Runaway by Wendelin Van Draanen

Tons of them!
    And guess what?
    I’m only about 15 miles from the ocean! I could walk that in a day! (Or two.) And I can go south
or
west. The coastline curves around, so either way I’ll wind up at the Pacific Ocean!
    I also found out that I’m about 12 miles from Beverly Hills and only 8 miles from Hollywood. But who cares about them, right? I want to see the sea! I want to jump right in and take a giant salt bath! I want to swim with the dolphins and make a lean-to out of palm fronds and watch birds swoop through the sky!
    I was so excited to know my way out of this cement trap that I almost just started walking. But I was also hungry and needed a shower and clean clothes. So first I looked up the
address
of The People’s Church in the phone book (which they also have tons of at the library.)
    And no wonder I couldn’t find it! It doesn’t look anything
like
a church. No pointy roof or stained-glass windows. No crosses or statues of Jesus or Mary or angels. Just a little sign posted on a basement door that says THE PEOPLE’S CHURCH .
    It’s an actual underground church!
    I told the pastor, “My mom said to meet her here because—” But before I could even finish building up my lie, he waved me in. “Come! Come in! The House of the Lord welcomes all. I’m Reverend Raynaldo, this is Shanana, and we’re here to help you any way we can.”
    I don’t know what you think about God, Ms. Leone, but the days I’m not busy hating him, I think he doesn’t exist. Or if he does, he’s just the devil with a white cloak on. Like Ghost Boy. Which is he? Good or evil? (I may never know, because I got busted trying to lift the book.)
    But there is no doubt in Reverend Raynaldo’s and Shanana’s minds about God. They are believers, and you know what? It’s nice to be around them. I’ve taken a shower, gotten clean clothes, eaten a TON of baked spaghetti, and I’ve got my own mat, pillow, and blanket over here in the corner. And they haven’t asked me once, “So…when did you say your mother was coming?”
    If it wasn’t for the winos and druggies and schizos (who also have mats, pillows, and blankets), I might actually feel comfortable here.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    Sunday night, August 1 st
    Summer is going by fast and I haven’t even seen the ocean, let alone frolicked with dolphins. I wasted yesterday sleeping. I swear, except for stuffing my face during breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I slept the whole day away. And I wasn’t wide awake at night, in case you’re wondering. I slept the whole night away, too.
    It felt so good.
    And still no questions about my mother.
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    Shanana made me go to church this morning. “Time to give thanks,” she told me. “Time to let Him hear your gratitude.”
    â€œI’m grateful to you, anyway,” I muttered.
    â€œI’m just the messenger,” she said with a smile. “Tell Him.”
    So I went into the “chapel” (a cramped room with a very low ceiling and dilapidated folding chairs), and I listened to Reverend Raynaldo sermonize about the bounty of blessings the Lord has laid on the table for our feasting, and how the Light is the way for God’s lost flock to find its way Home.
    I also listened to a lot of snorting and hacking and snoring from the homeless gallery. Plus, this one really spaced-out guy kept shouting stuff like “I am the One, the Way, and the Light! Follow me! To the desert! I have camels!”
    I’ve met a lot of guys who think they’re Jesus. Maybe it happens when your beard gets long and scraggly and you start looking like a guy who’s walked across the desert in sandals. But this particular Jesus had the worst slur and most bloodshot eyes of any of the “prophets” I’ve ever seen. Shanana finally got him to leave, but she was amazingly nice