The Runaways

Chapter 1

 But bad things happen to forgetful people, and bad things happen when you don’t pay attention. But maybe that’s just a movie thing. Fingers crossed.

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At 6:00 a.m., the world fell apart.

Well, maybe not the world, but definitely the downstairs kitchen.

The crashing of glass against the tile floors, the rattle and bang of pots and pans, and the audible absence of my dad confirmed my worst fears—a morning break in. Very important neighborhoods begged for very important burglaries, and today, our house was that house.

I got to my feet, nervous enough to outdo Jiminy Cricket on crack, and grabbed my phone to punch in our private line to the Metropolitan Police Department. But on the off chance that I was wrong, and dad was making a very violent breakfast, I’d be the girl who cried criminal, and I couldn’t risk that. Not today.

I had a house to leave, a summer to start, and three beautiful months with the better of two parents waiting for me on the other end of a southbound Amtrak train.

In a couple hours, I’d be back in green and gorgeous Virginia, celebrating my future at UVA, and a maybe robbery, wasn’t going to ruin it. When you hate a place long enough, the goodbye isn’t bittersweet, just bitter. The sweet part comes once you’re miles away.

I tiptoed down the hallway, balancing on the balls of my feet, and reached his wide-open bedroom door—which he never left open. Ever.

I peered around the frame, pulse pounding my ribs to pieces, and found his almost perfect room in almost perfect chaos.

His king canopy had exploded into a disaster of crumpled sheets and duvet covers, pillows were scattered in every which direction, and his clothes hung like jungle vines on the lamp rungs.

He’d either turned into Donkey Kong or hit the bottle harder than usual. I kept my fingers crossed for the former. Even if he had been drinking, it was unlike him to be this messy.

Dad was a quiet drunk with quieter problems. Clutter wasn’t his thing. Neither was stink and the carpet reeked of cheap liquor. He was a blue label man, and didn't spill. I followed the stains until I tumbled over one of my mom’s old vials of lipstick lying in the doorway.

He’d hardly touched her things since she'd left; at least, that’s what I thought was the case before this morning. Something was awry in the Anderson house.

The kitchen apocalypse started up again, even louder than before. I thought about escaping the house through the nearest window until I remembered Dad’s ugly little secret.

I ran back to the rabbit hole and hopped out with a handgun.

I didn’t have a clue how to use it or how to tell if it was locked and loaded or whatever. But it felt safe. I felt safe—safer at least.

I slinked back down the hallway, praying to God that our crotchety wooden floors would keep my footsteps secret. My suitcases and a flight of stairs stood between me finding out the truth or sprinting to safety. I grabbed my stuff, and slipped downstairs without a creak.

No shoes, no problem.

The first floor had hardly seen the sunrise, aside from the low light flooding into the living room from the kitchen. I followed the florescence, hands rattling against the steady steel trigger beneath my fingers. A muffled laugh danced out into the darkness, and I stepped into the light.

Two bodies moved half-naked against each other in the half-light—my father’s and a strawberry blonde, who happened to be sprawled across the black granite counter top. She couldn’t have been much older than I was.

She couldn’t have been more shocked than I was to see her legs wrapped, ever so innocently of course, around my father while he taught her the basics of bare-assed “domestic policy”. 

Something like embarrassment flickered across her face at first but died away as quickly as it lit up her cheeks. She composed herself and smiled at me, mocking me, flashing her pearly white teeth through my mother's Chanel rouge lipstick.

So, I shot at her. 

Twice. 

With my eyes closed.

I didn’t know what I was thinking. To tell you the truth, I don’t think I was thinking—just reacting.

Click. Bang. Bang.

But nobody died. I blew up a box of Corn Flakes on the counter and grazed my Dad’s ass. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d hurt him that badly until he screamed loud enough to set the neighbor’s dog on full alert.

Bimbo-the-make-up-thief got pretty hysterical after that. She kept shouting things about me being crazy while my dad tried to figure out a way to sit down in a kitchen with nothing but thirty-six-inch high barstools. 

This situation would’ve been a riot if it wasn’t mine, if I wasn’t the girl with the gun, watching her family fall to pieces. I would’ve laughed if I could’ve, but my mouth stayed shut. Sweat rolled down my face while I turned whiter than vanilla ice cream.

I might’ve been crying. Sweat and tears weren’t all that different. But when reality settled it’s painful way into my veins, I lost it. Not because I was sorry that I shot him—because I wasn’t—but that this situation really happened.

I had a feeling he'd been messing around behind Mom’s back, but seeing it sucked. He sucked and deserved what he got. Parents move on, old guys get urges, and I get that.

But I guess there was an inner fourteen-year-old me who still wanted her parents to work things out. They were four years separated, nothing’s changed, and hope turned out to be a shitty investment.

Took him a while, but dad eventually stopped crying to his concubine and turned his anger towards me. He knocked Malibu Barbie out of his way and stumbled in my direction, shouting combinations of curse words I didn’t think were possible.

I dropped the gun, turned on my bare heels and booked it like a bat out of hell out the front door. 

 Lickity-split.

Bags in hand and heart wedged in my windpipe, I sprinted ten blocks to the nearest bus station—feet colder than the pavement.