CHAPTER 1

It was 4:30 am when I woke up and pulled my backpack out from under the bed. I'dspent the last few nights obsessively packing and unpacking and repacking it,making sure I had exactly what I needed and no more: a couple of changes ofclothes, Dr. Bronner's castile soap (good for "Shave-Shampoo-Massage-Dental-Soap-Bath," says the label), and a Swiss Army knife that I'd swiped from mydad's desk drawer. A camera. And, of course, my journal, which I carryeverywhere.

Oh, and more than fifteen hundred dollars in cash, because I'd been theneighborhood's best babysitter for going on five years now, and I chargedaccordingly.

Maybe there was a part of me that always knew I was going to split. I mean, whyelse didn't I blow my money on an iPad and a Vera Wang prom dress, like all theother girls in my class? I'd had that map of the US on my wall for ages, and I'dstare at it and wonder what Colorado or Utah or Michigan or Tennessee is like.

I can't believe it took me as long as it did to get up the guts to leave. Afterall, I'd watched my mom do it. Six months after my little sister, Carole Ann,died, Mom wiped her red-rimmed eyes and took off. Went back East where she'dgrown up, and as far as I know, never looked back.

Maybe the compulsion to run away is genetic. Mom did it to escape her grief. Mydad escapes with alcohol. Now I was doing it ... and it felt strangelyright. At long last. I could almost forgive Mom for splitting.

I slipped on my traveling clothes and sneakers—saying good-bye to myfavorite boots—and hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder, cinching thestraps tight. I was going to miss this apartment, this town, this life,like an ex-con misses his jail cell, which is to say: Not. At. All.

My dad was asleep on the ugly living room couch. It used to have these prettypink flowers on it, but now they look sort of brownish orange, like even fabricplants could die of neglect in our apartment. I walked right by and slipped outthe front door.

My dad gave a small snort in his sleep, but other than that, he never evenstirred. In the last few years, he'd gotten pretty used to people leaving. Wouldit really matter if another member of the Moore family disappeared on him?

Out in the hallway, though, I paused. I thought about him waking up andshuffling into the kitchen to make coffee. He'd see how clean I'd left it, andhe'd be really grateful, and maybe he'd decide to come home from work early andactually cook us a family dinner (or a what's-left-of-the-family dinner). Andthen he'd wait for me at the table, the way I'd waited so many nights for him,until the food got cold.

Eventually, it would dawn on him: I was gone.

A dull ache spread in my chest. I turned and went back inside.

Dad was on his back, his mouth slightly open as he breathed, his shoes still on.I put out a hand and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

He wasn't a horrible father, after all. He paid the rent and the grocery bill,even if it was me who usually did the shopping. When we talked, which wasn'toften, he asked me about school and friends. I always said everything was great,because I loved him enough to lie. He was doing the best he could, even if thatbest wasn't very good.

I'd written about eight hundred drafts of a good-bye note. The Pleading One:Please try to understand, Dad, this is just something I have to do. TheFlattering One: It's your love and concern for me, Dad, that give me thestrength to make this journey. The Literary One: As the great Irishplaywright George Bernard Shaw wrote, "Life isn't about finding yourself. Lifeis about creating yourself." And I want to go create myself, Dad. The PissyOne: Don't worry about me, I'm good at taking care of myself. After all,I've been doing it since Mom left. In the end, though, none of them seemedright, and I'd thrown them all away.

I bent down closer. I could smell beer and sweat and Old Spice aftershave.

"Oh, Daddy," I whispered.

Maybe there was a tiny part of me that hoped he'd wake up and stop me. A small,weak part that just wanted to be a little girl again, with a family that wasn'tsick and broken. But that sure wasn't going to happen, was it?

So I leaned in and kissed my father on the cheek. And then I left him for real.

CHAPTER 2

Robinson was waiting for me in the back booth of the all-night diner on KlamathAvenue, two blocks from the bus station. Next to him was a backpack that lookedlike he'd bought it off a train-hopping hobo for a chicken and a nickel, and hisface made me think of a watchdog resting with one eye open. He looked up at methrough the steam rising from his coffee.

"I ordered pie," he said.

As if on cue, the waitress delivered a gooey plate of blueberry pie and twoforks. "You two are up early," she said. It was still dark. Not even the birdswere awake yet.

"We're vampires, actually," Robinson said. "We're just having a snack beforebed." He squinted at her name tag and then smiled his big, gorgeous smile ather. "Don't tell on us, okay, Tiffany? I don't need a stake through my heart.I'm only five hundred years old—way too young and charming to die."

She laughed and turned to me. "Your boyfriend's a flirt," she said.

"Oh, he's not my boyfriend," I said quickly.

Robinson's response was almost as quick. "She asked me out, but I turned herdown."

I kicked him under the table and he yelped. "He's lying," I told her. "It's theother way around."

"You two are a comedy act," Tiffany said. She wasn't that much older than wewere, but she shook her head like we were silly kids. "You should take that showon the road."

Robinson took a big bite of pie. "Believe me, we're gonna," he said.

He shoved the plate toward me, but I shook my head. I couldn't eat. I'd managedto keep a lid on my nerves, but now I felt like jumping out of my skin. When hadI ever done anything this crazy, this monumental? I never even broke my curfew.

"Hurry up with that pie," I said. "The bus to Eureka leaves in forty-fiveminutes."

Robinson stopped chewing and stared at me. "Pardon?"

"The buuuuus," I said, drawing it out. "You know, the one we're gettingon? So we can get the heck out of here?"

Robinson cracked up, and I considered kicking him again, because it doesn't takea genius to tell the difference between being laughed with and laughedat. "What's so funny?"

He leaned forward and put his hands on mine. "Axi, Axi, Axi," he said, shakinghis head. "This is the trip of a lifetime. We are not going to take iton a Greyhound bus."

"What? Who's in charge of this trip, anyway?" I demanded. "And what's so badabout a bus?"

Robinson sighed. "Everything is bad about a bus. But I'll give you somespecifics so you'll stop looking at me with those big blue eyes. This isour trip, Axi, and I don't want to share it with a dude who just got outof prison or an old lady who wants to show me pictures of her grandkids." Hepointed a forkful of pie at me. "Plus, the bus is basically a giant petri dishfor growing superbacteria, and it takes way too long to get anywhere. Those areyour two bonus reasons."

I threw up my hands. "Last I checked, we don't have a private jet, Robinson."

"Who said anything about a plane? We're going to take a car, you dope," he said.He leaned back in the booth and crossed his hands behind his...