Runaway by Wendelin Van Draanen Page A

plus a tennis court, a swimming pool, and the most beautiful purple-flowered trees I’ve ever seen.
    It’s nice here.
    Real nice.
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    Same backyard, a couple days later
    There’s a girl who gets a tennis lesson every day at 10:00. I may not know her, but I still hate her.
    Picture this: white tennis skirt and tank top, spotless shoes, a white sun visor, sweat bands around both wrists, and sleek hair pulled back into a perfect braid.
    Oh, you’re thinking, poor you. You’re jealous.
    Okay, I admit it. I am a little. But that’s not why I hate her. I hate her because she’s snotty and whiny. I hate her because she’s got opportunity but no drive. That little diva doesn’t even
try.
You should hear her talk back to the instructor: “You hit it too hard!” “I’m not doing backhand today!” “My ankle hurts!” “You
told
me to do it like that. Make up your mind!”
    I’d like to slap her silly! If I could switch places with her, I’d work my heart out. I’d listen. I’d sweat. I’d
try.
    Switching places with her would be funny, actually. Her living in the shrubs, me in the house? Sort of like
The Prince and the Pauper,
only it’d be
The Princess and the Gypsy.
I’d enjoy the good life, she’d learn to eat out of garbage cans. I’d become a tennis pro, she’d learn to regret not appreciating what she had.
    Nice thought, but it’s not going to happen. Reality is, I’m stuck in the bushes. Reality is, I spend my whole day thinking about food and shelter and about how not to get caught. Reality is, I may have survived two months as a gypsy, but I’ve got six more years to go before I can get a job and rent an apartment and buy real food.
    Six more
years.
    Am I really going to keep doing this for six more years?
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    Okay. The princess’s lesson is over now, and I’m going to say this because I’m hoping it’ll help me sort things out:
    I don’t want to watch other people play tennis for six years. I can barely stand doing it for three days.
    I don’t want to eat other people’s garbage for six
years.
    I don’t want to run and hide and lie and steal for six
years.
    I don’t want to feel this all-alone.
    I don’t want to be this
bored.
    That’s it, right there. That’s the one that’s bugging me the most. I’m bored. If my stomach’s not aching and I’m not tired or scared or on the run, I’m sitting around with nothing to do. Why do you think I write in this thing? And six more
years
of this? I don’t know if I can take that. And then what? When I’m finally eighteen, how am I going to get a job? I haven’t even finished elementary school! Nobody’s going to hire me. So where’s that leave me? On the streets? Sleeping in bushes, eating out of trash cans?
    Well, at least I’d be able to get into shelters, but I don’t
want
to live in shelters. I want a home! I want a dog! I want someplace where I belong.
    And you know what? While I’m actually saying all this, I’m going to tell you something else. When I grow up, you know what I’d really, really love to be?
    A dog doctor.
    Forget cats, forget horses, I’d be a veterinarian who specialized in dogs. I’d be the best, too. People would come from miles around because they’d heard about Dr. Holly Janquell’s special way with dogs.
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    I can’t believe I actually told you that.
    I’m a homeless girl, hiding in the bushes, dreaming about becoming a vet.
    How pathetic is that?
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    Two (?) days later
    This is a weird neighborhood. Everyone’s got a full-blown park for a backyard (and some for a front yard), but you rarely see anyone around. Cars zoom by on the main road, but the “estates”