On the first bus, the bus driver knew Owen. He said, “You’re a big man, riding the bus by yourself. Where are you going?” He grinned.
“To Eleanor’s house,” Owen said. Eleanor elbowed him, and he thought maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. But he’d been surprised by the bus driver asking him questions.
On the next bus, no one asked them questions, except for one old lady who asked them what grade they were in and said her grandson was eight.
When they got off the 34, Owen was worried they might get lost, but Eleanor recognized the corner right away.
“This way!” she said. She hoisted her backpack over both shoulders and ran. Owen followed.
“See?” she yelled back at him. “That’s my house! Isn’t it the prettiest blue house you ever saw? And doesn’t it have the prettiest yard?”
Then she skittered to a stop.
Only the front of the house was blue. The sides were white. And there were two guys on ladders with trays of white paint.
“What are they doing?” Eleanor’s voice went up really high. “They’re ruining the house! Stop!” she yelled, waving her arms and running toward the men on ladders.
“What’s up?” said the closest one. He was young. The other man was old.
“Stop!” Eleanor screamed. “This house is supposed to be blue!”
The younger guy shrugged, and the older man said, “The new owners want it white. Got a work order right here.” He patted his chest pocket. “White with red trim. It’ll look real nice when it’s done.”
Eleanor was standing very still now, and her voice was cold and quiet. “What else did you change?”
The younger man shrugged and said, “Well, we tore down the old tree house before we started painting. And tomorrow—”
The man didn’t get to finish his sentence. “NOOOO!” Eleanor sprinted to the backyard. Owen followed.
There was the tree, as tall and beautiful as Eleanor had described it.
Under the tree was a pile of ripped-up wood.
And in the tree: nothing. No tree house.
Eleanor cried. She sat right down in the backyard that wasn’t hers anymore, and she cried. Owen sat down next to her and helped her shrug off her backpack and pulled out her water bottle. He didn’t know what else to do. The torn-down tree house was really sad. And Eleanor’s plan to live there was dead.
They sat for a long time while Eleanor cried. Then they both drank out of the water bottle.
As they finished the water, Eleanor’s dad ran into the backyard and picked her up. He was crying too. Not real tears like Eleanor. But his eyes were red. Owen could tell.
Owen said, “I’m sorry.” He meant about running away. And making Eleanor’s dad worry. And probably his own parents too.
Eleanor’s dad put his hand on Owen’s shoulder like he understood. Then he put Eleanor down and phoned Owen’s parents to say everything was okay.
Then he drove them home.
At home they found out that Owen’s mom could yell and cry and hug at the same time. And that Michael was better at listening than they had thought. And that after Michael had told about The Plan to run away, Owen’s mom had run to the bus stop, and Eleanor’s dad had driven to the old house. And that in all, the running away lasted one hour and twenty-eight minutes.
And that they were in trouble for all of those minutes.
Finally Owen’s mom said, “What were you thinking, young man?”
“I’m sorry,” Owen said. “I just wanted to be a good friend. A good friend helps. I didn’t want her to be mad at me.”
Owen’s mom nodded. “That’s a hard one.” She sat on the sofa in the living room and pulled Owen onto her lap. They just sat for a long time, and then Owen’s mom said, “I think a good friend will be your friend even if you don’t help her do dangerous things. And I think Eleanor’s a good friend.”
Owen thought about that. Eleanor was a good friend. And he’d be a good friend too, from now on.
Chapter 13 Eleanor and Owen
In the downstairs kitchen, Eleanor fished Scrumpy out of the backpack and put him on the counter. He was still in the three baggies. He was mostly thawed. He did not look too good.
In fact, Scrumpy looked really, really bad.
Eleanor’s dad covered his mouth and swallowed. Then he moved the cookie plate to the table, away from the fish. “Eleanor. Querida. Please explain.”
“We were going to bury him—with all the other Scrumpies. And then I was going to live in the tree house. At my real home.” Her lip quivered.
Dad sat at the table and motioned Eleanor to sit next to him. “Sweetheart, do you know where my home is?”
“The old house?”
“No.”
“Here?” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s yellow.”
“Not here.”
Eleanor said, “Then where?” Suddenly she thought of something. “Is your real home in Costa Rica? Do you want to go back to where you were born?” And what if he did? What then? What if her own dad wanted to run away just like she did? That would be terrible.
“No worries,” said Dad. He brushed her cheek. “My real home isn’t in Costa Rica. My home is here with my family. Wherever my family is, that’s my home.”
Eleanor sighed with relief. She took a cookie—a big, round, perfect one with lots of chocolate chips.
Dad said, “But that’s not even the whole truth. Here on earth, we never have a permanent home. Your mom left Grandma and Grandpa Lohman to work in Costa Rica. I left my house with Abuela and Abuelo when I went to college, and I moved away even further when I married your mom and we came here. Someday you’ll leave your family too: to go to college, take a job, get married—something. Your home on earth might change a dozen times.”
“Or a hundred,” said Eleanor, breaking the cookie into little pieces.
“Let’s hope not,” said her dad. “But you’re
