Grounded!

I hurl my book at the closed door, followed by a shoe and a hairbrush. No one responds to my fury. I’m alone in the room, forbidden to step outside the door.

Of course, Mary blabbed everything. Matron focused on the criminal presence of the flower, attributing the rest of Mary’s hysteria to adolescent melodrama and stress brought on by my bad influence. After all, Matron said, the truth of my transgression was bad enough without Mary adding a bunch of hogwash about me being able to conjure water. And yet…and yet, Matron had sent me the strangest look. For just a moment, it felt like she was afraid of me.

Nah.

Throwing myself back onto the bed, I plot how to get even with Mary Castle. I begin with simple tortures, a lizard in her underwear drawer or a well-timed rumor to discredit her among the other girls. I should never have let her near me or my flower. My flower. Gone now. My breath hitches and I can feel the anger slipping away. I reel it back. I need my anger. I need it to keep away the other stuff.

Slowly, a new worry grabs hold of me. Matron had promised that after one more infraction, she’d send me away. Would she? My stomach churns and I press my hand against my belly, willing what’s there to stay there. I force myself to breathe slowly, and it passes. So what if she does send me away? I give the bed a good kick. It’s not like the Garner Home for Girls has been doing me any favors lately.

Suddenly, an idea pops into my head. It’s so outrageous that at first I can’t get my mind around it. It’s too huge. But what if—I feel a shiver of anticipation—what if I left on my own? That would show them. Matron would learn that she doesn’t have power over me. I don’t need them. I don’t need anybody.

I stand and start to pace. The traveler who’d shared his stories, he’d traveled everywhere. It wasn’t impossible. But, where would I go? How would I survive?

I can make my own water, of course. That’s something. Whoa! I halt mid-step, suddenly light-headed. I can make my own water. The ramifications of this slowly sink into place. I can do something. I can do something huge, something that will impress everybody. Watering my flower, that mattered, but it mattered only to me. What if I did something that mattered to others, to a lot of others, in fact? What if I could make more than just a puddle?

Desperate to reassure myself I can do this thing, I run to a cupboard and pull out a cup. I pull it close and wish for water. Nothing happens. I drop the cup with a clatter and kneel on the floor.

“I want water,” I whisper. Nothing happens. “I wish for it,” I say, my voice breaking. “I wish for water.” Not a drop appears on the hard floor.

“Okay.” I try to calm myself. “This doesn’t mean a thing. So what if I can’t make water fill a cup? And why in the world would water appear on the bedroom floor? That’s ridiculous. It’s illogical. Clearly, I have to wish for water with a purpose, or I have to wish for water in its natural environment. That’s all.”

I’m not reassured.

I don’t give myself time to back out. I know myself well enough to understand that if I think about my plan for too long, I’ll find a way to talk myself out of it.

When the other girls come into the room, I feel their glances and ignore their soft whispers. I curl in bed, my eyes closed tightly. I’ve used the time alone to pack my backpack with the essentials: a small bedroll, a change of clothes and a hat, my nutritionals, a first aid kit, a flashlight and enough sun block to get me through, I think. My backpack will hold my entire life inside it. From this point on, I can’t let it out of my sight.

Hopefully, I don’t need to worry about water, but food’s a concern. Of course, bugs will be plentiful. Aside from algae, bugs make up our primary source of protein at the orphanage. Thinking of Cook’s famous stir-fry of white beetles with rock salt and sage, I salivate. Cook has a gift in the kitchen. Whether it’s grubs or crickets, she knows how to turn out a tasty meal. Feeling a pang in my stomach, I push the thought away. I can’t think of that now. I have to learn to rough it and eat my mealworms raw.

After the other girls are asleep, I tiptoe to the kitchen. Very gently, I pull a step ladder over to the wall. Climbing to the highest cabinet, I take a small hammer stolen from the tool box and break the lock on one of the doors. Inside is a lithium ion global positioning device, one of Matron’s most cherished possessions. I can’t resist a smile at the thought of her expression when she realizes it’s gone. I close the cabinet and return the step ladder to its proper place. Finally, I fill my backpack with trail mix and algae bars. I am quiet. It is dark. No one hears me leave.

I walk quickly, not looking back. This instant in time feels momentous, weighted with importance, and I know I’ll remember it for the rest of my life. I’m scared, trembling so hard it’s a wonder I can stand, but I force myself to take step after step. If I only take one step at a time, I can do this thing. As long as I don’t think too much about tomorrow or next week or the week after, I can make myself move forward. With conscious thought, I remind myself to breathe.

I’m afraid to be out in the dark. I’m afraid to be alone. But I’m more afraid to stop moving or to glance back, to lose the momentum of my outrageous idea. I’ll walk until I find a place to hide during the hottest part of the day. That’s when I’ll sleep.

There’s just enough moon to light my way, but with my vision diminished by darkness, my other senses reach out, searching around me. There are odors in the dark—thick and musky, but tinged with something bitter and metallic I can taste on my tongue.

My mother’s photo is in my pocket, and I press my hand against it for comfort. Delta Territory is far, but it’s where I’m determined to go, to make water and, maybe, to find answers.

Glancing at the illuminated GPS, I change direction slightly and continue heading north. At first, I notice everything: the air, the stars; the hum of generators when I pass some habitation. After awhile, however, I grow bored with my surroundings, the flat, dark plainness of it. I play mental games to keep myself awake and moving. I try to think of all the wet words in the English language, words that disappeared from use along with the water. You can still find the wet words in old books, words like drenched, saturated, soaking, soggy, sodden and swamped. Great, thick, rich words.

By midnight, my word games have ended, and I’m nearly in tears. My feet hurt. The muscles in my legs ache and pull with every step. If I had to get some crazy ability, why couldn’t it be the ability to fly? I wonder, briefly, if there’s someone, somewhere, who has that ability. If there is, I wonder if she’s stumbled upon her strange talent. Perhaps, mid-fall, she suddenly spread her arms and took flight. Or maybe she’ll never spread her arms and the ability will lie quiet, undiscovered, her entire life.

Suddenly, I stop. What if I can fly? What if there are other things I can wish for that I haven’t thought to try? What if my wish for water was just the first of three wishes, or six or ten? I think for a minute then hold out my hands, palms up. “I wish for food to fill my hands.”

Nothing happens.

Maybe I need to be more specific. “I wish for a handful of nuts,” I say loudly. “I wish for roasted hemp nuts.” I lift my hands into the air, ready to have them filled.

Nothing happens.

I drop my hands and glance up into the night sky.

“I wish it would rain.”

Nothing.

“I wish I could fly.”

I give a small hop into the air, arms outstretched, and when I land, my right calf cramps, sending a wave of pain shooting up my leg.

“Drat!” Feeling foolish, I massage my leg until the muscle relaxes. Evidently, I’ve got one wish that works. I guess that’s more than most. Taking a deep breath, I force myself forward. Soon, I can rest.

I eat a handful of trail mix just before morning, then sneak into a shed behind a wind farm to hide out. It’s too dangerous to be out in the sunlight mid-day. Boxes and tools line the wall of the shed, and I sneak into a crowded corner, drop my backpack onto the floor, and lay my head against the cool nylon. The wind turbines make a swishing noise I find soothing, and I sleep.

I spend day after day like this, walking north with the moonlight, then finding a place to hide before the sun comes out. Sore legs and swollen feet give way to firm calves and a steady heart. I’m the fittest that I’ve ever been in my life.

I’m also the loneliest.