Page 122 of Run Away Home: Tempered

I sit up and violently shake my head to erase the thought from my mind, like an Etch-A-Sketch, until I can’t see either of your faces. I hold my head steady on my palms now.

I wonder if they’re still looking for me?

A sudden sense of dread fills me. Why haven’tyoulooked for me, Ma? It’s been five years. I bet you’re glad I’m gone. You meant it. You really, really meant what you said...

Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you’re trying to protect me, or...maybe you’re not. Maybe you hope they find me, but they just can’t. Maybe I’m as good at hiding as I am at running.

They say everyone’s good at one thing. Lucky me, I’m good at more than that.

Danny

“IT’S DARK. TOO DARK...” I whisper to myself in a deep voice. I laugh. I mean, of course it’s dark. It’s nighttime. I just wanted to say that out loud, for some reason. It’s badass. Do I even know what movie that’s from? I guess I don’t.

Anyway... I feel around for my cell phone and find it underneath my pillow. I switch on the flashlight and get up. I’m thirsty. If I’m really quiet, I won’t wake anyone—and I can steal that Cherry Pepsi Hayley left in the fridge. HA!

I creak my door open and peek outside. CRAP! A light’s coming from Peter’s room. Why’s he still awake? I turn off the flashlight and tread lightly. His door is cracked open, so I push it open just a little more. The door didn’t even make a sound!

Peter’s sitting off the side of his bed with a box of envelopes beside him. One envelope is out of the box, all ready to go. It’s face down. He’s hunched over a piece of paper on his lap, tapping a pen against his leg. Looks like he’s writing something important, thinking hard about it too. He stops tapping and starts writing. He seems angry, writing so hard that his pen rips through his paper.

He mumbles something, then he slams the pen down and takes a breath. He looks up and sees me. Shit. He says something angrily in Scottish. I push the door open wider.

“Huh?”

“Sorry... I meant, what are you doing?”

“I was getting water, but I saw you were awake. What areyoudoing?”

“Me? I’m just...” He looks down at his lap and lifts his hands up. “I guess I’m just writing.”

“Writing?”

“I told you I do that when I...feel like I need to.”

“Yeah, but I never actually seen you do it.” I step into his room.

“Because it’s just for me.”

I lean forward, trying to get a look at the paper.

“What are you writing about?” I ask.

He raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth a little, moving his jaw to one side. He puts the paper on the bed, face down like the envelope.

“It’s just for me,” he says again, but slower.

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

“You heard me, but did you listen to me?”

What is this, philosophy class?

“All right, whatever. What, is it like a journal?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s a journal.”

Liar.

“Then why isn’t it in a diary book?”

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