I went down to the dentist’s and went in the door, which dinged whenever someone opened it.  Darren was one of the people to look up, and I motioned to him to come outside.  I don’t know what kind of look I had on my face, but he knew something odd was going on.

I sat down on the hood of his car and talked about why I was running away from home—my parents hated me, everyone at school hated me, I hated myself, and I thought I’d be better off somewhere where nobody knew me and I could maybe get a job and start all over again.  (Never mind that I didn’t even have a Social Security card, much less a driver’s license.)

He asked me all the sane and rational questions.  “Where are you going to stay?  What are you going to do when your money runs out? $30 isn’t going to get you very far,” he said.

“Don’t you think your parents will miss you?” he said.

“They’ve got Summer (my sister) to worry about.  They don’t care about me,” I said.  “No one does.”

Of course I was hoping for the response, “Well, I care about you,” but I didn’t get it.  Instead he asked me to come into the dentist’s office and sit in the waiting room and wait for him to get done, then he’d get me back home.  So I did.

3 thoughts on “Flameout

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