I can barely cram a pair of socks into my bloated backpack.  I huff in irritation at the thought of having to lug it around with me. I force myself to take only the necessities, and it’s mostly the same things every time: boxers, an extra t-shirt, deodorant and toothbrush, my grandmother’s bible, a flashlight, crackers or little snacks that I swipe from the lunch room, and the only picture I have of my mother – her senior portrait.  With a sigh, I pick up the photo that’s now becoming lined with wrinkles, a result of me hurriedly cramming and stuffing it into my backpack multiple times. I notice that the corners are beginning to shrivel in on themselves.  My mother’s young, vibrant face stares up at me, her blue eyes glittering happily.  I don’t ever remember her looking that beautiful, so full of life. Her life changed when I came into the picture nine months later (no pun intended).
      I throw on a pair of jeans and grab my Yankees hat, placing it on my head.  I shuffle quietly over to the bathroom where I pee – better to go before you leave – and grab some last-minute supplies from the cabinet.  I scrounge around for neosporin, antiseptic, bandages, medical stuff like that, only to discover in annoyance that everything we have is empty or nearly used up – the younger boys are always falling and scraping something. Before I leave the bathroom I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and think back to the photo of my mother.
      I notice that we have the same light hair and faint sprinkle of freckles across our noses. I resemble her undoubtedly. I watch myself in the mirror and wonder if I look anything like my father. I’m pretty average looking for a fourteen year old, not too tall, not too skinny — just average. With a frustrating twinge of sadness I realize that I’ll never know if I look like my dad.
     Mom had cut all of his pictures out of her yearbook before I could even hold up my own head. She probably figured that by doing this, all memories of him would be forgotten, like he never existed at all. Her “coping” mechanism might’ve worked for her, but it crushed me every day that I didn’t know him, didn’t even have the slightest clue what he might look like. I don’t care. He doesn’t matter. He means nothing to you.
     Lies.
     I leave the bathroom and weave in and out through the haphazard placement of all the beds, my destination the open window on the far wall.  The only air conditioner in the orphanage is in the lobby, which means every room in this building is hot as heck during the summer. The window in our room is open in an attempt to welcome any cool air that might be lingering outside.  Every once in a while, a whisper of a breeze will slide in, but it’s always gone as quick as it comes.
     Passing my bed, I grab my bag, and sling it over my shoulder, continuing to creep quietly towards the window. In all my escapes, I’ve learned that this is the most vital part of the operation.  If I wake anybody up, especially any of the younger boys who like to tattle, I’m doomed.  I make it to the window and cast one last glance across the dark room, memorizing the faces of the boys I’ve come to call my friends. Boys’ rooms are the first and second floors, while the girls’ rooms are upstairs, so the window is only a few feet above the ground. I ignore the stab of guilt that twists in my stomach when I lift my leg over the sill and begin to do the same with the other. Just get outside and you’re out of here. Just get outside.
    “Gavin? Dude, what are you doing?”
     I freeze when I hear the voice, groaning inwardly.  So close.  So, so close.  I turn to see the sleepily-confused expression of Bean Tesarik, a twelve year old that, according to the other boys, had been here “longer than it takes Brian to take a crap.”  (Brian is a short, overweight boy in our room, notorious for spending unusually long periods of time on the toilet.)
     Bean, on the other hand, is slim and lanky with curly orange hair he never combs, and a grin that almost always means he is up to something.  “Going somewhere?” he asks, yawning.
     I stare at him, trying my best to feign nonchalance. “I was just – ”
     “Running,” Bean confirms.
      I sigh, succumbing to the fact that my plan is not unravelling the way I had willed it to. I always pulled off my escapes without any problems— Bean was throwing off my game. I sit on the edge of his bed, while he yawns again and wipes the sleep from his eyes.
     “I don’t blame you for running. This place really does suck.”
      I say nothing. The orphanage isn’t that bad. I’m not leaving because I don’t like it here.
      Bean scratches an itch on his leg, and as if reading my mind, asks me, “So, why are you running then?”
      I glance at him.  I can’t get close to people, I want to tell him.  It’s only a matter of time before you’ll get bored of me, too.  Just like my mom.  He watches me patiently, expecting an answer.  I pick at a scab on my thumb; give him a wry smile, and say, “My mom and I have a lot in common, I guess.”
      The truth of the statement hits me hard in the gut.  I’m exactly like Mom. I run away from people, too.
      Bean chuckles, like what I said was an old joke we shared.  “Reasonable answer.”
      Then we’re quiet, both of us lost in thought, listening to the snores and rhythmic breathing of the other boys.
      Finally, Bean sighs.  “I would go with you,” he says, “but I think a few of the hotties upstairs wouldn’t be able to bear it if I left.”
     “I understand that your duties must remain here.”
     He nods and salutes me.  We say nothing for a minute or two, enjoying the silence. But then some kid rolls over and breaks wind.  “You should go,” Bean says with a grimace, “before the smell spreads.”
     I clap him on the shoulder, wincing at how loud it sounds in the room.  “Okay. See you around, Bean.”
     “Sebastian.”
      I feel my eyebrows draw together.  “Who’s Sebastian?”
      Bean closes his eyes and cringes, as if regretting he said anything in the first place.  “My real name is Sebastian Melvin Tesarik.”  He says this all very fast. He notices my expression and adds, “I figured somebody should know it; I probably won’t ever see you again anyway.”  He laughs softly to himself. “Mom must’ve really hated me, huh?”
      I just stand there, thinking about how it never occurred to me that Bean would have an actual, real, normal name. When I first got shipped to this orphanage, all the other boys had called him Bean, so, naturally, I followed suit. I smother down the laugh that is crawling up my throat.  “Nah, I think it’s a very … you know ...  dignified and superior name. It’s got lots of potential –”
     “Shut up.”
      He offers me a hand and I shake it firmly.  “Well, I guess this is it, Sebastian.”
     “Yeah, I guess so. Later, Gavin.”
      I start toward the window, anxious to leave now because of the rancid smell, but I hear Sebastian whisper faintly, “Wait — Gavin?”
      I turn. “What’s wrong?”
      Sebastian rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and won’t look me in the eye. “Don’t, uh, you know … tell anybody about my name, okay? I’ve got a reputation to withhold.”
      I nod. “Yeah, and you never saw me leave.”
      He gives me a thumbs-up. “Sure thing.”
      I proceed to the window and climb out with ease.  My beat up converse hit the pavement and I smile.  This is always my favorite part of the escape, when I’m filled with such an overwhelming sense of freedom that all coherent thoughts flit away, replaced with the challenge and eagerness to get as far away from everything as I can, to out-run the truth. In a way, running away is like a drug for me: I feel great as I take, if only for a few blissful hours, but after, when the weight of reality hits me again, I’m as lonely as ever.
      But I don’t think of that now.  I don’t think about my mother and father.  I don’t think about all the friends I’m leaving behind. My stomach swells with hope.  I’ll be okay. I’m always okay.
      Lies.
      The moon casts a sickly glow across my skin like a shadow. I grin and tug my hat farther down on my head, taking a deep breath.
      No second thoughts.
      My feet slap the ground behind me as I run.
      I don’t look back.