Runaway

Most children run away from home at some point. One of my student families had a laugh about their son’s plans the last time I was there, how they offered to help him pack food and clothes, and he complained the suitcase was too heavy. My experience went… a little differently. No one knew I’d run away until years later, when I laughed about it in front of my parents.

When I was in third grade, my mother worked days, and my father worked afternoons. My sister had already been kicked out to live with our un-related grandmother (a tale for another day). I woke myself up with an alarm clock, made myself breakfast, packed a lunch, and got myself to school. The final bell rang at 8:30am, but the Aladdin cartoon started at 8:00. So many times, I pushed my luck trying to see the crucial ending of the show, and arriving a few minutes late to school. After I left, my father would wake up to help my little brother get ready for the day, and afternoon kindergarten.

One morning, it happened again. I let myself watch TV as I ate breakfast. I watched the end of my cartoon, looked at the clock and knew I was going to be late to school… again. I was so ashamed of myself. And, to top it off, I heard my brother and father waking up and desperately didn’t want to get in trouble for my dalliance.

I grabbed my pink backpack, and packed baby carrots, juice boxes, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, my little wallet, and my windbreaker. I snuck my white Huffy out of the garage, and rode away. The plan was to head to my grandfather’s house, about an hour away by car. Out of habit, I got myself to the bike path along the lake, stopping at a bench to have my first snack and think. I remembered that the bike path circled around a park, and came back. That wouldn’t get me to my grandfather’s. I had to get to the highway.

So, I wove my way through neighborhoods as far as I could. Right where the main street turned into a highway, I knew there was a lovely little ice cream shop. I was disappointed to see that ice cream shops were (and are) not open at 9am on a weekday, but I packed my little wallet back into my backpack and continued with my quest.

Within minutes of peddling on the side of the busy street, a woman pulled over. “Are you okay? Do you need a ride home??” In that tiny moment, realized this would never work. It was too obvious. I was a child, on a bicycle, on a highway in the middle of a school day. Damn.

“No.” I told the woman. “I’m just heading home now, I had a dentist appointment.” There are moments my ability to spit out believable lies as a child shocks me. When I think of it now, how impressive of a smooth talker must I have been for this woman to simply believe me and let me ride off? Or, maybe I give myself too much credit, and the belief came from a different time and place, where kids were more likely to roam free than my little suburban students now.

Whatever the reason she had for buying my story, I took the next right, back into neighborhoods I didn’t know well. I wove my way back to my own neighborhood, and pushed my Huffy into the school bike rack. I told the office woman that I’d had a dentist appointment, and my mother forgot to write me a note. She simply nodded and told me to get to class. While I felt flustered and quietly disappointed in my failed escape, I was relieved that by being late enough, I’d dodged being in trouble.