Sitting on the uneven bench made Finley long for the familiar warmth of her bed. But the weather was frigid and she needed to rest.
When she had set out that morning, the temperature was the last thing on her mind. The thrill, the excitement, and the anticipation distracted her from the icy ground, howling wind, and cloud-covered sky.
I hope mother isn't too upset with me for leaving. It's for her, after all. And if I'm going to help her, I have to get to Oregon—so I'd better stop resting and start walking.
Finley got to her feet. She began heading in the general direction of Oregon, her pack slung across her back.
She occupied the time by thinking up possibilities to explain why her mother refused to discuss the past. Did she get teased at school for having blue hair? Had she been run out of town for committing a horrible crime?
Eventually, Finley reached a small building, and perceived she was hungry. The sign in front advertised 'Food and Gas'.
That's funny, thought Finley, amused at the (admittedly awkward) wording.
She laid her backpack down on a rusty bench outside the building and unzipped it. Rooting through the contents produced what she was searching for: money. Not just money, but her life savings. It wasn't much; only twenty dollars, maybe a little less. (After the money Finley spent on books, there wasn't much left for savings.)
She stuffed the bills into her coat pocket, hoisted the backpack up, and entered the diner.
Finley chose a table in the back where she hoped she wouldn't be recognized. She didn't know how far her mother's reach extended, in terms of locating her.
A waiter came by and gave her a glass of water. It had ice in it. She didn't drink it. There was an empty table to her right and an empty table to her left. She looked at the menu (with some disgust, being used to Coraline's deliciously nutritious home-cooked meals).
Finley had arrived at that perfect moment when lunch is just opening up, but breakfast hasn't quite closed down.
"I'll have a hot dog and an egg," Finley told the waiter.
He looked at her strangely.
"And a plate of carrots," she said quickly. Her mother always taught her to eat vegetables, and since carrots were rumored to help one's eyesight, it was no secret which one Finley liked best. (Healthy eyes promised a lifetime of squint-free reading.)
The diner door banged open and a group of bikers came swaggering inside, tossing used cigarettes into an ashtray. Finley studied their dark leather jackets and motorcycle helmets with admiration (and trepidation).
They came close to her table. She didn't know quite what to do: hunker down to avoid drawing attention or sit up tall and act natural to avoid drawing attention.
But it didn't matter; the bikers were laughing amongst themselves and didn't give Finley a single glance as they sat down in the neighboring booth. There were five bikers in all—three boys and two girls.
Finley waited patiently for her sustenance. Finally, they appeared. "Little girl," said the waiter, setting the plate in front of her. "Are you here alone?"
Finley panicked, then pretended.
"No," she lied. "My mum's out in the car. She said I could come in and get a snack."
The waiter seemed relieved, "Oh, all right. Just making sure. You understand." He went off to talk to the bikers.
Just as Finley was taking a bite of her egg, she heard a scooting noise. Looking up, she was startled to see one of the female bikers across from her.
"Hello," said the lady. She showed Finley a good-natured grin.
"Hullo," said Finley, unsure of what the lady was doing at her table.
"You might be wondering what I'm doing at your table," the lady said.
Finley nodded a bit, and put her fork down.
"I just happened to overhear your conversation with the waiter. About being alone."
A pit began growing in her stomach; did this lady know what she was doing?
"Just before we came in here, I heard an alert on the police radio," the biker continued. "That's you, isn't it? You ran away from home."
Finley could feel her heart beating inside her chest. Surely everyone else in the diner could hear it as well.
Should she come clean and confess? Her mind said 'no', but the word that came from her mouth was: "Maybe."
"Good for you," the biker told Finley. "I always wanted to run away from home, but could never muster up enough spunk."
"But I'm not really running away," Finley tried to explain.
Her tablemate wasn't listening.
"My father was hard on me, if ya know what I mean. My mother, too, but mainly my father. Yes, I thought about leaving many times. But I'd always get scared and stay put."
She smiled at Finley and said, "Good for you!" again.
Finley decided she'd better start eating; hotdogs were not meant to be eaten cold.
"How rude of me," exclaimed the lady. "I haven't even introduced myself. I'm Melrose, but you can call me 'Rosy'. All my friends do."
Finley wondered if it was wise to talk to someone who, after only five minutes of awkward conversation, considered her a 'friend'.
"And your name is—?" asked Melrose.
"I'm Finley," said Finley. "My friends call me—Finley."
"I see," replied Melrose. "And where are you headed? You can tell me." She made a zipping motion across her lips and winked.
Finley squirmed before answering in a low voice, "Oregon."
"My, that sure is far. Any particular reason you're heading in that direction?"
"Yes," Finley told her. "An old friend of my mother's lives there. He told me to come."
"That's good."
Melrose looked wistfully out the window, "If only my mother had an old friend who would've looked after me..." her voice trailed off.
"But that's neither here nor there. Tell me, Finley, how're you planning on getting to Oregon? It's an awful long way, you know."
"I know," Finley responded. "I have a map." She took a bite of her egg, having already finished the hotdog.
"Having a map is fine and dandy, but you can't walk all the way to Oregon," Melrose said, rather sensibly.
Finley thought about this. Oregon was a long journey, and it seemed especially arduous for someone of her age to cover all that distance on foot. (Though she had confidently ignored this fact during her early morning travel.)
"I know," exclaimed Melrose. "You can come with us!"
"Sorry?"
"You can come with me! You can ride on my motorcycle. I've got an extra helmet; and besides, I've always wanted to visit Oregon. Whaddya say?"
It was the only way, Finley knew. Her previous plan of walking to Oregon now felt highly embarrassing.
"I accept your offer, Melrose," she said.
"Wonderful," said Melrose. "But you have to call me 'Rosy'."
"I accept your offer, Rosy."
