Monday, December 23, 2002

2002-08-28 - 7:37 a.m.

I remember: one day at school, the teacher was really getting under my skin. I was 11. By lunch time, I had had it. I took my lunch and quietly walked off the school ground and headed toward the highway. "He thinks he rules me? I'm walking to the city." The city was 70 miles away. I remember I was wearing a blue-and-white checkered dress, sort of a large gingham check, with a big bow in the back. It was made of polyester. I walked for hours on Highway 21, heading to Calgary. I didn't know what a prostitute did, but I did know that if you ran away, that was your way to make money, so I was determined to become one as soon as I got to the city. Thoughts of my family would fleetingly enter my head, but I'd push them aside. I was stubborn enough that I probably would have walked to Calgary, except for a man in a big sedan, driving the other way, heading back to my home. He pulled over and called out to me. "What are you doing by yourself way out here?" I lied to him, quick as thought, "I live near here, and I'm just out for a walk." Thankfully, he didn't believe me, and suggested that maybe I needed a ride back to town. I sighed. I got in his car. When we got back to town, I realized I had just missed the school bus, so I had to call home and lie again. And the next day at school, I had to lie to my stupid teacher as well.

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