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The Runaways - Chapter 1
Danae let her school backpack drop to the floor with a thud in the small kitchen, a worn room with chipped paint in a faded green shade. The cabinet doors were broken. One hung halfway off its hinges. The four-seater dining table, covered with plastic torn at the corners, was stippled with crumbles of food and brown stains of who knew what.
The racket in the adjoining living room drifted in. Men laughing boisterously. Danae mourned the last day of school, not pining for the holidays with her mother. She was eleven and a half (and the half was very important), with long, straight black hair that nearly touched her bum and almond-shaped eyes of the same colour. Her face retained a roundish form, despite her being on the thin side. Her lips were plump, her skin the colour of lightly browned butter.
Her mother’s cackle came from the next room while Danae surveyed the kitchen for scraps of whatever she and the other two men with her had eaten. There were none. She opened the sticky fridge door and looked in there.
Nope. Nothing but sour milk that had gone off three days ago. Better give the cabinets a pass. Something moved in there the last time she tried them.
She puffed out a disappointed breath, lifted her bag before someone tripped over it again, and gathered her courage to pass by the party to her bedroom.
The living room held nothing more than some grimy couches, an old box TV set, a cheap wood coffee table, and a carpet sprinkled with cigarette buds. There she found her mother with her red lips and blonde hair laughing devotedly at something the guy with the big belly and the shirt full of holes had said.
The other one snorted something off the coffee table. Danae, or Dany as was her nickname, didn’t know what. Her mother had started seeing other men—many other men—after her father died in a car accident. She wasn’t sure how it happened. She hadn’t known him very well because he worked a lot. It was only a few months ago, but her mother moved on surprisingly quickly. She considered it her duty to look for another man who could provide for them, she’d said.
"Mom, there’s no food in the house," Dany complained.
She didn’t like being so close to the men her mother brought home. They looked at her funny and weren’t always nice to her. “It’s because you look native,” her mother had said. Dany didn’t know what that meant. She didn’t look much like her father or her mother. More like her grandfather, who came to America from Alaska. Dany still wore diapers when he died, but she’d seen a few photos of him.
Before her father died, she remembered hearing him...
The racket in the adjoining living room drifted in. Men laughing boisterously. Danae mourned the last day of school, not pining for the holidays with her mother. She was eleven and a half (and the half was very important), with long, straight black hair that nearly touched her bum and almond-shaped eyes of the same colour. Her face retained a roundish form, despite her being on the thin side. Her lips were plump, her skin the colour of lightly browned butter.
Her mother’s cackle came from the next room while Danae surveyed the kitchen for scraps of whatever she and the other two men with her had eaten. There were none. She opened the sticky fridge door and looked in there.
Nope. Nothing but sour milk that had gone off three days ago. Better give the cabinets a pass. Something moved in there the last time she tried them.
She puffed out a disappointed breath, lifted her bag before someone tripped over it again, and gathered her courage to pass by the party to her bedroom.
The living room held nothing more than some grimy couches, an old box TV set, a cheap wood coffee table, and a carpet sprinkled with cigarette buds. There she found her mother with her red lips and blonde hair laughing devotedly at something the guy with the big belly and the shirt full of holes had said.
The other one snorted something off the coffee table. Danae, or Dany as was her nickname, didn’t know what. Her mother had started seeing other men—many other men—after her father died in a car accident. She wasn’t sure how it happened. She hadn’t known him very well because he worked a lot. It was only a few months ago, but her mother moved on surprisingly quickly. She considered it her duty to look for another man who could provide for them, she’d said.
"Mom, there’s no food in the house," Dany complained.
She didn’t like being so close to the men her mother brought home. They looked at her funny and weren’t always nice to her. “It’s because you look native,” her mother had said. Dany didn’t know what that meant. She didn’t look much like her father or her mother. More like her grandfather, who came to America from Alaska. Dany still wore diapers when he died, but she’d seen a few photos of him.
Before her father died, she remembered hearing him...
