took a little while for it to really get going, and no one noticed it until I told the last guy in line, “Hey, look at that fire.”
“Fire?” he asked, then saw it and shouted, “Fire!”
Once the commotion started and everyone was looking at the fire, I climbed into the luggage hold. It’s huge in here! And since there were already lots of suitcases and boxes and stuff inside, it was easy for me to hide.
I resisted the temptation to watch them put out the fire. Hide and hold, I told myself, hide and hold. Then, after a while, more luggage came clonking in, the door clanked closed, and a few minutes later we were pulling out of the station.
We must be on the interstate now because we seem to be flying along. It’s loud down here, but I’ve shoved a bunch of suitcases together and am using them as a mattress. It’s actually pretty comfortable.
So that’s it. In 26 hours I’ll be in California.
Did you hear me?
California! Where there’s sunshine and beaches and (I’m hoping) sea gypsies galore!
There are almost 20 stops between here and there, and a couple of one-hour layovers, but I picked a no-transfers route, so the same bus goes the whole way! All I have to do is stay hidden when they swap around luggage at the different stations. And since the schedule says the next stop’s not for almost four hours, I’m going to nap while the napping’s good.
Wish me sweet dreams, Ms. Leone!
Almost midnight
Man, I was zonked! I didn’t even know the bus had come to a stop until light came flooding in when they opened the door. Lucky for me, they didn’t pull out luggage right away or I’d have been busted.
Anyway, we’re back on the road now and I’m wide awake, so I’m writing to tell you, Gee, thanks a lot! I ask for sweet dreams and what do I get?
A nightmare.
It went like this: I was running, running, running, through a park, through streets, over an endless bridge…. But halfway across the bridge the police finally nabbed me. They tossed me into a social worker’s office, which at first was a normal office, but then the walls faded away, leaving jail cell bars. The social worker’s desk was piled so high with papers that I couldn’t see her face, but she was saying, “We’re doing this because it’s, like, best for you, Holly. You’ve got to learn to stop stealing, and, like, lying, and being, you know, such a social disaster.”
In my dream I jumped up and looked behind the mountain of papers. And no, it wasn’t Camille-of-the-Future. It was the real-deal Camille!
She was wearing a blood-red suit, her hair was swirled into a bun, she had on bright red lipstick, and she was acting like she was so mature. And behind her, crammed between hundreds of books on a bookshelf, was a picture of you. But when I looked at the picture closer, I saw that it wasn’t just a picture of you.
It was a picture of you…with your arm around me.
Stupid dream.
Tuesday, the 29th
Good thing I’ve got a watch and a schedule, because I’ve lost track of the number of stops we’ve made. But according to my watch and this schedule, it’s high noon and we’re in Arizona. According to my bladder and the temperature inside this luggage compartment, I should get out and find a bathroom and some air-conditioning.
I hope I don’t fry to death down here.
2:00 p.m.
I can’t believe how hot it is in here. I ransacked the luggage and found a big sports bag with a bottle of water in it. I also found a first-aid kit. I think it belongs to the bus because it was by a fire extinguisher and a whisk broom near one of the compartment doors. The good news is that the first-aid kit had an emergency ice pack in it. I’m saving it for when I can’t take the heat anymore, but for now I’ve been drizzling the water in my hair and around my neck. It helps some, but dries so quick I can’t believe it.
I also found a plastic bag in the first-aid kit, and since I was desperate, I relieved myself in that, then tied it off. Glad it’s watertight. (At least it worked a lot better than the empty Gatorade bottle I used this morning.)
3:30 p.m.
I almost just bailed at the last stop. It’s taking everything I’ve got just to breathe. But you know what? The next stop’s California. A place called Barstow.
I’m hoping there are palm trees and sea gypsies and (especially) water.
I did activate the ice pack. It feels SOOOOO good.
I wish I could breathe through it.
Come on, Barstow.
5:30 p.m.
Barstow’s a pit! And it must be in the middle of the bleepin’ desert! The luggage door’s been open for about ten minutes, but it’s not helping at all. I think it’s hotter out there than it is in here!
This is California?
Next stop, Riverside. Translation: city by the river.
Sounds nice.
And it’s got to be better than this!
7:15 p.m.
Well, forget it. I’m staying on this bus to the end of the line. It is starting to cool off a little, and Riverside looked like a total pit, too. Not that you can tell much from the luggage hold of a bus, but I sure didn’t see any palm trees or beaches or families of friendly sea gypsies.
A little before 9:00 p.m.
This is it. The end of the line. We’ve turned into the station, I can tell. I’m in Los Angeles.
The City of Angels!
Unbelievable!
In a few minutes they’ll open the hold.
How will I get out without being arrested?
I have no idea!
(Wish me luck.)
3:00 a.m. (That would make it, what? Wednesday the 30th?)
Checking in to say…Los Angeles is a nightmare! Sand? Surf? Sea gypsies? All there is, is cement! No parks, no schools, no yards…it goes on forever in all directions, it all looks the same, and there’s no place to sleep!
Right now I’m in the scungiest McDonald’s I’ve ever seen. It’s packed with criminals. Not just losers—criminals. A real smorgasbord of drug dealers and gangsters and probably serial killers.
The ones that are freaking me out the worst are this Rastafarian dude two booths over (cloudy, bloodshot eyes, squeezing ketchup packs into his mouth and muttering something about the blood of Christ), this Cro-Magnon monster of a man who’s done nothing but stare at me the whole time I’ve been here, and this group of guys wearing Raiders caps. (They’re amped on something, and I don’t think it’s coffee. I’m also pretty sure one of them’s got a gun.)
So why don’t I just leave?
Because outside’s worse! It’s like some weird horror movie where the ghouls come out at night and walk the streets looking for souls to capture and kill.
And I was being followed, too. Some creepy guys in an old clunker car. Every street I turned down, there they were again. I managed to ditch them for a little while, but they found me again. It freaked me out bad, so I ducked in here.
4:30 a.m., still the night of the living dead
You should see the bathroom. It’s a disaster! Everything’s plugged. Overflowing. Written on. It’s wall-to-wall feces and graffiti.
Lik
e you needed to know that?
Well, go fluff your potpourri, Ms. Leone. This ain’t Neverland.
But speaking of which, I wonder where Disneyland is. I know it’s around here somewhere. I wonder if it’s like an oasis in the middle of a cement-and-graffiti desert.
I don’t care about the rides. I just want some trees and grass. A place to sleep. Wouldn’t that be something? Being a Disneyland gypsy? There are probably all sorts of great places to hide. Maybe I’d sneak into the Pirates of the Caribbean—I’ve heard that’s an awesome ride, with real water and ships and cute little pirate doggies….
Back to the real world:
I’ve changed seats three times. The Cro-Magnon creep has, too. And the only reason I’m writing in this is because I can’t sit here staring at the wall until sunrise, and I sure don’t want to make eye contact with any of the losers in this joint. I’m just trying to look like I’ve got a purpose for being here, that’s all.
In a bizarre way this dive reminds me of my first day in your classroom. I could tell you’d told the class about my “unfortunate background.” Don’t deny it. Knowing you, you told them to be “sensitive to the situation” and used all the concerned-citizen buzzwords. They’re words I’ve heard for years, and guess what, Ms. Leone. They don’t do squat to help the situation.
You want to know what would have helped?
If you’d just kept your mouth shut.
Or maybe if you’d said, “Class, we have a new student joining us tomorrow. Her name’s Holly Janquell, and the two things she loves most in the world are reading and dogs. So if you have a favorite book you’d like to tell her about, or if you have pictures of your dog you’d like to bring in, it might help to make her feel welcome. And remember, it’s not easy transferring to a new school this late in the year, so just pretend it’s you and treat her like you’d want to be treated.”
They still would have snubbed me when you weren’t looking, but it would have been better than having them treat me like a freak.
I’m not trying to rag on you, I actually think it’s funny that being here reminds me of school: all these people looking at me like I don’t belong. Giving me suspicious looks. Or ignoring me but then checking me over, head to toe, when they think I’m not looking. It’s just like school! They don’t understand why I’m here, they don’t like that I’m here, and even though they’ve got their own “issues” to deal with, in the back of their minds they’re going, Somebody get rid of her.
Actually, I wish you could be here because you know what? You’d look around and go, Good God, Holly! This is what school felt like for you? I think something might go click inside your head. (Don’t even tell me you understand. You think you do, but I promise you, you don’t.)
Oh, look! It’s getting light out!
And there are people waiting to cross at the intersection. Real people.
Time to move on!
The night of the living dead is finally OVER.
July 4th
I about had a heart attack when somebody lit off firecrackers. I thought they were gunshots again. What sort of moron lights off firecrackers under a bridge?
I’d lost track, but now I know it’s Independence Day.
Excuse me if I don’t celebrate.
In case you’re wondering, I wasn’t going to write you again until I could say, Eureka! I’ve found surf! Sand! A friendly family of sea gypsies! Life is good! Then I’d cap it all off with a happy little poem and you wouldn’t think I was stupid or crazy or completely naïve.
Tonight I’m the one thinking I’m stupid and crazy and completely naïve.
I can’t keep living like this.
I can’t even talk about it.
This is no City of Angels.
It’s Hell on Earth.
Almost midnight
I thought a lot about the Underground Railroad tonight. Probably because it’s Independence Day, which makes you think about freedom.
You probably figured I wasn’t paying attention when you told us about the Underground Railroad, but I was. I liked the whole story, the whole idea of all these different people making secret rooms and hideouts to help slaves escape to the North. I liked the secret message in the “Drinking Gourd” song that explained how to use the Big Dipper to get to the next safe house. I liked how the escaping slaves learned to keep slave-hunter dogs from tracking them by rubbing their feet with onions. I liked the story about that guy, Fairchild, who put on different disguises to help the slaves and snuck twenty-eight of them to freedom at once by putting them in a hearse and pretending it was a funeral.
But what I’ve been thinking about most is the way your voice quivered when you read what Harriet Tubman had said. (That was her name, right? The slave who was about to be sold and thought she’d never see her family again?) It’s like her words are stuck in my head, speaking through you to me:
“There was one of two things I had a right to: liberty or death. If I could not have one, I would take the other, for no man should take me alive. I should fight for my liberty as long as my strength lasted.”
The way your voice quivered…it’s like you really understood what she’d been through. And I would never have actually told you this, but when you read that to the class, it made my eyes sting.
So why am I bringing this up?
Because I’m hoping you’ll understand this, too:
I’d give anything to find an underground railroad for runaways. I’d give anything to know some people I could trust. I’d give anything to not be so scared and hungry and afraid of being caught.
I’d give anything to be free.
The next day
I’ve decided this is all your fault. I’ve run away before, you know, but I never 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.
July something
I haven’t written in a long time because I didn’t want to actually say how miserable I’ve been. I keep thinking that I’ll get out of here and then tell you about the better place I’ve found. I guess it’s okay to admit you’re miserable if you’ve got some plan to change things. But just saying, “I’m so miserable!” seems helpless and hopeless and whiny. Like something Camille would do.
I have totally lost track of what day it is. I have no money because my second day here I got tackled by some hoodlums and they ripped me off. Every cent. At the time I was so scared that they were going to hurt me bad or kill me that I was glad they only took my money. But now I’m stuck in a vicious cycle of wasting the day finding food, eating, sleeping, then waking up hungry again.
I can’t seem to find my way out of this place. Normally I’ve got a pretty good sense of direction. I just use the sun and the time of day, and I get pretty close. But around here the sun doesn’t really show itself. The sky is foggy sometimes, smoggy most times, and the buildings are tall and block the sky. I walk and walk and walk, and I think I know where I’m going, but it’s so loud and dusty and intense here, and somehow I wind up getting turned around.
Los Angeles is huge. It has places where freeways crisscross above each other four or five levels high. Places where there is nothing but roads going every which way for as far as the eye can see. And you can’t tell where a road will lead because they’re not laid out in a grid. They curve. Some loop clear around. I feel so disoriented. Like I’ve been swallowed up by a dirty, heartless, cement-and-asphalt monster that has freeways for arteries and cars for blood.
I also haven’t been able to do any of the survival things I’m used to being able to do. I have yet to see a 7-Eleven, and all the gas stations have bulletproof-looking kiosks where people pay for gas. No store, no posted maps…some of them don’t even have people working in t
hem. They’re totally automated.
I did hear about a place called The People’s Church. It supposedly gives food and shelter to the needy, but I haven’t been able to find it.
Why don’t I just ask someone?
Well, when you’re twelve and you’re homeless…CRUD! I’m NOT homeless. I’m a gypsy! A GYPSY! I am…
Gutsy and fearless!
Yesterday’s jailbreak!
Plucky like a pirate!
Shrewd and speedy!
Yearning to be free!
I am a GYPSY!
And when you’re a twelve-year-old gypsy, you can’t ask, “Excuse me, sir. I heard there’s a church that offers shelter and food to those in need…can you tell me where it is?” They’ll get all nosy or call the police and pretty soon you’re back in the system, locked in a closet.
I have asked a few people, “Excuse me, is there a church nearby?” but they’ve all said the same thing as they’ve hurried away: “A church? Around here?”
Nobody stands still in this city. Not even the homeless. Everybody seems scared of everybody else. The shops all have bars on their windows and security guards posted at the doors. I haven’t been able to lift any food because the few markets I’ve seen are all on high alert.
So I might as well just tell you: I’ve been eating from trash cans.
And nothing’s been from above the rim.
Go ahead and be revolted, see if I care. I can’t fight for my liberty if I’m starving (which I am). I need strength if I’m going to last (which, if Harriet Tubman did, so can I). And if that means eating from the trash, that’s what I’m going to do.
It’s called survival.
Wednesday, July 28th (if the newspaper I saw is today’s, anyway…)
Remember I told you how I lose my sense of direction in this place? Well, today I thought I was walking west, but I was actually walking east. And instead of finding a church with a shelter, I found the Los Angeles River.