The Journey Back

DUTTON CHILDREN'S BOOKS

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

Text copyright © 2012 by Priscilla Cummings Frece

 

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Permission for
quote
from “Walking on a Wire”: from Voyager Passport Book C, Fluency Reader, Book 2, Adventures 5-8, Copyright 2008.

Maps
courtesy of the National Park Service.

 

CIP Data is available.

 

Published in the United States by Dutton Children's Books,

a division of Penguin Young Readers Group

345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

www.penguin.com/youngreaders

 

ISBN: 978-1-101-59165-9

For John

CHESAPEAKE AND OHIO CANAL
NATIONAL HISTORICAL PARK MAP

 

 

“Running away will never make you free.”

—K
ENNY
L
OGGINS

I
t was my birthday, the day I made up my mind to leave. I'd been thinking seriously about escaping for nearly a week, ever since Visiting Day when Mom showed up and I could see nothing had changed at home. Then, that night, someone peed in my one pair of boots. But that birthday cake was the trigger. It set everything in motion. And by then, I had a plan.

Bet you didn't think losers in prison could actually get a birthday cake, did you? But yeah, we did. The last Friday of each month we celebrated—if you can call it that. In the cafeteria, after evening rec and showers, Mrs. Fielder, our sweaty-faced cook, brought in this big chocolate cake in a pan with white frosting, blue gel writing, sprinkles, a couple candles, the works. I was fourteen years old. What's so pathetic is that it was the first birthday cake I'd had in about eight years. Wouldn't have been half bad, I guess, getting a birthday cake for once, even if I did have to share it with the other September birthdays. But the minute I saw what was written on that cake, my stomach clenched up and my breath caught in my throat—Tio's name was on it, too. Just me and Tio.

“Digger and Tio,” Mrs. Fielder announced way too cheerfully. It was creepy hearing our two names strung together like that, but Mrs. Fielder didn't have a clue. Looking rather pleased, she set the cake down on the cafeteria table in front of us while most of the boys, slumped back in their plastic chairs, sang a pitiful version of “Happy Birthday.” Some of them didn't sing at all, and even those who did, you could tell no one had his heart in it. They just wanted to get it over with so they could eat cake, which we would all agree is far better than half a baloney sandwich on dry bread and rancid fruit juice for our evening snack. Their voices rose with a tad more enthusiasm toward the end—
Digger and Teeeee-ooooooo
—while my head spun like crazy because the bottom line was this: my name was written
above
Tio's on that cake, which meant things would come to a head fast.

“Digger, go ahead and make a wish,” Mr. Rankin said. If I had to pick one, Mr. R. was probably my favorite counselor. He set his beefy hands on his hips and, as he caught my eyes, smiled kindly and nodded once. We'd had a talk that afternoon about “if/then thinking”—you know, if you do this, then that might happen—and he was probably hopeful some of it sank in. “Blow out one candle,” he instructed. “Then let Tio blow out the other one.”

I knew this was a test and I had to make up my mind quickly. I could breathe slow, count backward from ten, try to go with the flow. But I was burning inside because I still wasn't over the humiliation of walking around in those damp, stinky boots a week ago. Ever tried to clean urine out of your shoes with a Kleenex? Let me tell you, it doesn't work very well. Everywhere I went, I stunk up the place. At least I knew who was behind it. My eyes flicked over to Tio and back. Unsmiling, he sat up stiffly, his chin up, his eyes narrowed, and rested his tattooed hands on the table directly across from me. No way was he going to accept seeing my name above his on that cake. That's how small and mean he was. Maybe it was 'cause of his half-a-brain gang mentality. I don't know, and frankly, I don't care.

Still, I swallowed hard. All the other boys were quiet but perked up by then, scraping their chairs back and leaning forward, watching me like hawks. They were waiting to see what I'd do 'cause with my hesitation and all, everyone could feel the tension.

“Go ahead,” Mr. Rankin urged gently, and I glanced at him again, hoping that brief look could say what I couldn't: that I didn't hold nothing against my counselors and I hated to disappoint them. Mr. R. and Miss Laurie, the mental health lady, they tried hard to set me straight. It wasn't their fault I couldn't change. I was doing what I had to do, which was get one up on Tio before he got one up on me. And then get the hell out of there and make it home in time to protect my mom and my little brother and sister.

I stood up and, while staring down at the cake, drew in a chest full of stale cafeteria air that still smelled like canned corn from dinner. Quickly, I wished to myself that Tio—and my father—would die miserable deaths; then I leaned forward and blew both of those candles out.

Stone silence.

“Sorry,” I said softly, pulling my shoulders back while two tiny wisps of smoke drifted away. I shrugged and looked at Tio. The slightest hint of a smile may have crept on to my lips. “Looks like you don't get no birthday wish.”

It worked.

Tio jumped up out of his chair so fast he knocked it over behind him. The little car thief may be short, but he was fast. In a flash, he lunged forward, picked up the cake with both hands, and threw it at me hard. I jumped back on my toes, and to the side quick, like a batter avoiding a fastball, low and inside, as the cake whizzed by. It hit a kid named Jimmy smack in the chest, then slid down the front of him, leaving a huge ski trail of frosting on his sweatshirt. He stood up, spreading out his arms, like
what the heck?
And the pan clattered to the floor.

What a sorry sight. And all that chocolate cake ruined. I felt a pang for Mrs. Fielder 'cause I'm sure she worked hard on that cake, and then stayed after her shift was over to see us get it. All her efforts gone in two seconds. I have to say, I knew exactly how she felt. I once cooked a cherry pie—first and only pie I ever made—for my mom, to surprise her on Valentine's Day. But that night, before we even got to eat any of it, my father came home messed up, picked up that pie, and heaved it across the room. He missed my mother that time, but what a mess—pieces of pie and glass all over the wall, all over the floor, my mother screaming, my brother and sister crying, and me, getting my face pushed into it and my butt kicked at the same time. So no, I didn't have the heart to look at Mrs. Fielder—or time to dwell on wasted efforts—because Tio was springing up onto that table like a wildcat coming after me.

“Tio, stop!” Mr. R. hollered. “Stop right there!” But Tio didn't take orders very well.

I was ready for him. Balled up my fist hard and ducked as soon as Tio's two feet hit the floor and he took a swing at me. Then I popped up fast and smacked him one square on his jaw with the hard ridge of my knuckles. A direct hit, it sent him flying back against the table, then onto the floor where he tried to get up but couldn't and fell backward again. Poor jerk had a short memory. Didn't he remember that I knew how to fight?

He may have been stunned for a second, but Tio wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, spit, and threw a long, angry look at me. Suddenly, he jumped back on his feet, but Mr. R. and another counselor grabbed his arms to hold him back while Mrs. Fielder yelled into the radio: “Staff support! Kitchen!”

Tio's no weakling. He started yanking and bucking like a frickin' bronco until he tore away from the counselors. Rushing forward, he came after me again. The boys, all of them on their feet, moved aside, giving him a wide, clear path.

“Get him, Tio!” somebody called out.

But I also heard an encouraging, “Go, Digger!” and I'd wonder later if it was my old friend J.T., 'cause it sounded like his voice. Hard to believe, though, because J.T. and me—we had pretty much stayed away from each other ever since that wrenching ride out to western Maryland in the prison van.

Tio lunged and tried to grab the front of my sweatshirt. But again, I was too quick for him. I came up under his hands with my own strong wrists and knocked them clear away, making him spin around at the same time. Then I kicked him in the can, and he fell forward onto the floor where Mr. Rankin plopped down on him and pinned Tio's arms behind his back. He's a big man, Mr. R. You can bet Tio wasn't going anywhere with Mr. R. on his back. Honest, I had to stop myself from laughing at that point.

Another counselor stood to block me, but I was done fighting for the night. I brushed off my hands and looked kind of longingly at the cake all over Jimmy and the floor. This other boy, Alex, ran his finger through some of the frosting on Jimmy's sweatshirt and licked it. A couple of the boys laughed softly, but the rest hung back without another word. None of them wanted to be caught laughing at Tio, or making wisecracks, 'cause they knew they'd pay for it down the road.

Weird, but all at once, a quiet kind of sadness settled over the entire room. Guess it was dawning on us all at the same time, the realization that nobody would be eating cake or getting any kind of snack that evening.

—

Just as I'd hoped, Tio and I were separated for the night. It was a gamble for me, starting that fight, but it paid off because they took Tio to stay in the nurse's office where he could be supervised. I was sure to be punished, too, but like I said, I didn't plan to be around so it didn't bother me. Mostly, I wanted Tio out of the dorm that night so I could finish up what I had to do and get out of there.

Most nights, I'd lie in that hard bed for hours thinking back on the crime that put me and J.T. at Cliffside Youth Detention Center for nine months. We sabotaged a kayak is what we did. Put holes in it so it would sink. It started out as a practical joke, but it went way the heck wrong 'cause a little boy died on account of what we did. What
I
did anyway. Believe me, what I did is a hundred-pound weight I got to carry around the rest of my life. But that didn't mean my mom and my brother and sister had to suffer, too, which is why I was breaking out of that place. So that night, my mind was focused on something other than my crime.

In the morning, the day I escaped, I was all business. I had KP duty, so four of us—me, Haynes, Jake, and TaJuan—we were up at six
A.M.
, half an hour before the others. We dressed quickly, made up our beds for inspection, and then walked over to the dining hall with a counselor. I was relieved to see Mrs. Fielder wasn't the morning cook 'cause I don't know if I could've faced her after what we did to her cake the night before. When we got to the kitchen, we hung up our sweatshirts and made sure our white T-shirts were tucked in. We also had to put on an apron and a KP duty hat, which is just a hairnet like old women wear, but I'm sure they didn't want to call it that or none of us would've worn it.

Haynes and Jake, they got to work cooking up scrambled eggs and bacon, while TaJuan and I laid out the cold stuff: cartons of milk, juice, yogurt, and boxes of cereal for the kids who didn't eat eggs. Everything in prison is cheap. Even the cereal is genetic. Or is it generic? Whatever. The word that means cheap. Like instead of Cocoa Krispies it's Cocoroos, and Fruity Pebbles are Fruity Diamonds. We got a kick out of that sometimes, only that morning I wasn't laughing. Secretly, I pushed a small box of them Cocoroos deep down into the pocket of my pants, because who knew how long it would be before I could eat again?

At seven
A.M.
, the rest of the boys shuffled in, half asleep. Everyone took a tray and got in line. I ate as much as we were allowed and drank an extra carton of milk, then went back behind the counter to start cleanup. While the others left, us guys on KP started washing dishes, sweeping the floors, and putting stuff away.

Here's where it got hairy: at eight
A.M.
, classes started. It was Saturday morning, so we didn't have like English or math. Instead we had this class in drug education and life skills. We were supposed to bring our notebooks with us to breakfast and go straight to the classroom when we finished KP, but what I did was tell Mr. R., who taught the class, that I forgot my notebook and could I please run back and get it? I knew he'd walk me back to the dorm, but I was hoping he wouldn't actually go all the way in there with me—and he didn't.

Alone in the dorm, I moved fast. First, I got the notebook from the little shelf above where I keep my boots at the end of my bed, then I moved five beds down the line to Tio's. I had wanted to do this the night before, but the stupid guard didn't nod off with his head down on the desk around three
A.M.
, the way he usually does. I turned around to be sure no one else was there and put my notebook on the bed behind me. Then I flipped back the blankets on Tio's bed, yanked down the zipper of my pants, and peed all over his sheets and pillow with everything I had. Quickly, I zipped back up, and redid the covers. Tucked 'em in, too, nice and neat. Ha! Wait'll he got a whiff of that, I thought. Stage Three of our Moral Judgment Development Program said to treat others as you would have them treat you. Otherwise known as the Golden Rule, right? He did it to me, so I guess he wanted me to do it to him.

Quickly, I scooped up my notebook and rushed back outside. Right then, that's when I heard the garbage truck coming in, and my heart started pounding.

“Shoot!” I exclaimed.

“What
now
?” Mr. R. asked. He was pretty annoyed by then.

“Cook asked me to put out the garbage. It won't take me a minute.
Please.
I don't want them to get any madder at me!”

Mr. R. shook his head, but then he said, “All right, go.”

I stared at him, kind of paralyzed by the thought of what I was about to do.

“Go!”
he hollered, throwing up his hands. “The guys are waiting. Get up to that classroom as soon as you're done.” He pointed a finger at my face. “I'll be watching for you.”

I knew he was giving me yet another chance and it hurt, it really hurt to do this to Mr. R. But while he walked up the hill toward the classrooms, I marched briskly in the opposite direction toward the dining hall. When I opened the door, I could see some frozen pie shells set out on the counter to thaw and I could hear pots clanging in the back. It was just the cook. The other boys had gone on to class and no one else was around. Peering out the door one more time, I checked to be sure my counselor was still walking away before I kneeled and set my notebook on the floor. Then I stepped back outside and bolted around the corner.