Escape

Part 7

The backfire of Tom Guntly's old Buick woke me with a start just before dawn. I sat straight up on the couch. Just as frightened, Horatio leaped up from his place on my stomach, leaving seven long scratches in his wake.

In the cold light of morning, I tried to gather my wits. I was insane. I knew that. I shouldn't have run away. I was overreacting.

But when I pulled Momma's letter out of my pocket and read it again, and then caught a faint whiff of smoke clinging to my flannel shirt, I thought again of Dad and the books. I touched my too-sensitive scalp, and remembered cold water in my lungs.

No one in Swiftcreek was going to help me. All I could do was get out, and hope that someday, I could come back to help Momma.

I found half a birthday cake and a liter of Coke in the staff fridge. I wanted to write a note to Mrs. Hudson to explain, but what if she showed it to Dad, or to the police?

I ate three slices with a guilty conscience, swigged half of the soda and took the bottle with me, belching in a very unladylike manner.

The clock over the desk said it was twenty after seven. The horizon was just beginning to color. Mrs. Hudson would be in any time to open the library at eight.

I took one last walk through the stacks, trailing my fingers over the spines of my favorite books. When I got to FIC-BRO, I stopped and read the titles slowly, saying goodbye to the only friends I'd had since I was six.

The only copy of Jane Eyre on the shelf was a dog-eared paperback. The copyright date listed it as a 1978 edition, and the card on the back cover was nearly illegible with the number of stamps it held.

I stared at the cover. Of all of my friends, Jane had been the best. She kept me company on long, painful nights, and was there when my chest hurt from holding my breath. Of all the books Dad had burned, I felt the loss of my copy of her book the keenest. I'd bought it for twenty-five cents at a library sale when I was ten. Momma had given me a dollar to buy a soda from the vending machine while she and Dad went to Bible study, but I'd bought Jane Eyre, A Little Princess, The Origin of the Species, and Little Women instead. I'd been smart enough to show Momma my books on the drive home, when neither of them could peer into the back see to see how full my backpack still was.

My legs were screaming as I pedaled away from the library five minutes later, but my resolution was firm. For the first time in my life, I had stolen something. Three somethings: the coke, a road Atlas of Southeastern Idaho, and Jane.

In her place, I left the check out card, stashed between Wuthering Heights and The Collected Works of the Brontë Sisters.

At the top, I'd left a simple message: Thank you.

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