Why Me? by Sarah Burleton Page A

at the top of the steps with her arms crossed and a smirk on her face. I looked her right in the eyes, almost defiantly, and held her gaze.
              “Sarah, where were you last night?” asked my principal.
    Without breaking my gaze from my mother’s eyes, I answered, “I don’t think that’s any of your business.” I knew I sounded disrespectful, but at that point I didn’t care. My mother had conned two people who should have been protecting me, my principal and a sheriff, into believing that I was a truant, a runaway, and that I should be punished. What did it matter what I said to these people now?
    “What do you want done, Mrs. Burleton?” the sheriff asked Mom.
    “I want her arrested. Teach her a lesson!” retorted Mom. She broke her gaze from mine to look directly at the sheriff.
    The sheriff cocked his head and gave Mom a confused look. He said, “Why don’t we just leave her here for the day, and you make sure she comes home after school?”
    Mom shook her head defiantly. “NO! Absolutely not! She is a threat to me and my family. She is smoking, on drugs, and running away now. I want her OUT!”
    I looked at Mom and shook my head. Now she was accusing her own daughter of being a drug addict and begging the police to arrest her. I wanted to rush up the stairs and hit Mom as hard as I could, to make her hurt like she always made me hurt. But I smartly chose to stand quietly as the sheriff walked toward me. “Put your hands behind your back,” he ordered in a low voice.
    A crowd of students had gathered behind Mom at the top of the stairs. I glanced up at their shocked faces and at Mom standing in front of them with her arms crossed and a look on her face that plainly said, “I won!” Then I couldn’t bear to look anymore. I hung my head and allowed the sheriff to lead me out of the school to his patrol car.
    After the sheriff had loaded me into the back of the patrol car and pulled away, he turned around and said, “Get a good look, because this will probably be the last time you see this place.”
    “What is that supposed to mean?” I demanded.
    “You’re probably headed to a foster home,” he answered and then turned back around.
    I sat back in my seat and leaned my head on the headrest. “Whatever happens, happens. Whatever it takes, I’ll be OK if I don’t have to live at home anymore,” I thought to myself. At this point, anything—even a foster home—would be better than living with that woman.
    Not another word was spoken between the sheriff and me for the rest of the ride. We pulled up to the county jail, and the sheriff got me out of the back of his squad car and led me in. “Just sit in this holding cell until we figure out what to do with you,” he ordered, taking off my handcuffs.
    I was put into a holding cell that was used as a drunk tank on weekends. The walls were brown, the sink was rusted, and the cot looked as if it had years of urine stains on it. But even in this horrible environment, I was encouraged. It wasn’t home; it wasn’t Mom. At least here I wouldn’t be beaten.
    I sat on that urine-stained cot for what seemed like eight hours before the sheriff came back and opened the door. “Your father is here to collect you. Hope you stay out of trouble,” he said as he stepped aside to let me out of the holding cell.
    I smiled at him and shook his hand as I walked past. At the end of the hallway, I saw Dale Richard waiting for me. “At least Mom isn’t here,” I said to myself.
    Dale Richard didn’t say a word as I approached; he just turned on his heel and headed toward the front door. I followed with trepidation, and the closer I got to Dale Richard ’s car, the more nervous I became. I didn’t know what to expect, what was going to happen to me. I felt like a caged lion looking for a way out.
    Dale Richard got in and started the engine. I got into the passenger seat, pulled my legs up into my chest, and stared out the window to avoid