The Runaways
Zilpha Keatley Snyder
To Libby—who was there too
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
A Biography of Zilpha Keatley Snyder
Chapter 1
DANI HAD BEEN IN the graveyard for maybe ten minutes when she suddenly knew she was going to do it. Jumping to her feet, she shook both fists in the air and yelled out loud, “Yeah, I’m going to.” Took a deep breath and shouted again, “I really mean it.”
It was like a vow, or maybe even more like—a challenge. Yeah. A challenge. Still staring up at the desert sky, she stuck out her chin and told herself, and anyone—or anything—that might be listening, that this time she absolutely meant it. She wasn’t yelling now. Only thinking, but with a fierceness that swelled her throat as if she were still shouting, “I mean it. I’m going to do it. And right now, too.”
No more of this waiting to grow up stuff, or even putting it off until next year. Any day now, like maybe next Friday, she, Danielle O’Donnell, would load up her old purple duffel bag, take whatever money was left in Stormy’s ugly bank and take off. On the bus if there was enough money for a ticket, or if that didn’t work, by stowing away in the back of a truck. But however she had to do it, she was definitely going to go.
Afterward she never was quite sure why she’d made up her mind at that particular moment. It must have been the graveyard that made the difference, that gave her the guts to finally come to a decision on an otherwise ordinary afternoon, the last day of April in 1951, a few months before her thirteenth birthday. It wasn’t as if she’d been especially angry at that particular moment, or even any more bored out of her skull than usual. And for once the weather wasn’t even especially awful. Okay, so the usual skin-shriveling desert wind was blowing, but at least it wasn’t either icy cold or hot enough to broil your tonsils. So why did she suddenly make up her mind to do something she’d been putting off ever since she’d first set eyes on Rattler Springs more than four years ago? It must have been the graveyard that did it. Or else what she’d been doing there.
The graveyard at Rattler Springs was on a hill. Not much more than a slope really, but about the closest thing to a hill anywhere near town, and high enough so that from where she sat there was almost what you might call a view. You might, that is, if you’d grown up in Rattler Springs, and had never seen anything like a real one. A real view with lots of cool blue water, towering green trees and all the other great stuff Danielle O’Donnell had been used to, once upon a time.
The “view” you actually got from the graveyard was of a short row of squatty, sand-blistered shops, clustered around the only two-story building in town. That one big ugly building held a general store, a lunch counter, a small office and a big bar on the ground floor, and up above, the Grand Hotel. Or, as it was sometimes called, the Grablers’ Grand. Everyone in town knew the Grablers, whether they wanted to or not.
Next door to the one big building there was the post office’s little cubbyhole, about the size of a postage stamp, and on the other side of Main Street, a big wooden shack known as the town hall, which served as a church or movie theater, depending on the day of the week and time of day.
On past the town hall you got Lefty’s Bar, one of the five bars in town, and right after that, the winner of any ugly contest, grubby old Gus’s garage and service station. Gus’s Grease Pit, as the whole place was sometimes called, consisted of a paintless gas station out front and, behind that, a big tin-roofed garage with its famous grease pit. The grease pit was famous, at least in Rattler Springs, because it was so deep, deeper than most grease pits because Gus was so tall. And greasier than most, because Gus was such a slob. And everywhere, in front, out back, in the garage and out of it, there were old tires, parts of dead cars and all kinds of other junk. And grease. Grease everywhere, especially on Gus himself.
Beyond the Grabler property and Greasy Gus’s the town went on for about a block, but except for the Silver Grill, the only halfway decent restaurant in town, there wasn’t much worth mentioning. The rest of Rattler Springs included a combination motel and gas station, a few more bars, and a scattering of houses and house trailers, spread out between a lot of trashy vacant lots, with here and there a spindly, wind-stripped thing that never quite managed to look like a tree. Of course, there was also the schoolhouse, but that was another story. A story that didn’t do much to improve Dani’s feelings about the view.
It wasn’t much of a school really, only two classrooms with a dark, narrow hallway between them. Dani had been in the primary room her first year at Rattler Springs. Since then she’d moved across the hall where Mr. Graham taught eighteen kids ranging in size from skinny little Chloe in the fifth grade to gigantic old Ronnie Grabler in the eighth. And not a person of any size who had any interest in anything outside of Rattler Springs.
Beyond and behind and around all of it was absolutely nothing. Nothing, that is, but desert. And not even an honest-to-God, Sahara-type desert like you see in pictures, where bare white dunes move in the wind like snowdrifts, and actually manage to look beautiful in a deadly sort of way. Nothing as interesting as that. Around Rattler Springs all you got was boring, gray-brown, flat-out ugliness, where the few things that did manage to grow were spindly or prickly, and not even big enough to hide behind. And in the distance the hills rose dark and slick against a bare, blue sky.
But it couldn’t have been looking at the Rattler Springs view, as miserable as it was, that made Dani come to a decision. After all, she’d looked out across that same depressing scene plenty of times before. What really must have done it—and she realized that this was pretty freaky, but it was true—what must have done it was seeing her own name on the tombstone. Even though she’d put it there herself.
She’d been sitting there on a flattish rock between the graves of Clarence Bailey and Hank Somebody-or-other when it happened. On her right was Clarence’s tombstone, which she’d noticed before because it was the only one in the whole graveyard that was actually made of stone. Poor little dearly beloved Clarence Bailey. You knew he was little because he was born in 1891 and died in 1893. Which might seem like a sad story if you didn’t stop to think that at least he’d escaped having to grow up in Rattler Springs. And you knew he was dearly beloved because somebody had gone to the trouble to put up a marble tombstone, instead of a wooden cross. Or even just a slab of wood, like the one over poor old illegible Hank.
The sad news on Clarence’s marble tombstone was easy enough to read, but Hank’s statistics were another matter. The writing on Hank’s grave marker had been burned into the wood, probably with a branding iron. The first four letters were HANK, she was fairly sure about that. But then came a last name that started with what might have been an S, before it faded away into a bunch of splinters. There was, in fact, only one spot on the weathered old slab that was still fairly smooth and it was there that Dani, for some unknown reason, had started to write her own name. Not branding it into the wood, like they
’d done for poor old Hank, but only scratching it in with a rusty nail.
Danielle O’Don—she’d written, and then she’d stopped. Stopped scratching and for a moment almost stopped breathing, with the horror of it. The horror of a terrible heart-stopping fear. It didn’t come from the notion that she was going to die someday. She’d never wasted much energy worrying about that. But more likely from suddenly facing the possibility that she might die right there. That she might live out her whole life in Rattler Springs without ever escaping back to where she belonged.
It was then that she caught her breath, dropped the nail as if it had burned her fingers, jumped to her feet and started yelling. And then hushed, and stood motionless, only moving her eyes from one side to the other as she waited—and listened.
There was no answer, of course, at least not one that she heard with her ears, but the desert was talking to her, all right. Telling her that it wouldn’t ever let her get away. Like it had almost every day for the last four years. Ever since that blazing hot day in 1947 when she and Linda had arrived in Rattler Springs. Dani shook her head fiercely, took a deep breath and began to run. But she’d only gone a few steps when she stumbled on a rock and turned her ankle.
It hurt. For a minute or two it hurt like anything. She hopped for a while, muttering “Ouch” and a few other things, before she managed to go on. Refusing to limp, she tried not to wonder if the desert had done it on purpose. Had put that rock there to let her know how easy it would be to stop her if she ever tried anything desperate. Showing her how it could use a sneaky rock, or the blazing sun, or just hundreds of miles of emptiness, to keep her from making it. “Nice try,” she told the desert, “but you don’t scare me any.” She kept right on then at a slightly painful jog until she got to the end of the graveyard trail. And just beyond the trail’s end, Silver Avenue.
Chapter 2
SILVER AVENUE. SLOWING TO a walk and not even bothering to look both ways, Dani started right up the middle of the crumbling, potholed stretch of blacktop that some long-ago dreamer had the nerve to name Silver Avenue. “Sssil-ver Ah-ven-ooo.” Dani always stuck out her chin and waggled her head around in a “grand lady” put-on, whenever she had to give her address. “Number seventeen, Sssil-ver Ah-ven-ooo.” What a laugh. As if there had ever been much silver, or anything halfway grand enough to be called an avenue, in Rattler Springs.
She was almost home, still waggling her head and murmuring “Sss-il-ver” when, right behind her and practically in her ear, a voice said, “You going nuts or something?” Dani whirled around, but of course it was only Stormy.
“Nuts? Not me,” Dani said. “But I will be if you don’t stop sneaking up on me like that.” Grabbing Stormy by his collar, she hissed in his ear, “Don’t you know you can drive people crazy, doing stuff like that?”
She turned him loose then and, putting her hands on her hips, glared at him. Poor old Stormy Arigotti had been following her around like a pet dog ever since he’d come to Rattler Springs at least two years before. He’d moved right into the Grand Hotel because his mother worked there, and since Dani lived next door it hadn’t taken Stormy long to start moving in on her. And not only when she was at home either. Stormy had a talent for showing up almost anywhere. Like in the middle of Silver Avenue, for instance.
She never had been able to figure out how a short, clunky nine-year-old kid could be so good at sneaking around. You’d be walking along, on your way to the rest room at school, or crossing the highway or even heading out to the trash can in your own backyard, for heaven’s sake, and there he’d be, sudden and silent as a snake.
“Okay, what’s up?” Dani asked him impatiently. “What do you want now?”
“Nothin’. Not exactly right now anyways, but …” Looking down sheepishly, Stormy began to pull something out of his jacket pocket. “But maybe later …”
It was a book, of course. Dani jerked it away from him. “What is it this time?”
“It’s a short one,” Stormy said. “See, it’s just …” He reached out, trying to turn the book to the last page, but she snatched it away and put it behind her back. Stormy made a grab for it but she turned quickly, making him miss.
The book was called White Fang and the picture on the cover was of a wolfish-looking dog. It looked kind of interesting. At least a little bit better than some of the stuff Stormy brought her. Dani sighed. The trouble with Stormy was that he had a problem. Well, actually, a couple of problems that didn’t fit together worth a darn. On the one hand, he had this reading block. Like when Stormy looked at a word the letters got all mixed up so what he saw didn’t make much sense. But on the other hand he had this mad love affair with stories. Particularly stories about animals. Most of the time Stormy was a really active-type kid. He could run around for hours playing a stupid ball game, or chasing somebody who’d called him a bad name. But if someone was reading a story he’d do a complete personality switch. Listening to a story, Stormy Arigotti could sit still for so long you’d think he’d been turned to stone. You might, at least, if you didn’t notice his eyes. When Stormy was listening to a story there was something about his eyes that always reminded Dani of the sparklers kids play with on the Fourth of July.
When Stormy lunged at the book again, she held it up over her head, grinning at him teasingly. She was thinking about telling him to forget it. After all, if she was going to be running away in a few days, she was going to be too busy getting ready to sit around for hours reading out loud. She was still keeping the book away from him when she saw his face tighten with anger and she got ready, watching his fists, but most of all his feet. Stormy was a mean kicker when he got mad enough, and she had the scars on her shinbones to prove it. He was almost kicking mad, one more teasing grin would probably have done it, when Dani decided to cool it.
Handing the book back to him, she said, “Okay, here it is. And I’ll read it. But not now. After dinner. Okay?”
“Okay. After dinner.” Stormy’s snub-nosed face split into a jack-o’-lantern grin. “I’ll bring pretzels. Okay? Or Beer Nuts?”
“Okay, okay,” Dani muttered, and started on across the street to the historic old Jerky Joe cabin, where she and her mother had lived since right after they arrived in Rattler Springs. As usual, the sagging gate refused to open. Shoving and kicking it, she growled, “Grrreat. Just great.”
Right behind her Stormy was bouncing around like a clown on a pogo stick. “Which?” he kept saying. “Which?”
One more violent kick and Dani gave up on the gate and whirled to face him. “Which what?” she bellowed.
Sounding hurt and startled, Stormy whispered, “Pretzels or Beer Nuts?”
Dani stopped to think. She liked them both, but you could buy pretzels at the store and the only place in Rattler Springs where you could get Beer Nuts was on the counter at the Grand Hotel bar—where no juveniles were allowed. No juveniles, at least, except someone whose mother worked at the bar and looked the other way while her kid snuck in to snitch Beer Nuts.
“Okay, Beer Nuts,” she said. She watched Stormy clump happily off clutching his precious book and wondered how much money there’d be in her running-away fund if she had a nickel for every book she’d ever read to Stormy. Giving the stupid gate a final kick, she gave up and, walking down to the hole in the fence, she cut across the pitiful remains of a lawn and up the front steps and banged open the screen door. As she crossed the tiny combination living room-bedroom a voice called, “Dani. Is that you?”
The voice belonged, of course, to Dani’s mother, Linda, who at the moment was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and a book.
“There you are,” she said as Dani entered the room. “I was beginning to wonder.”
“Oh yeah?” Dani asked. It crossed her mind to say that she was surprised to hear that a certain person had pulled her nose out of her book long enough to notice that her one and only kid was missing. But she didn’t. Instead she went to the sink, rummaged around for a halfway cle
an glass, ran some lukewarm water and drank it, looking over the rim at her mother.
Linda O’Donnell was a pale, wispy woman who might have been almost pretty if she’d halfway tried. Tried to dress in something modern, for instance, instead of the long, saggy, flowery things she usually wore. And if she’d comb her flyaway hair once in a while and put on a little lipstick, which she might have time to do if she didn’t waste so much time listening to soap operas on the radio. Not to mention reading dumb books about rich people, or else about poor girls who wind up marrying rich people and living happily ever after.
“What is it this time?” Dani asked, and when Linda turned the book to its front cover Dani couldn’t help grinning. “The Pirate’s Bride,” she read in a dramatic voice. “Wowee!”
Linda smiled sheepishly, saved her place with a bookmark and closed the book. The bookmark was an embarrassing old thing that Dani had made for her a long time ago. It was decorated with pictures of daisies along with some flowery print that said “I love to read.” Dani had made it before she started noticing how her mother wasted so much time reading instead of doing something useful, like—Dani put her glass back down on the cluttered sinkboard—like washing a few dishes now and then, for instance.
After Linda closed her book and started making dinner Dani plopped herself down in her mother’s chair and began to flip through The Pirate’s Bride. It looked boring, like most of the stuff her mother read. Just a bunch of mushy stuff about a handsome man who acts mean and dangerous at first and then turns out to be positively adorable, and a beautiful woman who doesn’t know she’s in love with him even though it’s perfectly obvious. Dani hated the books her mother read. And she hated the way her mother spent so much time reading and daydreaming instead of doing something about the mess they were in. Or at least worrying about it.
Linda said she didn’t worry much because she was a natural optimist, which meant that she really believed in happy endings. Happy endings as in finding a better job so she could pay off their debts and save up enough money so she and Dani could leave Rattler Springs forever and move back to Sea Grove. But in the meantime she only sat around reading books like The Pirates Bride. Dani slammed the book shut and shoved it away from her.
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