Carissa Phelps - Runaway Girl : Escaping Life on the Streets

RUNAWAY GIRL

RUNAWAY GIRL

Escaping Life on the Streets, One Helping Hand at a Time

Carissa Phelps

with Larkin Warren

VIKING

VIKING

Published by the Penguin Group

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First published in 2012 by Viking Penguin,

a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Copyright Carissa Phelps, 2012

All rights reserved

Photograph: Carissa, age six, outside the home of a family friend, ca. 1982. By permission of Tim Macleod.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Phelps, Carissa.

Runaway girl : escaping life on the streets, one helping hand at a time / Carissa Phelps with Larkin Warren.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references.

ISBN: 978-1-101-58370-8

1. Phelps, Carissa. 2. Runaway childrenCaliforniaBiography. 3. Sexually abused childrenCaliforniaBiography. 4. ProstitutionCalifornia. I. Warren, Larkin. II. Title.

HV883.C2P49 2012

362.74dc23

[B]

2011038441

Printed in the United States of America

Set in Dante MT Std

Designed by Alissa Amell

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the authors alone.

ALWAYS LEARNING

PEARSON

PTP: You more than anyone made me want to complete this book. Thank you!

Part I

BELONGING TO SOMEBODY

CHAPTER ONE

But for many, love is their primary unmet need.

LARRY K. BRENDTRO, MARTIN BROKENLEG, AND STEVE
VAN BOCKREN, RECLAIMING YOUTH AT RISK

E arly one bright, hot August morning, during the first week of second grade, my stepfather picked me up and tossed me out the front door. I hit the ground hard, instinctively protecting my face, breaking my fall with my hand.

As I struggled to catch my breath, I realized two things: I was hurt, and the kids on the school bus out in front of my house were watching me. All those eyes were aimed right at me.

I looked at my mother, standing slightly behind my stepfather. She just stared calmly, her arms crossed over her pregnant belly. She said nothing, did not move, acting as though nothing had happened.

Mom? I said, waiting for the comfort and dust-me-off that didnt come.

Get up and go to school! Steve barked. I got the message: This was all my fault. I had it coming. I should not have caused problems. Get up!

I staggered to my feet and made my way to the bus. As the bus door wheezed shut, I saw Marcy, a girl who lived up the street, standing in the aisle waiting for me. She was one of those junior-high girls a second grader dreams of becoming. Almost a teenager, she wore makeup, had a cool backpack, and didnt talk to me like I was a stupid little kid. Marcy led me into the empty seat beside her while I squinched my face tight, determined not to cry. To show weakness would have been like putting a target on my back. I was concentrating so fiercely on toughing it out that Marcy noticed before I did that my hand was bloody.

At school, we headed to the girls restroom, where Marcy helped me rinse off the blood in the sink, gently patting my hand with dampened brown paper towels. Your stepdads an asshole, she said. I nodded. I wanted to hate him, but I was half sorry that Marcy and every other kid on that bus knew how he treated us.

As we were leaving, Marcy asked, Are you going to be all right?

Yeah, I said. Thanks for staying with me. I knew she would be late for her first class.

Okay, she said. Ill see you later.

Standing in line outside my classroom door, I wished that this could be any other day. My heart thumped as the teacher began to call attendance. Carissa. She said my name so softly, as she always did, and she looked straight at me. Id managed to not cry yet, but when I saw her concerned look, the tears started to pour. Then she glanced down at my hand, clutching a bunch of wet and bloody paper towels. Minutes later, I was in the principals office.

Not long after that, two serious-looking men in suits and ties arrived in the office. They were there, they said, just to ask a few questions about the morning. I didnt know how to answer them. I didnt want to tell them the whole thing was my fault. That I was late for the bus because I wanted my mother to find the piece of paper my teacher had sent home for her to sign. My emergency card. I couldnt tell them how I panicked and dug in my heels, insisting to Mom that I couldnt go to school without the card, because the teacher said it was required or else I would not be allowed back at school. My stomach turned upside down. Was I going to be in more trouble than I already was? Maybe I had it coming. Maybe these guys in suits would blame me for what happened. I couldnt take that risk. Quickly, I told another story: My mother was pregnant; the baby was coming soon. I thought she needed me, I didnt want to leave her, and thats why I didnt want to catch the bus.

And then what happened? they asked, as if they didnt already know.

My stepdad, he picked me up and threw me out. My handIts bleeding from the cement. I knew even as I spoke that I was only making things worse. I kept looking down at my hand, still wrapped in the messy paper towels. I was pretty sure I was going to have a scar.

After I left the office, the school nurse bandaged my hand and sent me back to class. My teacher treated me really nice the rest of the day. She didnt even seem to care that I didnt have my emergency card.

The yelling started the moment I got home. Someone had called them. The men in suits. Why would you lie like that? my mom asked.

About what, Mom?

About needing to be home. About me being ready to have the baby. Im not due for six weeks, and I sure dont need you here. That makes you a liar.

I was a liar. I felt horrible. Mom didnt ask about my hand. She didnt seem to care that it was bandaged or that I would probably have a scar. My brothers and sisters called me names, saying I was a tattletale, a big baby, a snitch. And it was pretty clear Steve was mad. I recognized that look and I knew what was coming.