“Was she mad?” he asked, wondering if our mutual best friend was upset that we were running away.
“Worried, I think. You know Emma.”
He nodded in agreement. Our friend was always looking out for us.
“I promised that we’d write to let her know once we arrived safely at your aunt’s house. Are you sure your aunt won’t tell your mom where we’re going?”
He nodded. “She hasn’t talked to my mom in years. They’re mad at each other for something.”
Adults!
Dogs barked, nipping at our heels as we climbed the fence that spilled into the small backyard behind my grandmother’s office.
She wouldn’t come out and yell. Not at us.
Glancing behind me to the large brick building that sat in the fading darkness, I saw her cheering me on from the back window. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I had a feeling what it was.
Run. Or maybe: I love you. At the moment, they both meant the same thing.
If this had been any other day, she might have stopped me, talked some sense into me, as all grandmothers enjoyed doing. Maybe she—Dr. Bishop to everyone else, but Gigi to me and my friends—would have suggested that I stay with her as an alternative, either tucked away safely in her big sprawling house or even hidden away inside the doctor’s office where my dad was staying during the divorce. Anything instead of leaving me to listen to my parents’ constant fighting.
But not today. I think she hoped we would get away with our plan, given the circumstances. Not many people urged two ten-year-olds to run away, but Gigi suggested it without actually saying it. Better than anyone, she understood why I was desperate to leave.
I needed to leave, so that I could stay.
We scaled the last fence, leaving the majority of the small town behind. All that was beyond that was the railroad tracks and the woods.
Freedom.
But as I jumped down from the fence, a strangled cry spilled from my lips. With a thud, he hit the ground beside me, but just far enough away from the prickly branches that grew behind the fence.
The ones that I had landed right on top of.
“That looks really bad, Charlotte,” he said worriedly, glancing down at the two long gashes that had appeared on my leg. Bits of spiky branches poked out from the wound in my pale skin.
“It’s okay. I’ll be fine,” I bit out, wincing when I tried to stand. “We have to keep going.” I wiped a muddy hand through the blood that slid down my leg.
“Maybe Gigi should look at it? Clean it up?” he asked, glancing down at the blood squeamishly. “She’s right there. I just saw her looking through the window when we cut through the yard behind her office.” He looked from my leg to the direction of the building over the fence behind us.
“No, they’ll look for us there,” I explained, trying to blink back the tears that welled up.
We both turned to look behind us. We’d heard the loud voices at the same time.
“If you’re sure.”
“I am. Promise.”
He nodded. “I can tie a tourniquet,” he offered, looking surprisingly steady as he examined my leg. “It’s how I got my first-aid merit badge,” he said proudly.
“Always a Boy Scout.” I smiled, but it faded quickly when we saw the telltale sign of a flashlight beam signaling above the fence.
Waving him off, I felt guilty not letting him show me his skills, but we didn’t have time. I rolled back my shoulders, wincing again through the shooting pain. “I’ll take care of it once we get to the river,” I said, limping away.
The sound of voices was getting louder. Shouts from our parents, concerned neighbors, and the—
We both looked back at the fence worriedly at the sound of the police siren.
“How did they get Birdy here already?” I asked, hearing the static from the walkie-talkie.
“Your dad probably called him as soon as he found the note you left. Between him and my parents, there’s no way that they wouldn’t get Birdy, if not all the police, involved.”
I felt defeated, wishing I hadn’t left the note stuck with a magnet on my dad’s refrigerator. “I hoped we would have had more of a head start,” I explained, trying to keep the weight off my injured leg.
Seeing my struggle, he frowned. “Here, hop on,” he offered quickly, turning so his back was to me.
I looked at him, then down at me. I had a couple of inches and at least ten pounds on him. “I’m so much bigger than you! You can’t carry me!” I said, just as another shooting pain radiated through my leg.
“I can do it. Trust me, Charlotte,” he insisted. “We have to hurry.”
His sky-blue eyes shone with kindness and compassion, the sentiment that I knew in my heart was honest and real. That’s what best friends did—they helped when you needed it. And this might be our only chance of getting out of Hope Lake.
I hopped on, wrapping my arms around him. “Are you okay?”
In response, he gently squeezed my legs and took off as fast as he could toward the river, the chorus of voices fading behind us.
When we finally made it to the train tracks, he helped me slide down to sit on one of the large rocks that lay between the tracks and the river.
Our tracks. Our parents and the others searching for us wouldn’t know to look for us here. It was our secret spot. Sure, it was an odd place for a couple of kids to run away to, but in a small town you’re limited to where you can disappear.
That was the first lesson I remembered clearly from my decade in Hope Lake: you can’t keep many secrets; everyone knows everyone’s business.
We would escape here when my parents fought. Or if he was getting picked on at school. Anytime we needed a friend, we knew to head here. Because that’s what best friends did.
“Are you okay?” I asked, swiping the hem of my shirt across his sweaty forehead. He was breathing heavily and collapsed beside the rock I was sitting on.
He nodded, his dark hair slicked with sweat. “I can’t believe how hot it is,” he said, still panting.
It was unseasonably warm for the end of September. “It feels more like the middle of summer,” I groaned, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
School had barely started, which brought up another sad realization. “I won’t be here this winter.” I felt the tears well up. “No snow tubing or sledding through the woods. I won’t even get to be in the Christmas pageant this year.”
“That sucks. It’s our year to be Charlie Brown and Lucy,” he said, reminding me of the parts that we should be performing in this year’s play, A Charlie Brown Christmas.
“Your mom can’t just let you stay until June when school’s done?” he asked hopefully.
I shook my head. “She said her new job in New York starts next week. We have to get settled, so that’s why we’re leaving tomorrow.”
He hung his head, keeping his eyes down. “And she won’t let you stay with your dad?”
“He won’t be here. He’s going on a mission trip to Ghana for the next four months.” I couldn’t keep the tears from plopping onto my hands. “And before you ask, there’s no way she’ll let me stay with Gigi. I already asked. So did Gigi. It’s hopeless.”