Runaway Twin, Page 2

  My old suitcase contained the clothes I’d been wearing that day. I’m not sure why I kept them. They hold no happy memories, but somehow they prove that I have a past, that I came from somewhere. Someone had bought that flowered yellow sundress for me; someone had buckled those white sandals onto my feet. Someone had cared, at least a little bit.

  The suitcase also contained a magazine article that I had read and clipped several years earlier about twin boys who were separated as babies and reunited as adults. I had read it so many times, I could have recited it from memory.

  A friend of one twin saw a man in a restaurant who looked so much like his friend that he approached the man’s table and asked if he had a brother.

  The man said, “No.”

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you. It’s uncanny, how much you resemble my friend. I would have sworn you were his brother.”

  As he turned to leave, the other man asked, “Was your friend adopted?”

  It turned out that he was.

  This conversation led to a meeting of the look-alikes where the two men discovered they had been born on the same day and had been adopted from the same agency. Further research proved that they were identical twins.

  I didn’t know if Starr and I were identical or fraternal twins, but ever since I had read that article, I had daydreamed about someone coming up to me and asking if I had a sister. This stranger would swear that I looked exactly like someone she knew, and that someone, of course, would turn out to be Starr.

  It made a good daydream, but I’ve learned that if you want dreams to come true, you have to take action. Sitting around and hoping someone might look at me and notice a resemblance to Starr was not likely to produce my twin. If I was ever going to find her, I needed to do it myself.

  I put the bag of cash at the bottom of the suitcase, laid my belongings on top, and added a pile of school papers that I’d brought home the day before. I was pretty sure Rita wouldn’t snoop in my things, but the suitcase didn’t have a lock and if it got opened, I wanted the bag of money to be well hidden.

  I shoved the suitcase back under my bed and went downstairs, humming “Twinkie, Twinkie, little Starr.” Usually the tune made me sad and lonely. That day it made my heart soar.

  I was going to find Starr. Somehow, some way, I would find my sister and when I did, I would finally have a family again.

  3

  That afternoon I went to the office of the local paper and paid cash for a classified ad. “Found money. To claim, identify amount, what it’s in, and where you lost it.”

  I didn’t want anyone to call Rita’s house, so I used my e-mail address. Rita gave me an account on her computer, with my own e-mail address, even though I didn’t have anyone to write to. I knew I’d be the only one who would read any responses to the ad.

  I placed an identical ad on Craigslist, and then started watching my e-mail. I got one response right away that said, “I lost my rent money and I am going to be evicted tomorrow. I don’t know where I lost it. You are my only hope. Please help me. Angie.”

  I noticed the writer did not say how much was lost, nor did she mention the zippered bag, so I figured this message was not from the rightful owner. Probably Angie hadn’t lost any money at all but thought she could trick me into parting with what I had found. Well, Sunny Skyland is not easily tricked.

  The newspaper ad ran the next afternoon. I checked the paper to be sure it was right.

  My second response came a day later. It said, “The money is mine. I had it in my pocket and I’m not sure exactly how much there was, but now it’s gone. I could have dropped it anywhere. I can meet you tonight to get it back, just tell me what time and where, and I’ll be there.”

  I’ll bet you will, I thought. How stupid do people think I am? If anyone had lost eight hundred and twenty dollars that was in a zippered bag, the bag is the first thing they’d tell me about.

  I let both ads run for a week. A few more responses arrived, all equally unbelievable. As the days went by and there was no legitimate claim, my excitement grew. I started a list of things I wanted to tell Starr after I found her.

  One e-mail said, “That money was left to me by my fathur who died of hart falure yesturday. It is all I have in the wurld. Pleez do not rob me of my futur by keeping it.”

  I shook my head. The ad had been running for five days before that person’s father died—if he had died.

  At the end of the week, I replied to all the people I’d heard from. I wrote, “Sorry. The money was claimed by someone who knew exactly how much it was, and what container it was in.” I didn’t say that the someone was me.

  Meanwhile, I had searched for Starr online. It wasn’t the first time I’d done that, and the result was the same as it had always been. I found towns named Skyland and people whose last name was Starr and even a group of amateur astronomers, but there was no record of a Starr Skyland in Google or Yahoo or anywhere else. She was not on Facebook or MySpace or any of the other social networks. It was as if my sister had fallen off the Earth. I tried spelling her name with only one r, but that didn’t make any difference.

  It occurred to me that whoever Starr was living with now might have had her use their last name instead of her own. For that matter, they might have given her a new first name, too. Maybe she wasn’t bouncing around in foster homes like I was. Maybe she had been adopted.

  I decided my best chance of finding her would be to return to where we had lived at the time of the accident. I would talk to people in our old neighborhood. Some of them might have been there when we were, and would remember us. They might know who had taken Starr, and where she is now.

  I didn’t know the name of the street where we had lived, but I knew the town because it was written, along with Starr and Sunny, Loretta and Frisky, on the back of that old snapshot. Enumclaw, Washington. I could also make out a house number, 1041, over the door.

  According to the Census Bureau, Enumclaw has a population of eleven thousand two hundred people. That wasn’t too big. Even without a specific street, I should be able to find someone who had known my mother or my grandma. I could go to every street in town and find number 1041. I could stop at the high school, and ask to see old yearbooks in case my mother had been a student there.

  Starr might still live in Enumclaw. Wouldn’t that be something? While I was driving away with Great-aunt Cora, Starr could have been moving in with our next-door neighbors. Perhaps she still lived there, in number 1039 or 1043. It was possible.

  I studied a map of the United States. I was approximately thirteen hundred miles from Enumclaw, Washington. The closest airport to there was Seattle, but I had already decided not to fly. Instead, I planned to take the bus. It would take me longer to get there, but it would be harder for Rita and Hiss to find me if I bought a series of bus tickets from place to place than if I got on a plane.

  I knew from watching the news that flying requires photo ID, which I didn’t have because the photos for student ID cards at my current school had been taken while I was still living with She-Who and attending a different school. Also, a kid flying alone and paying cash for a plane ticket might attract attention. Better to travel a short distance by bus, maybe stay over a night or two, and then go a little way farther.

  I decided to leave Rita a note. Although she’d probably still report that I was missing, if she knew I had not been abducted but had left on purpose, the cops wouldn’t issue an Amber Alert, and the media wouldn’t broadcast my picture. A foster kid who runs away, especially one who has run away twice before, would not be newsworthy.

  I didn’t want to waste the time of the police and others who would look for me if they thought I was lost or the victim of a crime. I wouldn’t tell Rita where I was going, only that I was okay and would be in touch. Rita had been nice to me, so I added, “I’m not leaving because of anything you did.”

  If the whole state wasn’t looking for me, I had a good chance of getting away. Just to be sure, I decided to chang
e my appearance.

  I made careful plans, thinking through each step. I would leave on Friday morning because Rita taught yoga classes on Fridays and was always gone from eight in the morning until two-thirty. It was the longest period of time that I could count on being alone.

  I checked the local Greyhound bus schedule. A bus left at nine-thirty. If I started the minute Rita went out the door, I could cut and dye my hair and make it to the bus depot in time. I’d be off the bus before Rita got home and found my note.

  Taking twenty dollars from the bag, I headed for the mall to purchase hair dye. I had no idea there would be so many choices. I read labels and instructions for thirty minutes before deciding on the one that sounded the fastest to use. I didn’t care how I looked; I only wanted to look different.

  Once I was safely out of town, I planned to let my hair grow to shoulder length again, and revert to its natural light sandy color. In the meantime, it was going to be Deep Burgundy Brown.

  On Thursday night, I packed my backpack. I had decided to leave my suitcase and everything in it, except the money and the picture. A girl carrying an old suitcase would be identifiable; girls wearing backpacks are on every corner. I wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  Three sets of underwear. Toothbrush and toothpaste. Shampoo. An extra pair of jeans and two T-shirts. Socks. Pajamas.

  I put in my favorite red Nebraska sweatshirt, and then took it back out. It was too easily identified because I wore it a lot. Instead, I packed a UCLA sweatshirt that I’d bought for a quarter at a garage sale but had never worn. I didn’t think Rita had seen it.

  The bulky sweatshirt took up a lot of space, but I was afraid I might be cold without it, even though I also planned to wear my Windbreaker. I hoped to find an inexpensive motel every night, but I needed to be prepared to sleep outdoors, if necessary. Even in summer the nights can get cool.

  I looked longingly at my hair dryer and curling iron but left them on the bathroom counter, along with my nail polish and my creme rinse. I would worry about beauty after I found Starr. For now, I needed to travel light, taking only the essentials.

  Food. I should have some food with me for times when I couldn’t buy any, but the backpack was nearly full. I took two PowerBars and an apple from Rita’s cupboard.

  I sat on the bed and tried to think of what else I would need. I put in a small notebook and a pen, in case I needed to write down an address or phone number or directions, and the flashlight that Rita had given me. It doesn’t require batteries; you just wind it up. Rita had one in every room, in case of a power outage.

  I looked around my room. Of all the foster homes I’d had, this room was the best. Before I came, Rita had tried to make it a room that a teenager would like and not a babyish room all pink and with ruffles. The bedspread was two tones of purple, with three big puffy pillows on top. A matching purple Lava lamp perched on the bedside chest. A radio and CD player sat on a small white desk. If Starr could be here, too, I wouldn’t mind staying in this room.

  But Starr wasn’t here and there was no guarantee that Rita would let me stay, even if I didn’t run away. There are never any guarantees.

  I awoke early on Friday and went downstairs to eat breakfast with Rita.

  “Not sleeping in today?” Rita said. “Do you have plans?”

  “It’s too nice out to sleep,” I said. “I thought I’d go for a walk.” I didn’t add, To the bus station.

  “Would you like to learn to play tennis?” Rita asked. “One of the women in my yoga class gives tennis lessons and she offered to trade me. She’ll come to my class for free, and you and I can take free tennis lessons from her. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know anything about tennis,” I said. “I don’t even know how to keep score.”

  “Neither do I, but it might be fun to learn.”

  “Okay,” I said. I felt like a rat agreeing to tennis lessons when I knew I was not going to be here, but I didn’t know what else to do. If I said no, Rita would ask a bunch of questions about why not. The truth is, tennis lessons sounded great, and if I had planned to stick around I would have wanted them.

  “No cutesy little white skirts, though,” Rita said.

  “Shorts and T-shirts,” I said, and then quickly changed the subject. “What’s so nutritious about oatmeal?” I asked, knowing that if I could get Rita started on healthy eating, she’d forget about tennis lessons.

  “All whole grains are good for you,” Rita said. “Oatmeal provides all of the B vitamins, plus calcium, iron, and vitamin A. It’s high in fiber and low in fat.” While Rita extolled the benefits of oatmeal, I tuned out.

  Ten minutes later, she waved good-bye and left for her yoga class. I fought an urge to hug her before she left. I couldn’t do anything that might tip her off that today was different from any other day.

  The minute the car pulled out of the garage, I dashed upstairs, put my note on her bed, and grabbed the scissors and hair dye.

  I snipped about three inches off my hair, which put it just below my ears. It looked pretty good on the sides, but the back was uneven. I didn’t have time to try to fix it. It took over half an hour to dye my hair. I put the empty box and the hair clippings in a plastic bag, to throw in a public trash can. If I left them here, Rita would know what I’d done and would change my description when she reported me missing.

  My hair was still damp as I slipped on my backpack. I took one last look around my purple bedroom and left. Maybe Starr and I would come back sometime to visit Rita. I would tell her that of all the foster homes I’d had, this one was the best. Except for the food.

  4

  The bus station was not actually a station. It was a small counter in the back of a drugstore. I’d been there a few days earlier to get a schedule, so I knew exactly where to go to buy my ticket. On my way there, I stuffed the plastic bag in the trash container in front of the post office.

  I told the woman behind the counter where I wanted to go.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  I knew from the Greyhound Web site that kids under fifteen couldn’t travel alone, so I said, “Fifteen.”

  “One way or round trip?”

  “One way.” I thought she might wonder why a kid my age would be going somewhere alone and not coming back, so I added, “I’m meeting my dad there. We’re going to go camping and then he’ll drive me home.”

  The woman printed out my ticket.

  There was a display of candy, potato chips, and other impulse-purchase items next to the counter. I picked up a package of Twinkies. “I’ll take these, too,” I said.

  “The bus should be here in about ten minutes,” the woman said. “Have fun camping.”

  “Thanks. My dad and I do this every summer.” The ease with which false statements rolled out of my mouth astonished me. I didn’t have much experience in telling lies, but I seemed to have a natural talent for it.

  Those lies didn’t hurt anyone, I told myself. I’m only making it harder for somebody to find me.

  I sat on the bench in front of the store and ate my Twinkies while I waited for the bus. Each time a car went past, I looked down at my lap so that the driver and any passengers would see the top of my head rather than my face. It was unlikely that anyone I knew would happen along, but I wasn’t taking any chances on being recognized.

  The bus rolled in right on time and disgorged two young men wearing Chicago Cubs T-shirts. I climbed aboard, handed the driver my ticket, and started down the aisle.

  I had hoped for a seat by myself, but that wasn’t a choice. There were double seats on each side of the aisle and at least one seat in each section was occupied. I wanted to sit toward the front. Did I want to sit next to a white-haired woman who was reading a paperback book, a teenage boy listening to his iPod, or a tired-looking young woman holding an infant? I chose Granny.

  I took off my backpack and held it in my lap. Since I was not carrying a separate purse, I had decided to hang on to the pack at al
l times, rather than put it in an overhead luggage space or in the storage area under the bus. I couldn’t chance losing my eight hundred and twenty dollars, which, after the hair dye, bus ticket, and Twinkies, was down to seven hundred sixty-nine dollars and change.

  As soon as I sat down, the woman beside me closed her book and smiled at me. I could tell she wanted a nice long chat. Even though I was quickly becoming a world-class liar, I did not relish making conversation with her for several hours, so I smiled, pointed at my throat, and said hoarsely, “Laryngitis. Can’t talk.”

  “Oh, you poor dear,” she said. She opened her purse, dug around, and came up with a cough drop. “Maybe this will help,” she said.

  I mouthed thank you, unwrapped the cough drop, and put it in my mouth. Then I leaned my head back against the seat, closed my eyes, and pretended to fall asleep. After a few minutes, I opened my eyes a slit, just enough to see that my seatmate was reading her book again.

  Although I was too wired to actually sleep, it was pleasant to ride along with my eyes closed. I imagined how it would be when I found Starr. I pictured her initial surprise, and then her joy. I saw us throwing our arms around each other and exclaiming at how much we still looked alike, even with my new hair color.

  She would tell me how much she had missed me, and how she had hoped to find me someday.

  We would probably stay up all night the first night, telling our life stories. Maybe we’d discover that we like to do all of the same things.

  In the article about the twins who had been separated at birth, then reunited as adults, it had turned out they liked the same food, played the same sports, and had similar jobs. They had even married people with the same first name! I wondered if Starr loved Twinkies.

  When the bus stopped at the next town, my seatmate got out. After that I had the space to myself, so I didn’t have to pretend to sleep anymore. I watched out the window, each mile taking me closer to Starr.