Riding Invisible Read online

  DAY ONE

  7PM–at home

  I haven’t written a thing. Eight months of nothing and it’s time to begin, but what should I call this? My Adventure Journal? Everyone has to know the truth in case I get killed on the trail. It’ll be My Escape all written and drawn WHILE IT HAPPENS. Could be a little raw. I’m a little raw. I’ve got my flashlight, my pen, the art pencils, and I’m ready to run. My brother, Will, is staying home—good thing. There’s no other choice for me.

  I’m going to lay low, still and quiet, blend in, harmonize with the world out there. It’s not an easy thing to be

  —a boy on a HORSE

  …riding invisible

  STILL DAY ONE—

  10 p.m.—about a half mile from home

  Here I am all wrapped in a sleeping bag and it’s weird and scary, and at least it’s not all freezing cold tonight. But I’m out here alone hiding on this craggy, rocky hill, where the moon shines on the edge of Chatsworth and the lights remind me of familiar places. It’s like I’m so close but really far away too. And the moon’s hanging there, so nice like a strange piece of exotic fruit, like it’s wondering who I am, like maybe I’m a starved wolf. Hey, moon! I’m not starving. Not yet. It’s my first night out here. And I’m not going to howl at you either, so forget it.

  Tomorrow—

  guess I’ll ride up Mission Blvd. to Foothill Blvd. Then head down to Lake View Terrace. It’ll probably take all day and it’s a good thing Shy was just shod, with all the pavement his hooves are gonna pound. We have to get out, so we’ll disappear fast on the Palmdale trail, which will be a ride of maybe fifty miles to get there, and that might be pretty rough. Or fun. But no one will search for me that far from home. There should be ranches on the outskirts—possibly jobs—a place for Shy???? I don’t know. Palmdale could be anything.

  Right now—I’m in a cave. No one knows about this place, my hideout, my crawl-inside-and-stay-here place where nobody lives. Shy’s hitched out front chewing weeds—CHOMP CHOMP—like a song—CHOMP. I left my iPod home because my stupid brother borrowed it. CHOMP! CHOMP! CHOMP! It’s a chewing-weeds song, so who needs an iPod?

  Before one day goes by, my parents will post signs. In less than a week, my photo will decorate milk cartons. I wonder which photo they’ll use? I like the shot Gomez took when we went skiing and I’m completely out of focus with that orange knit hat low on my eyebrows.

  For sure they already informed the police. I can imagine that scene:

  What a bunch of bull. Of course they know why. It’s my brother WILL who is NOT okay in his mind, like really for sure the guy’s completely off his beam, and anyway (whoever finds this and is reading it) the doctors still haven’t deciphered what prevents him from being human, but they call it CONDUCT DISORDER.

  (the reason I may not sleep tonight)

  DAY TWO—

  early morning—still here in this cave

  So it’s like I woke up going, Where AM I? Where are my bedroom walls? Then Shy stamped his hoof really hard outside the cave, and I heard the sound and figured it out. Yeah, today’s the beginning. The Big Adventure is now.

  I can hear this dry Santa Ana wind starting up, and it knocks trees around, steals their leaves. Shy’s still eatin’ those brownish-colored weeds, which is great because it helps conserve the alfalfa pellets I took from Frank’s stable and shoved in a plastic bag.

  I do know it’s going to be weird riding the ’hood through almost ten miles of middle-class America to reach the north end of the valley and then find that Palmdale trail. It’s like this horse (and his four clicking horseshoes) has to haul himself past so much city stuff like hundreds of tract homes displaying their Home Depot landscaping and all these stucco shopping centers and half-empty strip malls. We’ll navigate across car-packed boulevards and wait at lights where hopefully the traffic cams avoid us. I’ll be wearing a gigantic backpack and riding a loaded-down equine. Now what cop is NOT gonna stop that kind of pedestrian?

  My big reward for the morning, eaten in five bites—Will’s raspberry-jelly doughnut. How he bought it special, all for himself, and left it on the counter even though Dad yells about ants when he does that. And this doughnut tasted like sweet gooey freedom every time I bit into it.

  STILL DAY TWO—

  probably noon—Mission Park

  WHAT I’VE SEEN SO FAR

  jagged graffiti under a bridge made from gang piss in a spray can

  three cop cars surrounding a group of evil-lookin’ gangbangers and I’m relieved they created their diversion because I bet those cops would notice ME and THIS would be over

  an old man leaning against a lamppost his watery red eyes staring straight into mine I dug in my pocket for a dollar and he snagged it like a frog trapping a fly so I pulled my hand back FAST like I just got bit

  From here, the distant mountains look like huge lavender globs of bubble gum reminding me of that wad Christi pulled out of her full-lipped mouth to throw at Bryan, the soccer hero. All the girls at school say Bryan is just sooooooo hot. Anyway, I remember how the gum bounced off my knee and Christi didn’t even notice.

  A half hour later—still in Mission Park—how stupid to sit here and WRITE, not keep moving, but I am addicted to this journal already. Anyway, after a nice Taco Bell burrito, with mild sauce oozing out the bottom with every bite, I heard this small voice on the sidewalk: MIRA, MIRA. CABALLO, MAMÁ. And even though I don’t speak much Spanish, I knew what this little boy in the blue-flowered stroller was saying. And his MAMÁ (who looked my age) smiled at me and nodded her head. So I grabbed the kid under his armpits and put him down real careful in the saddle. His eyes got Wide-Wide-Wide, and when I led Shy around the park, my escape-partner horse totally understood his new responsibility—I could tell by the way his hooves moved so slow. The kid went into happy-trance mode. He couldn’t believe how his day just turned perfect. And when I gave him back to MAMÁ, her hand brushed against my arm, and anyone could tell that our skin’s the same color. GRACIAS, she told me, and at least I knew what to say to that. DE NADA, and then I hoisted my butt into the saddle and the leather creaked.

  STILL DAY TWO—

  about 7:30 p.m.—above Hansen Dam

  Here for the night in a dry, deserted wash. Getting to this location really wasn’t so terrible. You’d think horses ride up and down these boulevards on a regular basis. So now I guess we’re in Little Tujunga Canyon where a few miles of baked sand and river rocks and skinny bamboo stalks fill the space. Near some houses at the mouth of the canyon, these spindly, forgotten trees filled with pomegranates gave me some fruit. And for a snack, I used Dad’s knife, cutting into the leathery husk to eat all the gritty, sweet and sour seeds that stained the tips of my fingers the same color as the Merlot wine Mom drinks. Afterward I rode Shy up the middle of the creek, listening to his hooves splash against the water, each sound blending into the one before it.

  Right now, he’s tied to a tall oak, eating alfalfa pellets right off the ground, and hopefully no toxic acorns get mixed in. I’m worried he might end up tangled in his rope, which is long enough so he can lie down tonight.

  So what’s above us on the creek? A sewage treatment plant? HA! I’m wondering about it because I just used my hands as a cup to suck up some water, and I really don’t want to catch an incurable intestinal disease. Didn’t some hikers die from something awful last year after they drank from a mountain stream??

  All the sagebrush hills are sun-torched-scorched, and the wide, flat canyon presses in real close because both sides are squeezed together by bushy hills, sort of like where I live but less spread out. Chatsworth has huge rock formations, but not here. The plants by the creek smell like something. Microwave popcorn? And my nostrils are all dry and nasty. A h
uge upside-down V of honking geese just flew over, crossing through the sky like a team, making me wish for friends.

  A few months ago, Mom and I watched an old black-and-white Western movie. It was so lame with this cowboy on the run from the law, but shit, that guy was prepared! I mean, he wasn’t eating pretzels for dinner. He had a campfire and bacon and these hard biscuits and dried beef. And here I am without even matches. Me Urban Cowboy. Yee-haw!

  My sleeping bag’s spread on these prickly oak leaves and baked yellow grass. What a bed. I will pray tonight that no rattlesnakes or scorpions climb in to sleep with me and that a rabid coyote doesn’t drag me away. A bunch of California quail just ran by. Is it a covey of quail? Not a flock. Anyway, they’re pretty, with one proud black feather on top of their heads. My mom always says, “Listen to their call. It sounds like they’re saying CHI-CA-GO! CHI-CA-GO!”

  MY NEW LIFE IN THE WILD WEST

  the last bit of light fades and

  my sleeping bag hugs

  this horse-scented body

  while little brown rabbits

  dart in—dart out

  the local chaparral is sunburned

  and shriveled and branches snap

  with creepy sounds

  my thoughts vibrate like zinging bullets

  so I dig inside the backpack

  until I find Dad’s knife

  I will sleep with it tonight

  sharp cold peace of mind

  even though there’s no way possible

  for Big Brother Will to find us here

  More “back story”—can’t sleep—it’s those freakin’ sounds.

  WHAT’S WILL LIKE?

  handsome—girls say he’s twisted but cute

  charming—only when he wants something

  smart—never gets A’s but could if he wanted to

  sneaky—always manages to not get caught

  bad temper—yeah, and seeks revenge, too

  innocent—it’s, like, never his fault

  Will’s Worst Characteristic:

  PHYSICALLY CRUEL TO PEOPLE (like younger brothers)

  AND ANIMALS (like my horse)

  DAY THREE—

  early—above Hansen Dam

  So this morning on the Trail to Wherever, the fog was a thick, wet, way-heavy WALL, and I’m sitting here under a rain tree trying to write on a damp page. I packed my stuff when it was still dark, and we’ve ridden for a few hours already before it gets hot. So maybe I’m starting to wonder why the hell I’m out here eating pulverized potato chips and a bruised mushy apple with a label that says GALA. Now the sticker’s on my cheek where I stuck it because GALA sounds so fun, like there’s this GALA event out here where it’s moist and chilly and where Shy practically inhales his feed, and I worry when it’ll run out. He keeps giving me these sad-eye stares, and I’m sure in his small horse brain he thinks I’ve gone nuts.

  Horse questions:

  Dude! Where’s the barn?

  Like, where’s my regular hay and how come you’re so stingy with these pellets?

  And not only that, I need water, okay? Where’s the freakin’ water? Huh??

  STILL DAY THREE—

  early afternoon—15 miles(?) above Hansen Dam

  So by the time we reached a rocky fire road, the little stream was long gone, the canteen was almost empty, and the sun had started to break through cloudy clumps of haze. My palms kept trying to choke the soft leather reins. Shy’s gonna colic if he can’t drink. That’s what horses do. They colic, and I’ve seen that before, a colicky mare, and it was terrible how she thrashed around and bit at her sides, pawing and sweating, all out of control. They transported her to the equine hospital, operated, and saved her.

  “WE NEED WATER!!”

  I just yelled it. No one answered.

  This horse has heart. He pushed forward all morning, a tireless machine. Finally, he found a trail behind the chaparral where we dropped deep into a shady oak grove. I turned hopeful and Shy did too, because he stamped his front hoof in some oozing mud and then lowered his nose to snort and sniff. Oh, it sucked of disappointment. Sorry, boy. No water. And we stared at the mud, both of us in our separate worlds of wanting and not receiving.

  And now while we’re resting, while my pen moves across this dry paper, there is nothing to drink. This whole thing is crazy! What was I thinking, doing this on a horse? We should turn around. My common sense tells me, “Go home. Go straight home, dude. Get that horse back in his barn where he wants to be.”

  But we can’t go back. There’s a reason why we’re out here running. I’m so exhausted, I don’t want to think about it. I’d rather draw Christi and think about her.

  Fantasy Girl

  school art club meets on Wednesdays

  Christi will be there tomorrow

  and me? I am

  here

  on this lonely trail sitting on my sore butt

  and I just ate another meal of mushy apples

  and mashed potato chips and

  I’m checking out my new warped

  life where silky strands

  of parasitic plants

  grab the chaparral

  Hairweed, Mom calls it

  reddish-orange like Christi’s

  hair. I don’t know her very well

  and she sure as hell doesn’t know ME

  but sometimes I sketch her with colored

  pencils

  hair

  lemon cadmium #0200

  orange chrome #1000

  scarlet lake #1200

  eyes

  mineral green #4500

  kingfisher blue #3800

  copper brown #6100

  personality

  a baseball cap tilted to the side

  reading glasses nerdy but cute

  freckles all over the place

  and a tiny little diamond on the nose

  and how she always

  has something sarcastic to say

  and everyone laughs (except for the

  teachers)

  but out here lost and lonely

  I mainly just remember HER

  God, I sound like a lovesick dipshit. I must be a Lovesick Dipshit. Note to self: Perfect title for romance-less teen novel I should write one day:

  Yancy, the

  Lovesick Dipshit

  STILL DAY THREE—

  4:30 p.m.?—small clearing—20 miles? from home

  The fire road eventually narrowed until it forked off to form a trail, and we were both sweating like horses without even one drop of drinking water in our guts. All of a sudden, this sign on a post seemed to burst out of the ground like a strange, fast-growing tree, and what it said made me swallow hard, my mouth all dry like that time I accidentally took three decongestant capsules instead of one.

  Key word: PARK!! That must mean WATER!! Drinking fountain, right? Maybe a creek. So we turned left. My body sucked in arms and legs as soon as I noticed the first poison oak branch. The red-leaved autumn bushes aren’t so toxic right now, but I am way allergic to the stuff, and it bordered the trail for the next two miles.

  Two thirsty miles! Shy plodded along and I counted the steps out loud until we finally reached

  WATER WATER WATER glorious water!

  The horse plunged in up to his knees gulping around the bit, guzzling like a sucking slurping celebration with the magical stuff dr i bbling off his whiskers, a mini-waterfall. Every time he raised his head it reminded me of a bearded goat in a rain forest downpour. When he wouldn’t drink any more I guided him up a hill toward a small park building and dismounted beside the drinking fountain.

  MY TURN!

  Inside the park headquarters I found a public toilet, used it, then dipped my head in the dirty sink and splashed water on my face. When I walked out I noticed this middle-aged woman behind the counter and wiped my face on my shirt. This lady was wearing her name tag: JOAN, and a khaki shorts uniform. She had all this curly gray hair and white-framed glasses and these awful crooke
d yellow teeth that I noticed when she smiled at me. On her desk an open bag of peanuts was hanging around, along with a bunch of shells that were all over her work space and on the floor. Oh, and a hot-lookin’ novel beside her laptop, probably one of those hopeful sagas written by some other Lovesick Dipshit.

  “May I help you?” she said, staring at my cheek.

  Oh yeah, the GALA sticker! and I ripped it off and asked in my Good Manners Voice, “Yes, please. Um, where’s the Palmdale trail, ma’am?”

  JOAN glanced at the wall clock (3:15), and she studied the phone on her desk, scratched her forehead under the khaki hat, her eyes narrowing behind the gigantic frames. “You going there on horseback, young man? To Palmdale?”

  And then I realized if she were to suspect how I’m one of those runaway types, for sure she’d report me.

  “No way!! I’m not riding to Palmdale, definitely not today. Today I’m just heading home. I live really close to here. But my dad wants to ride his horse to Palmdale someday soon because he heard about the trail.”

  And so JOAN nodded her head, but her lips tightened into a thin, wrinkled line. She cleared her throat. “The trailhead is a mile down the road past the McKenzie Ranch on the right. Tell your dad to look for the U.S. Forest Service marker when he reaches the turnoff.”

  I said thanks to her and smiled nicely, and then I backed out the door waving my hand like a bad kid who’s leaving the principal’s office. Oops! Bumped into the watercooler. Sound effects: sloshing wave smacks cement wall. JOAN shook her head like she had me ALL figured out. THE KID WITH A FRUIT STICKER ON HIS CHEEK IS ALSO AN AWKWARD IDIOT. JEEZ!

  Shy was resting under a tree. I unhitched him and led him back to the creek so he could drink without the bit this time. He tanked up real good and I put his bridle back on, shoved $ in the vending machine for an orange soda, icy cold. Fizzy! It blasted me straight into a carbonated orange grove, my eyes scrunching with that tickling, bubbling effect in the back of my throat. And when I rode off into the sunset I figured maybe my new friend, JOAN, might be calling the sheriff inside her dreary boring nothing-to-do-all-day office.