Runaway Read online

  “Awesome! Chester said his parents used to take his brother and him to this very restaurant when they were kids, but only for special occasions. The Coolidges still celebrate birthdays at the Made-Rite.” She smiles into the rearview mirror. “When’s your birthday, Dakota? I know I have it here somewhere.” She starts to rummage through the folders scattered across the front seat. The car wanders into the wrong lane.

  “July 4,” I say quickly, before she crashes into a mailbox.

  “Well, of course. How could I forget? Less than two weeks away. I’ll bet you can celebrate at the Made-Rite and then watch Nice fireworks on your birthday.”

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  Neither of us talks as she tries to pass a truck on a barely two-lane blacktop road. As soon as she succeeds in passing, she slams on the brakes and turns onto a gravel road. White dust kicks up like dry fog. “Won’t be long now.”

  I prepare myself. I’ve been through this enough times. Everyone is super sickly sweet on Drop-Off Day. I just want to get it over with.

  We bounce off the gravel road and onto a dirt lane. It’s a long driveway, ending at a standard grayish farmhouse.

  “We’re here!” Ms. Bean exclaims, as if I hadn’t guessed. Then she slams on her brakes.

  In front of us, blocking the drive, is a scene I’d never have expected on Drop-Off Day, not even in inner-city Chicago. In front of us, Hank is screaming at a kid half his size. The kid is wired, yelling back and looking like he could take Hank with one hand tied behind his back. At their feet, a giant German shepherd is barking and lunging at the shorter kid, while a shriek fills the air, as if from an invisible girl gone stark-raving mad.

  Every family I’ve lived with, even the good ones, bent over backwards to impress social workers. All of us kids had to be on our best behavior when the social worker showed up. So if this is the family’s best behavior, I am in serious trouble.

  Three

  I think fast and lock my door. Ms. Bean hasn’t moved since she stopped for the “show” in the driveway. Even with the windows up, I can hear the guys yelling at each other. But I can’t make out the words, maybe because of that eerie screaming in the background.

  Cautiously, I crack open my window for better eavesdropping.

  “If it’s such a big deal, you do it!” the shorter kid shouts. He’s dressed like half the guys I know in Chicago—black cap backwards, black T-shirt, low-riding jeans.

  “Why should I do it?” Hank waves his arms like he’s trying to fly.

  “Your farm,” the kid answers, crossing his arms and sticking out his chin.

  I have to admit that there’s something kind of cool about watching two people yell at each other . . . when one of them isn’t me.

  “Well, you live here!” Hank shouts. “I do 10 times as much work around this place as you do.”

  “So? You wanna fight about it?” The kid raises his fists.

  Out of nowhere comes stocky Chester Coolidge. All that’s missing is the opened can of spinach and the Popeye theme song.

  This is getting good.

  Mr. Coolidge wedges himself between the boys. “Enough.”

  They stop but keep glaring at each other over Mr. Coolidge’s bald head.

  Ms. Bean springs into action. She opens her door, but I notice that she keeps one foot in as she stands and waves. “Hello? We’re here!”

  I hop out of the car and walk toward them because I don’t want to miss the look on Coolidge’s face when he sees he’s been caught by the social worker.

  “Hey! Great! You made it!” He waves and smiles, as if he’s not embarrassed or flustered at all. As if we didn’t just catch him breaking up a fight between his bio son and his foster son—a huge social worker no-no. “Hang on a minute. Be right there!” he calls.

  “That’s Wes,” Ms. Bean whispers, pointing to the short African American kid with the barking dog.

  At least the invisible girl has stopped screaming.

  “I’m not mowing!” Wes snaps. The big dog barks louder, its tail wagging. “Let ‘big brother’ Hank do it. It’s his lawn. Not mine. Or you do it yourself.”

  Hank starts to say something but stops with one look from Popeye.

  “I’d be pleased to mow the lawn, Wes,” Mr. Coolidge says. “In truth, I enjoy mowing. Lets you see where you’ve been and where you must go.” He reaches over and strokes the big dog’s head. The dog stops barking.

  Wes narrows his eyes, and I think he’s going to ask what the catch is. I would. Then he sticks out his lip in that street-smart pose. “Yeah? That’s just fine then. You like mowing so much, go for it. ’Cause I’m not doing it.” He smirks at Hank, like he’s won the argument.

  “It’s just a shame you won’t have the opportunity to mow again for a whole week, unless we get more rain.” Mr. Coolidge glances up at the sky.

  “Yeah, that’s real bad news, all right,” Wes says with admirable sarcasm.

  “I’m truly sorry about that, Wes,” Mr. Coolidge says. He seems so sincere.

  Wes looks thrown off by Mr. Coolidge. “What are you sorry about? I’m getting me a week off.”

  Mr. Coolidge nods. “This is true.” He sighs. “No mowing. No TV. No Internet. No computer games.”

  “What are you talking about?” Wes demands. The dog nudges his arm and barks twice.

  “You know how it works, Wes,” Mr. Coolidge replies, his voice even, with that touch of regret. “Package deal—chores and privileges. I’m just sorry your main chore only comes around once a week. Means you don’t get the opportunity to employ the package for an entire week.”

  Wes huffs and shuffles his feet. “Fine!” He pulls a leash out of his pocket and snaps it to the collar of the barking dog. “Come on, Rex. Let’s get out of here.”

  Wes looks so angry stomping across the yard that I wonder if he’ll just keep on walking and never come back. The four of us stare after him—Hank and his dad, me and the social worker.

  “Isn’t Wes something?” Mr. Coolidge observes. He says it as if Wes has just won a trophy for walking old ladies across the street.

  “Well,” Ms. Bean begins, “I suppose he does have a long way to go.”

  “That boy is doing great!” Mr. Coolidge smiles straight at the social worker. “Did you see the way he walked that dog without even being told? No way he would have done that a month ago.” He turns to Hank. “Right, Son?”

  “That’s for sure,” Hank says. He doesn’t sound angry anymore. If I didn’t know better, I’d think there was a sort of pride, or admiration, in his voice too. “That dog loves Wes.”

  Mr. Coolidge is animated now, like a cartoon Popeye. “Rex is the best thing that ever happened to Wes. That dog knows when Wes is getting angry before any of us, before Wes himself. It’s like Rex is a smoke detector for Wes’s fiery anger. Did you see the way the dog barked to warn Wes about his temper? Wes didn’t listen this time, but still.”

  I thought it was strange that the dog barked only at Wes, not at Hank or Mr. Coolidge.

  “And Wes is the best thing that could have happened to Rex,” Hank adds. “You should have seen that poor dog when Wes found him, scrawny and battered. Somebody dumped him out on the road.”

  “That’s terrible!” Ms. Bean exclaims.

  “Wes nursed him back to health,” Hank continues. “It was the first time we’d seen that soft side of him. They’ve been a team ever since.”

  I’ve never had a pet. But it makes me crazy when I see people picking on animals just because they can. “Did you ever find out who hurt the dog?” I ask.

  Hank shakes his head. “We almost never do. People dump all sorts of pets out here. They know we’ll take care of them.”

  “Remember that 101 Dalmatians movie?” Mr. Coolidge bursts into a laugh that sounds like tree branches cracking in a hurricane.

  Hank grins. “Every time they show that movie, we know we’re in for trouble. I think we’ve ended up with almost 101 dalmatians dumped on our doorste
p. Kids beg for a spotted puppy, but after a few weeks of spotted carpets, parents are ready to get rid of the pets, and kids have moved on to the next movie.”

  “Chihuahuas!” Mr. Coolidge lets out that laugh again.

  Ms. Bean glances at me and looks like she’s about to split her sides trying not to laugh.

  “Taco Bell commercial,” Hank explains. “We still get collies when they come out with a new Lassie movie and retrievers when they show that other movie . . . what is it? Oh yeah, Air Bud. There’s a Saint Bernard movie they run every now and then too. Man, I hate pet movies.”

  I glance around, expecting to see hundreds of Chihuahuas, dalmatians, retrievers, and Saint Bernards roaming the property.

  As if he’s reading my mind, Mr. Coolidge says, “We manage to adopt out nearly all our charges, sooner or later.” He turns toward me and claps his hands. “Dakota Brown! Welcome!”

  “Thanks?” I glance at Ms. Bean and wonder if hiding in her trunk might not be such a bad idea after all.

  “Miami phoned to apologize deeply.” Mr. Coolidge says this to me and looks like he’s waiting for a response.

  “Miami?” I’ve never been there and can think of no reason why the city would want to apologize to me.

  “Ha!” He lets out that crack of laughter. “My Annie! Not Miami! My Annie phoned to say how sorry she is that she couldn’t make it home in time to greet you.”

  It still sounds like Miami when he says it. I shrug.

  “She promises to make it up to you, and Miami always keeps her promises.”

  “Bags in the car?” Hank asks, moving toward the trunk.

  “Thank you, Hank,” Ms. Bean says, close on his heels.

  I have only two suitcases. Ms. Bean gets my pack out of the backseat. When I hear the clunk of the trunk slamming shut, I shudder. This is all getting too real.

  “Will you stay for dinner, Ms. Bean?” Mr. Coolidge asks.

  There’s a part of me that’s screaming, Yes! Please! Please stay! Don’t go! Not that I’m such a Ms. Bean fan or anything. Maybe it’s the old “misery loves company” thing. I’m miserable, and I don’t want to be left here alone.

  The social worker glances at her watch. “I wish I could. But I have to get back to the city. I can’t believe how late it is. It took me a lot longer getting here than I thought it would.” She turns to me. “Are we forgetting anything, Dakota?”

  Yes! Me!

  I shrug.

  “I’ll take your bags on in,” Hank says.

  I stare after him as he struggles toward the old farmhouse. I’ve barely glanced at it, as if it doesn’t have anything to do with me. But now my stuff is going in there. And I’m supposed to go with it. The house is so not me. Too Nice. Too old-fashioned. Too old, period. The trees spreading branches across the steep, sloped roof must be a hundred years old.

  “Dakota?” Ms. Bean says this like she’s already said it a few times.

  I should be used to this by now, shouldn’t I? This is my eighth foster stopover. I don’t have a home to be homesick for. Besides, it’s not like Ms. Bean and I are family, or even friends. It’s not like I’ll miss her. I almost wish that I would miss her. Then I’d have a reason for the empty feeling in my gut right now.

  Maybe it’s just that every time I’m dumped somewhere new, it hits me hardest that I’ve got nobody old to miss.

  Four

  “Dakota?” Ms. Bean comes over and stands beside me. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure,” I say. And as I say it, I know it’s one of the biggest lies I’ve ever told. Not one of the worst, but definitely one of biggest. Might as well follow it with another one. “I was just admiring the farmhouse.”

  Mr. Coolidge blushes. “Well, it’s nothing fancy, but we like it.”

  We walk back to the car together. Mr. Coolidge jogs ahead to open the door for Ms. Bean.

  She seems surprised. “Why, thank you. I’m not sure I can remember the last time a gentleman opened the door for me.”

  Mr. Coolidge looks just as surprised by this news as Ms. Bean was to have her door opened for her. “Maybe you should bring that fiancé of yours with you next time,” he suggests. “I’d like to have a little talk with that fellow.”

  “I . . . I’ll have to think about that,” she replies.

  “Say!” Mr. Coolidge exclaims. “You should bring him out for the Fourth of July! We’re going to the Made-Rite. It’s Hank’s birthday.”

  She laughs. “It’s Dakota’s birthday too. What a coincidence!”

  “No coincidences,” Mr. Coolidge says. “Only God appointments.”

  It’s not the first time I’ve heard him mention God. I get the feeling God’s a big deal with the Coolidges.

  “Two birthdays, plus the birth of our nation?” Ms. Bean seems to be mulling this over. “Plus the Made-Rite? I’ll talk to Frank.”

  “Tell him he’s more than welcome to celebrate with our birthday boy and girl,” Mr. Coolidge assures her.

  I could tell them that this birthday girl won’t still be around on July 4. But I wouldn’t want to spoil their plans.

  Or mine.

  Ms. Bean starts the car, then sticks her head out the window and fixes me with a look so intense that I have to bite my lip. “Dakota, if you need anything, call me.” She rummages through her purse and hands me her business card. “Now, call anytime you feel like it. Okay?”

  I take the card and notice her e-mail address. It’s the perfect opportunity to ask what I’ve wanted to ask since I got here. I turn to Mr. Coolidge. “Could I use your computer? No long-distance charge for e-mail.” I have to be able to e-mail Neil. And the sooner, the better, as far I’m concerned. I need a plan. I need a list.

  “You can use the phone to call Ms. Bean whenever you like,” Mr. Coolidge offers.

  I fight down panic. “You don’t have the Internet out here?”

  He chuckles, but not the limb-cracking laugh. “We do. Computer’s in the kitchen.”

  It’s a weird place for a computer, but at least they have one. “Great. Thanks.”

  Mr. Coolidge and I watch Ms. Bean’s car drive away in a puff of dust, as if it’s vanished. When she’s totally out of sight, I realize that something’s humming. A low buzz comes and goes, like somebody messing with the volume on a station that won’t come in.

  “Crickets,” Mr. Coolidge says, although I haven’t asked. “And . . . hear that?”

  Above the cricket buzz is a tapping.

  “Woodpecker,” he says.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a woodpecker before,” I admit.

  “One of the good Lord’s best gifts,” he says. “I can feel that tapping in my soul. Can’t you? God’s knocking at the soul.”

  I have no idea how to answer that one.

  “Cat!” Mr. Coolidge shouts.

  I glance around for one but don’t see any. A few yards from the house is a barn that looks like it was made out of the same wood as the house. A hand-painted sign above the door reads Starlight Animal Rescue. But I don’t see a cat.

  “Come down and meet Dakota,” Mr. Coolidge commands.

  I should be surprised that he talks to invisible cats. Somehow I’m not.

  “Don’t just sit up in that tree and watch,” Mr. Coolidge shouts in the general direction of the treetop behind me. “Come down and introduce yourself to our new arrival. You can show her around.”

  “Seriously,” I say, sidestepping toward the house, more determined than ever to find that computer, “not such a huge fan of cats. I can show myself around.”

  He laughs. “K-a-t, not c-a-t.”

  “Right,” I say, knowing it’s healthiest to agree with crazy people. I read this somewhere once.

  He waves over my head again.

  I spin around in time to see a little girl drop down from the tree. That explains the invisible-girl shriek I heard when we first drove into this place. I’d forgotten about that one. The girl is thin and so white it’s like I can see through her. E
verything about her looks fragile. She reminds me of an angel tree-topper, except for one striking difference: her hair. It’s the brightest orange red I’ve seen since that Orphan Annie movie. The way it bushes out around her face makes her head look three times too big for her shoulders.

  She walks toward us soundlessly, like a forest nymph, wearing a sleeveless white shirt and jean shorts. I can see the tiny purple veins in her arms.

  “Kat,” Mr. Coolidge says, “this is Dakota Brown. Dakota, this is Katharine Hall.”

  I try to keep from staring at her frizzy orange hair. I can just imagine the kind of teasing she’d get in the schools I’ve gone to. “Hey,” I say in her general direction.

  She smiles, showing a row of tiny white teeth.

  “Kat,” Mr. Coolidge says, “I need to do Wes’s mowing. Will you show Dakota around?”

  She nods. When she starts toward the house, she says something in a soft voice. I’m not sure, but I think she said, “I’ll show you your bed.”

  I follow her to the house. The lawn is bumpy and tufted, with half-gnawed dog bones here and there. Something smells good, like flowers or rain. Or maybe country. What would I know?

  She keeps glancing back at me, as if making sure I’m coming. “You’re even prettier than they said you were.”

  “What?” I’d like to know who said I was pretty. Or who said I wasn’t as pretty as I am. Not that I think I’m ugly. I just don’t think I’m especially pretty—dark complexion, black hair, brown eyes some say are black. I could pass for Native American, and sometimes I tell people that’s what I am.

  Kat holds the screen door open so I can go in. “This is the living room.”

  I scan the room filled with stuffed furniture—a couch with a blanket over the back, an easy chair, a short couch—and a small TV. It would all be pretty ordinary, except for the animals. They’re everywhere. Cat curtains, horse wallpaper, two dog portraits on the wall. Across the living room is a dining area with a big table and mismatched chairs, some with dog cushions, others with cat cushions.

  I break out in a sweat, but I think it’s because of the room temp, and not my raging panic. “Kat, is it always this hot in here?”