Please stop raining. Please, please, please stop raining!
4:50 a.m.
It’s still raining. I finally went out and trenched. It was brutal. Windy. Cold. I could barely see what I was doing.
I tried putting up an extra Hefty sack, but it just blew away. I’m having real trouble warming up now. I’m cold down to my bones.
I wish I had put more Hefty sacks under the house. If my sleeping bag gets wet, I’m doomed.
I do think the trenching helped.
And at least the roof’s not leaking.
5:05 a.m.
Here’s a cheery thought:
The roof on the Titanic didn’t leak, either.
5:25 a.m.
I am still so cold.
Half the floor is soaked.
I wish I knew which apartment that Sammie girl lived in. I wonder if she’d let me in if I showed up at her door….
Next day, 2:45 p.m.
Things are bad. The house is soggy in so many places. I’ve never thought of water as evil before, but right now I do. It stopped raining a few hours ago, so I’m airing out my wet clothes and the sleeping bag, but I don’t think the house will dry today unless it gets some direct sun, and that’s not looking too likely. It’s still overcast. I don’t think I can make it through another night like last night.
Midnight
I don’t even know if I can talk about this.
I’m shaky and scared.
And I’m so tired.
So, so tired.
But I can’t sleep. I feel like I’ll never be able to sleep again.
So I’m going to write….
Where to start.
I guess with Martin.
I ran into town to get more Hefty sacks. I actually paid for them. I was in a hurry, and I wanted to save my house more than I wanted to save what little money I had left.
Maybe I was so preoccupied with getting back to my poor house that I didn’t notice Martin following me. And when I saw him come out of the bushes, I should have run, but I didn’t. I picked up my spear and shouted, “Get out of here, you creep!”
He sneered.
And laughed.
And moved closer.
“Get back!” I shouted.
He kept coming, and the look on his face made my stomach turn. Mr. Fisk flashed through my mind, and I couldn’t help shaking.
“Nice place,” he said, still sneering. “Nice and secluded.”
That’s when I noticed he was going toward the shovel. He was planning to use it to block my spear.
I had to move or lose.
Up from somewhere deep and dark, an awful noise came out of me. And when I charged, the memory of Mr. Fisk propelled me forward with a fury that I didn’t even know I still had inside.
“LEAVE…ME…ALONE!” I shouted, but in an instant he’d twisted the spear out of my hands and thrown it aside, leaving me stunned and off balance.
He grabbed me, so I kicked him in the shin as hard as I could, which made him so mad he hurled me against some bushes.
“No!” I cried, scrambling to get on my feet as he came at me. I tried desperately to get away, but he caught me and held me, two wrists in one hand.
There was no mercy in him, I could see it.
There was no hope for me, I could feel it.
He was so much stronger than I was.
So much crueler.
Still, I squirmed and kicked frantically. I was so mad. So burning-up mad. How could he overpower me so easily? It was unfair! So maddeningly unfair.
All my struggling just made him laugh harder, and I could feel myself getting weaker. And inside I was panicking because I knew there was no way I could win.
Forget win. There was no way I could even get away.
Then all of a sudden it was like a bolt of lightning hit him. He made a bloodcurdling scream and just let go.
In the blink of an eye that Sammie girl was standing beside me, pointing the metal tip of the biggest, blackest umbrella I have ever seen right at Martin. “Get away from her,” she yelled at him. “Get away from her or I’ll run you through!”
“There’s two of you brats?” he cried, holding his back where she’d rammed him.
“Yeah, there’s two of us!” I shouted. “Now leave us alone!”
He started to retreat but then turned back and grabbed my sleeping bag. And while we were struggling with him over that, he tripped on the trench and lost his balance, falling back…back…back…and landing on my house.
“No!” I screamed as the box collapsed, folding in all around him.
I couldn’t bear to look, so I turned away, then crumbled to the ground and started to cry.
My home. My dream. My life.
It was over.
Ruined.
Somehow Sammie chased Martin off, then sat next to me and put her arm around me. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“What am I going to do?” I gasped. “What am I going to do?”
After a minute she took my hand and pulled me to my feet. “You’re going to come with me,” she said. “I have an idea.”
I guess I could have refused to go with her, but I didn’t. I followed her, and inside I felt strangely relieved.
Relieved to actually believe I could trust her.
We didn’t say much to each other as we walked into town. She seemed to be thinking really hard about something, and frankly, I was too exhausted to talk.
I was surprised when we passed by her apartment building, because I’d thought that’s where we were going. I almost said something about knowing she lived there, but I didn’t. I just followed her as she jaywalked across the street and led me to a dog kennel.
At least that’s what I thought it was at first. It was really a dog-grooming shop with an apartment upstairs, and after a few minutes of Sammie leaning on the buzzer, a wiry woman answered the door. She was wearing a bathrobe and slippers.
In a daze I followed them to the upstairs apartment. Another woman was doing dishes at the sink. Who were these people? Why had Sammie brought me here? Wouldn’t they just call social services?
Sammie introduced us. The wiry one was Vera, the younger one was Meg.
Sammie explained that I’d had a really bad time in foster homes. She told them that I’d been living down by the riverbed. She told them about my refrigerator box. Her words became a blur of sound. I just sat there scared and shaky.
The women didn’t say much, but the faces they pulled? No one had to spell it out: They didn’t want anything to do with me.
Then Meg started pacing around, talking about friends of theirs who have foster children. “They’re saints!” she said. “Their house is spotless and their children are happy!”
Sammie jumped up and said, “Maybe it’s like dog kennels. You know, some of them are good and clean and others, well, dogs come out with kennel cough and fleas, smelling like pee!”
We all stared at her.
She shrugged and said, “Maybe Holly just happened to get stuck in some rotten, uh, kennels.”
Meg and Vera seemed to think this was an extreme comparison, but there was something about it that I really liked. And I didn’t want to even go there, but I couldn’t help really liking her.
But then the older one (Vera) asked me what happened to my parents and how old I was, so I did what I always do:
I lied.
I told them that I didn’t even remember my parents and that I was fifteen.
Why bother with the truth? I could tell that they were trying to figure out how to avoid having me stay with them, even for one night. No sense getting into the truth. No sense at all.
But Vera leveled a look at me and said, “The truth, dear. If we’re going to talk about this, you need to tell us the truth.”
It was the way she said it, I think. So calm and wise and kind.
And then I remembered what I’d thought after I’d escaped Walt and Valerie:
I should have wagged.
 
; I should have begged.
I should have tried.
My chin started quivering, and before I knew what I was saying, I blurted, “I’m only twelve!” Then I started sobbing.
When my mom died, I felt like I was lost in a giant black forest. I’d never cried so hard in my life. I don’t think there’s a pain in this world as awful as that one. Still, I was crying like I had that day. After all I’d been through to break free, to be free, to make it on my own, I’d still failed.
“Please,” I choked out. “I don’t know who to turn to. I need someone I can trust. Please don’t call social services. Just let me stay here for one night.” My throat ached from being pinched so tight, but I whispered it again, anyway. “I’m not a bad person. I’ve just been through some really bad times.”
Through a blur of tears, I saw a tiny poodle jump into my lap. It was soft and light and so sweet, stretching up to lick tears from my cheeks, my eyes, my nose.
My chin quivered terribly as I smiled at it and whispered, “Hi there.”
“That’s Lucy,” Vera said. “Or Miss Lucille, when she’s being naughty.”
I wrapped her in my arms and whispered, “Hi, Lucy. Thank you.”
Lucy wagged her little tail and licked some more tears from my cheek, which made me laugh and cry at the same time.
Vera and Meg excused themselves to have a private meeting in a back room, and when they returned they told me I could stay the night. They also promised that they wouldn’t call social services behind my back, and said that we would talk more in the morning.
I hope I can trust them, but if not I’ve already decided I’m going to run.
Pouring rain or not, I’ll run.
For tonight, though, I’m warm and safe, in my own little room, in my own little bed. There are patchwork quilts hanging on the walls, and one on the bed. They give the room such a cozy feeling, but best of all, Lucy’s asleep beside me in bed.
She is so sweet.
So, so sweet.
And I am so, so tired….
Sunday, November 21st
I can’t believe I’ve been here five days already. The time has gone by so fast! There’s so much to write about, but I’ll start with Meg and Vera. (Meg is Vera’s daughter, by the way.) They seem so ordinary, but they’re not. They have this quiet strength about them, which I really like. They work hard, but they don’t complain, and they may have laid down some strict rules for me, but they’re so kind about it that I don’t mind following them.
I love the way they talk to dogs in the shop. “Come here, baby. That’s my girl.” “Uh-uh-uh, you rascal, none of that in here!” They wash and dry and shear and style dogs, and they treat every single one of them like a long-lost friend.
I love helping them in the shop, which they let me do after I get home from school.
That’s right, school. Can you believe it? I’m already enrolled in the bullfrog school. It all happened so quick, and I was really nervous at first, but I have Sammy (that’s how she spells it) in homeroom and she’s been helping me a lot. She showed me around and introduced me to her friends, and they invited me to sit at their lunch table. I don’t say much. I mostly just listen to them talk about softball, but I’m really grateful that they include me.
The schoolwork’s kind of hard. Especially math. But Vera and Meg have promised to get me tutoring if I have trouble catching up. “You can do this, Holly,” Meg told me. “And we’re going to help you any way we can.”
It’s been funny to see the change in Meg. At first she was real wary. She was constantly watching me out of the corner of her eye. I’ve been on my best behavior, but I think it’s actually Lucy who’s convinced her that I’m okay. Lucy follows me everywhere. She sits on the counter when I do the dishes, she sits in my lap as I do my homework, she sleeps on my bed and goes crazy when I get home from school. That dog is just a little bundle of waggy love.
So Meg’s gone from being pretty suspicious of me to acting a little like Lucy. She hovers around me while I’m eating breakfast; she likes to dry the dishes while I’m washing them (even though they’d drip-dry just fine); and Friday when I jingled through the downstairs door, she called, “Holly’s home!” across the shop to Vera, like they’d been waiting for me all day.
Do you know how nice that sounded?
“Holly’s home!”
What musical, magical words.
Tuesday, November 23rd
This morning at breakfast Meg told me that they would fight anyone (like a social worker) who tries to take me from them. She leaned across the table and whispered, “This arrangement may not be legal yet, but we have a plan: If someone comes to take you away, you run away, and after they’re gone, you come right back.”
I laughed and said okay, because coming from an adult, it sounded crazy.
I also laughed because I liked the way it made me feel like it was us against them, instead of just me against them.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way.
A long, long time.
Tuesday, 4:30 p.m.
I overheard Meg talking on the phone to someone at social services. I don’t understand why things have to be so complicated. Why does everything have to be so “official”? Why do courts have to be petitioned? Why do people who have never met me think they know what’s best for me?
I’m afraid to let out this breath I’ve been holding.
I’m afraid that my bubble of hope will just collapse.
November 25th, Thanksgiving
I’m still here! And today’s the day I get my wish for a big Thanksgiving feast. I should be feeling happy about it, but I’m actually a little sad.
I wish my mom could be here.
Meg asked me if I had any special wishes, and I’m afraid my eyes filled with tears when I asked for spiced peaches.
We started baking pies around seven this morning. It smells so good in the apartment. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything like it. The turkey’s been roasting for hours, so the air is a mixture of sizzling fat, salt, and sweet. It smells divine! (Lucy thinks so, too. The aroma’s making her a little crazy. She’s gotten quite a few “Miss Lucille…!” warnings from Vera and Meg for begging.)
It’s been fun helping in the kitchen. I’ve never really done that before. Peeling, grating, measuring, mixing…I like it all, especially because Vera and Meg sing while they work. The songs they know are really old-fashioned, but I like them. They fill the air with joy.
We haven’t been cooking for just the three of us, either. Sammy and her grandmother and her grandmother’s boyfriend are also coming. It’ll be a full house!
Thanksgiving, 9:00 p.m.
What an emotional night. Sammy’s grandmother’s boyfriend was just about to carve the turkey when Vera said, “Before we eat, I think we should take a moment and give thanks.” Then she looked around the table and said, “Maybe we could each say a few words?”
Vera started, closing her eyes and putting her hands together and saying, “Dear Lord, I’m thankful for many things this day: for the food, for the company, but especially for the chance we’ve been given to open up our home to Holly.”
Right away I got choked up. Then Meg went, saying, “Thank you, Lord, for all you’ve given us this year, but mostly, thank you for bringing Holly to us.”
She started to add something else, but we were peeking at each other over our clasped hands, and both of us were watery-eyed, so she just smiled.
Next around the table was Sammy, and while I was trying to blink back my tears, she was sitting there like a deer caught in the headlights. I couldn’t tell if her mind was a blank or if she was thinking a million miles an hour. But after a minute of everyone waiting she blurted out, “I’m thankful that’s a real turkey and not a roasting chicken!”
I busted up. If I had been taking a drink, I would have sprayed it all over the table. That one sentence said a million things to me. And in that instant I knew we were going to have to compare notes a
bout the Thanksgiving dinners we’d had in the past. I knew that I would tell her about wishing for a turkey and getting KFC. And I had the wonderful feeling that it wouldn’t stop there, that little by little we would get to know each other better.
I do want to get to know her better.
And I want her to know the real me.
Still Thanksgiving, almost 10:00 p.m.
Meg peeked in my room when I was writing before. She was coming in to kiss me good night (which she does every night), but when she saw the journal she stopped short. “You keep a journal?” she asked, and the odd thing is, she looked hurt. Or maybe sad, I wasn’t sure.
I sat up and closed the book, trying not to slam and yank.
She perched kind of awkwardly on the edge of my bed, and I could tell she wanted to see the journal closer, but I didn’t pass it over.
“It looks like it’s been through a lot,” she finally said.
I gave a little laugh. “You could say that.”
She still had that look on her face. Sadness? Hurt? I couldn’t tell. But why should she be hurt? Did she think I was saying bad things about her in it? What bad thing could I possibly say?
Then she said, “I used to keep a journal.”
“Really?” I asked, and I don’t know why, but this seemed very interesting to me. Meg does not seem like the journal-keeping kind.
Of course, then again, neither do I.
“You don’t write in it anymore?” I asked.
She shook her head. Then she gave me a knowing look and said, “No one’s ever read mine, either.”
We both said nothing for a little while. Then very softly she added, “It helped me through a really rough time.”
I nodded. “Mine, too.”
She looked at my journal again. “You started it when you ran away?”
“A little before.”
She reached out and held my hand. “I meant what I said at dinner. You’re a real blessing in my life. I hope someday you’ll be able to trust me with what you’ve gone through.” Then she gave me a sad smile and said, “It’s so hard to talk about, isn’t it? Who could possibly understand?” Her eyes were watering as she kissed me on the cheek and said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”