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Copyright © 2018 by Sonya Terjanian
Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Kerri Resnick
Cover image © AlexGreenArt/Shutterstock
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Terjanian, Sonya, author.
Title: The runaways / Sonya Terjanian.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2018]
Identifiers: LCCN 2017040618 | (softcover : acid-free paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Self-realization in women--Fiction. | Interpersonal relations--Fiction. | Life change events--Fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.O2257 R86 2018 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017040618
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For Pierre, who makes everything possible
1
The Shell station was selling road atlases for $19.95, which was too much. But they had every state in there, and Ivy figured a lot of them probably fell somewhere between Pennsylvania and Montana. She glanced at the spray-tanned cashier, who was paging through a magazine and probing her ear with a long, fake nail. Ivy knew the atlas would fit under her jean jacket, around the side and under her arm, but she couldn’t decide if that was the way she wanted to go with this. Getting busted for shoplifting—barely two hours after her big getaway—would be a shitty and depressing way for this to end.
She opened the atlas, scanning the overview map for the line where Pennsylvania pressed up against the underbelly of New York, the so-called Southern Tier. She wondered how far she’d gotten that morning; she remembered seeing the WELCOME TO PENNSYLVANIA sign about an hour ago. Was she in the Poconos? Halfway to Philadelphia? She had no idea.
Ivy closed the atlas and held it against her stomach. It took a little getting used to, this new way of doing things: Stealing. Running. Doing what needed to be done, and to hell with everyone else. She felt like she’d been split down the middle and turned inside out, the real Ivy finally set loose on the world. The Ivy who didn’t care what was right or what was wrong. The Ivy with the black heart.
The cashier looked up from her magazine. Ivy put the atlas back on the shelf and picked up a smaller, cheaper map of Pennsylvania, which she brought to the counter with her Slim Jims and chocolate milk. “Don’t be a dumbass,” Gran would say. For now, she’d take things one step at a time. Put some distance between herself and Good Hope, wait for things to blow over before taking any more risks. She watched the cashier struggle with the register keys, her hand splayed, bejeweled nails threatening to push all the keys at once. Some people, Ivy thought. If you absolutely have to have nails like that, why in the ever-living fuck would you get a job that involved pushing buttons all day?
Back in the car, she sucked on a Slim Jim as she scanned the map and thought over her money situation. She was down to $62.84, and McFadden’s Buick drank like Gran. She needed to buy as much distance as possible, spend less on food. Maybe she could find a Chinese supermarket, like that place outside Binghamton, where she and her friend Asa used to fill five or six grocery bags with noodle packets and pork cake for a few dollars. A little water in the teakettle and bam—a feast for two, salt exploding in their mouths like Chinese firecrackers.
Or maybe she could find herself a soup kitchen or a food pantry. Keep an eye out for a long, slumpy line of half-asleep people, wait her turn, and fill up on charity. But those church people always knew everybody in their line, and if they didn’t, they would want to. Ivy’d have to make up one of her stories.
She nudged the car awake, rolled out of the lot. No Chinese groceries around here, that was for sure. Just a couple of vinyl-clad antique shops, an M&T Bank, a hardware store with cheap plastic sleds and some shovels piled out front, not even chained up. In the middle of town, a four-sided traffic light dangled from a drooping wire, flashing yellow. Ivy couldn’t remember what to do when it was flashing yellow. Stop? Proceed with caution? She stopped, to be on the safe side, then turned right.
A row of shoebox houses in ugly old-person colors, a chaotic jumble of body shops and high chain-link fences laced with shreds of pink plastic, and then the town just kind of gave up. The sidewalk crumbled into the dirt shoulder and guardrails appeared. Up ahead, thirsty woods met the gray sky in a blurry line. A sign in the shape of a football read CONGRATULATIONS, CARBONVILLE MARMOTS, and a bigger sign read WELCOME TO THE ENDLESS MOUNTAINS. Ivy could see the brown wrinkles in the distance, thin and repetitive. She imagined growing up around here—forties in back seats, bruises, feral cats, football. “Fucking endless is right,” she said, the Slim Jim waggling between her teeth like a cigar.
She checked the rearview, startled by her own voice. She eased off the accelerator. Getting caught in a speed trap would be another stupid way for this to end. Anyway, she needed to stay away from these ugly coal-country towns, with their bored cops and loitering mechanics, their eyes so quick to follow an unfamiliar car. She needed to burrow to the end of those Endless Mountains, speed across the vast rectangle of Pennsylvania to…what was next? Michigan? Then push through the tall grass of the Midwest until she finally got someplace worth looking at.
Thank God she’d never told McFadden about Montana. She’d only told Asa, and there was no way his spongy brain had managed to hold on to the information this long. That day when Ivy had shown him the newspaper clipping, he’d just finished smoking a huge bowl, so he’d found it alternately hilarious and confounding.
“Is that a deer?” he’d asked, gripping the scrap of
newspaper between his enormous fingers. “On a telephone wire?”
“It’s a baby deer.”
“Hanging by its armpits from a telephone wire. Well, I’ll be goddamned.” He’d let his hand drop to his lap, tilted his head back, and shuddered with silent laughter. Ivy hated talking to Asa when he was like that, but lately he hadn’t given her much choice.
“It’s a real picture,” Ivy said, snatching the clipping from him. There was a utility worker in a cherry picker rising up to meet the deer, which was slung over the wire like a pair of old sneakers. The headline read “Fawn Causes Power Outage.”
“Guess how it got up there.”
Asa stopped chuckling and squinted his eyes. “Wings. Baby deer wings.”
“Yes. Baby deer wings.” Ivy rolled her eyes. “My point is, this is what Montana is like. Fucking baby deer dropping out of the sky. Okay? Glaciers. Geysers. They have a road called the Going-to-the-Sun Road.”
“Whoa.”
“Can you think of a single road around here anyone would want to call Going-to-the-Sun Road?”
“Umm…that road with the tanning salon? Route 17?” More silent laughter.
“There’s this job people have out there. Smoke jumpers. They jump out of planes and fight forest fires. Okay? They jump out of airplanes into forest fires.”
“Is that what the deer was doing?”
“Can you think of a single person around here who’s ever done something like that in their entire life?”
“C’mon, Ivy, how’d the deer get on the telephone wire?”
Ivy pulled a Dorito out of the bag sitting on the floor between them, snapped off a corner between her teeth. “An eagle dropped it. Duh.”
There was a time when Ivy would’ve asked Asa to come with her to Montana, but over the past year, he’d gone like the rest of Good Hope—into a trance. In Asa’s case, it was a pot and video game trance. For her sister, Agnes, it was a hair and makeup trance. Her brother, Colin, was in a basement weight-lifting trance. Those people who opened that antique store downtown were in an antique trance, sitting there all day among the rhinestone brooches and jelly glasses, not even noticing that nobody ever came through the door, just paying rent so they’d have a place to sit between meals.
Ivy wanted to snap her fingers in their faces, shake them by the shoulders, scream at the top of her lungs. Just go, she wanted to yell at Agnes; go find a town that has the job you studied so hard for. Move out, she wanted to scream at Colin; our basement has no windows. Most of all, she wanted to burst into that antique store and swing a chair around the place, just pulverizing all the cake stands and mason jars and Hummel shit. Snap out of it! she would scream, throwing the chair into a case full of pocket watches and Fiestaware. You’re just selling the same cracked, ugly old crap again and again, year after year, just waiting till people die and wiping off the dust and selling it again. What the hell is the point in that?
But instead, she stole McFadden’s car. Ivy had to admit, she enjoyed imagining McFadden out in the high school parking lot, standing slack-jawed in front of her empty spot. How could anyone do this to me, she’d be thinking. After everything I’ve done for this town. And of course she’d find a way to get a new car for free. Ivy was sure of that. The town would band together and raise the money, everybody handing over a chunk of their tips, their welfare checks, their prison work pay, so Saint McFadden could get a sweet ride.
Ivy batted at the graduation tassel hanging from the rearview mirror. She’d tried telling McFadden she had a plan, that she didn’t need to take the SATs. But McFadden wouldn’t listen. As the guidance counselor with the highest college acceptance rate in the entire Southern Tier, McFadden had a reputation to maintain, and she wasn’t about to let some slacker kid ruin it for her. How many times had Ivy already ridden in this very car, against her will? Going to SAT prep. Going to the actual SATs. Going to more SAT prep.
That’s how it was with McFadden. If you didn’t show up for test prep, she’d come to your house and pick you up in her car. If you weren’t in any clubs, she’d get you magically added to the yearbook committee. If you couldn’t figure out what to write for your application essay, she’d pull one out of this giant file she kept and say, “Use this for inspiration.” She’d already done it to Colin and Agnes, and the way Ma acted when they got those acceptance letters, it was like they’d been awarded the goddamn Nobel Prize by the pope himself. Both times, Ma bought them ice-cream cakes and balloons, and both times her raggedy lungs failed to blow up a single balloon and she had to get Ivy to do it.
Colin went to Alfred for social work, Agnes went to Tech for hospitality, and now they were both living at home and working at Chili’s and Wegmans, respectively. And they weren’t the only ones. Half of Colin’s and Agnes’s friends were back in their old rooms, sleeping among their stuffed animals, closets full of polyester uniforms, mailboxes full of payment coupons, and nobody had the guts to say, You know what? The emperor is walking around with his goddamn junk hanging out.
The sun was sinking now, striking the tops of some leafless branches, leaving the rest in chilly shade. The cracked two-lane road was rolling through patches of farmland alternating with one-story houses, pickups in the driveways framed by painted tires looping out of the ground, and collapsing barns looking like tents after a rainstorm.
Ivy fumbled for the headlight switch; the dashboard glowed orange. She wondered what Ma was going to make for dinner. Probably tomato soup, which she and Gran would eat in front of the TV, beer cans at their sides. Ivy didn’t exactly miss it, the ashtray smell and the ceiling light blackened with bug carcasses, the sandy scratch of the old couch under her thighs. There was an ache, though—for the funny banter between Colin and Agnes, maybe, or for the warmth of soup sliding into her empty belly, shreds of saltine cracker dissolving on her tongue. Ivy unscrewed the cap of the chocolate milk bottle with one hand and drank what was left, letting the slimy sweetness coat the inside of her mouth.
Of course, nowadays Colin usually worked the dinner shift, and if Agnes wasn’t working, she could generally be found at Hank’s Elbow Room, drinking with her new boyfriend. A lot of times, Gran wouldn’t even come out of her bedroom for dinner. Recently, Ivy had found a half-empty bag of pretzels and a forty in Gran’s closet. Gran said it was for when she got hungry in the middle of the night, but Ivy knew Gran was spending days on end in there, sleeping too much, drinking too much, eating too little. Ivy had dragged her over to the couch and made her eat a grilled cheese sandwich, wondering why she always had to be the one checking on Gran, keeping her alive, sitting through her tirades about the men, long dead, who’d left them all up shit creek.
And now even Ma was wanting Ivy’s help with things like vacuuming and carrying in the bags from the Food Bank, because her lungs couldn’t take it. She wouldn’t ask; she’d just stand in the doorway, trying her best to stuff some air down her throat, one hand gripping the doorjamb, the other stretched toward the floor as if it wasn’t too late to stop the cans of creamed corn from slipping from the plastic bag and rolling under the kitchen table. She wouldn’t ask, but she wouldn’t have to, Ivy being the only one around.
It was like that more and more. Ivy could see the future coming at her like a freight train, although really it was the opposite of that. It was like a light moving backward through a tunnel until it disappeared, leaving her alone in the dark. Agnes’s boyfriend had an apartment on the other side of town, and she’d already started leaving some of her clothes over there. Colin was starting to keep odd hours, answering his phone in the middle of the night and rushing out of the house, missing shifts and generally acting shady. Ivy wasn’t sure if he was dealing or taking action or what, but she knew he was headed for time at the Pen. That was just kind of how things went in Good Hope: if you didn’t end up working for one of the town’s three prisons, you ended up inside one of them. Or else you got a different kind of sen
tence, like a sick ma who needed you more and more, her need like a chain around your neck.
Up ahead, Ivy’s headlights picked up a brown sign with carved lettering: GARDNER STATE PARK. Ivy turned onto the dirt road, bumping past a sign that said, “Park closes at dusk.” The road split, wrapping itself around a small, darkened guard booth, and ended in a parking area next to some picnic tables and trash cans. Ivy stopped the car and turned off her headlights, peering through the purple gloom for signs of life.
Did park rangers patrol the woods at night? She wondered if they were a type of cop. The ones they always interviewed on I Survived wore gold badges and big hats that looked a lot like state police uniforms. On the one hand, she didn’t want one shining his flashlight in the car and asking to see an ID. On the other hand, it would be nice to know someone was out there in case of bears or wolves or whatnot. Ivy had thrown her cell phone out the car window on her way out of Good Hope, because she didn’t want anyone tracking it—which meant now she had no way to call for help.
The car made faint ticking noises. Ivy unfastened her seat belt and lifted the armrests between the front seats, stretching her legs across. If she fell asleep soon, she could wake up early and get back on the road before someone reported to work in the guard booth. She buttoned her jacket to her chin, put up her hood, and tucked her hands under her armpits.
It was pretty funny, the idea of spending the night in McFadden’s car. Funny and kind of annoying, since Ivy could feel her everywhere: in the tassel hanging from the rearview, in the disgusting sheepskin wheel cover, in the faded East Good Hope stickers on the back window. A decal on the glove compartment door had the school’s motto on it: “Home of the Eagles.” That irritated Ivy more than anything. She knew for a fact that nobody had seen an eagle anywhere near Good Hope for at least a hundred years.
She pulled out her wallet and found the folded newspaper clipping—the one with the deer on the telephone wire. She’d cut it out of USA Today about a year ago; the picture had snagged on her brain, and she couldn’t get it out. The brave heartlessness of it; the uncomplicated math. It felt like a doorway to something bigger than herself, to a world without walls or boundaries or questions about right or wrong, to a place where it was all about survival, and you were either a baby deer or a badass eagle. Seeing that picture was the start of her whole fixation on Montana—what had sent her to the library computer to find out where, exactly, it was; what had led her to find out about smoke jumping. That was pretty much all she needed to know. The farthest place she could imagine from Good Hope, New York, was an airplane over a Montana forest fire.
The Runaways Page 1