Dear Olivia,

I have only just set sail yesterday, and I already miss you dearly. I'll have to write you a real letter once I reach Cuba.

See, Livia, here is something I know about my father: he kept journals, religiously. The moment one was full, he brushed it to the side and began a new one. And he told me once, when I was a little boy, that he wrote his journal as a series of letters to my mother.

Well, I was not sure who to address my letters to, if not you. When I tried to think of others to write to, your face was the only one that came to mind.

This ship makes me quite nervous. A man in a captain's outfit came staggering down the dock as we were waiting to board, and stumbled up the ramp onto the deck. I can only hope this is not truly the man captaining this ship.

The Fina sails much more smoothly than this. On the Concord, to slide from one side of the room to the other on the lurching jolt of the ship is just as common as to breathe. The portholes are so grimy that I can hardly see the ocean.

I cannot wait to arrive in Cuba. My family is there still, I can feel it.

I miss you, cariño. I wonder if you miss me too.

       -Robin

XXX

Running away was Amelia's idea, but Peter liked it enough that he promised to take credit for it if they got caught.

She sat in the middle of her bed, picking at her toenail polish while she waited. Her backpack sat perched by the window, taunting her to turn back. It was too late now, wasn't it? Peter would be there any second.

The clock read one fifteen. Amelia's parents had long since fallen asleep, and her little brothers were off in dreamland as well. She alone remained awake and alert, waiting, waiting.

It wasn't as if Amelia wasn't used to waiting for Peter. She remembered fourth grade, the year she met him, and how he would always stop and talk to the lunch ladies for a good seven minutes before sitting down. She'd tap her feet impatiently, rolling her eyes at the boring conversation of the others. When Peter finally arrived with his (now cold) lunch, he would give her the update about how Barb and Judy were doing.

Then in fifth grade, she recalled how about halfway through the year, girls and boys in their grade had begun to date each other. Her friends would tease her that Peter was her boyfriend, and she would say that he wasn't, and that was gross. But of course, she wondered if he liked her. When he would ask her out. He never did.

Sixth grade, their first school dance. Amelia could still see him holding out his hand, with that lopsided smile. No one else was dancing. The girls and the boys stood on opposite sides of the gym. But Peter walked right on over and said, "You wanna dance, Mel? Didn't you say this is our song?"

In seventh grade, all of her friends had boyfriends. They complained about them, and how they were looking at other girl's butts or wouldn't say that they loved them back. Peter, sitting in on one such conversation, had looked at Amelia, deep in thought. "I don't think you should say that you love somebody unless you really do," he'd said. Amelia's friend Charlotte had giggled and asked, "Do you love Amelia?" Peter had glanced at her, a small grin on his face, and shrugged. "Sure I do."

All the other girls were jealous, and Amelia basked in their envy. She supposed being "just friends" with Peter wasn't so bad, either. He still bought her chocolate on valentine's day and stayed for dinner at her house and held her hand sometimes, like a boyfriend would. He was a little distant sometimes, a little melancholy, but all in all, he was a good guy.

The pop of a stone on the window pulled her out of her thoughts. Bouncing off of her bed, she rushed to the window. Peter chucked another rock, which landed squarely in front of her nose. Waving down to him, she hoisted her backpack over her shoulders and pushed the window open.

Her brothers and father slept like rocks, Amelia knew. Her mother was a lighter sleeper but seldom came into her room anyway. Noise wise, there was nothing to worry about.

Unlike Peter's roof, Amelia's wasn't slanted. The stretch below her window was actually the roof of the garage. Flat and stable, it had been the site of many a picnic and late night stargazing session. Amelia stepped onto it, sighing to herself. Running away. Wow.

She almost felt sick. Almost wanted someone to catch them, stop them. Almost.

Closing the window behind her, Mel took one last look at her room. Bye, she thought, inching toward the edge of the roof.

First, she tossed her backpack to Peter, who caught it and set it down beside his own. Then she shimmied down the side of the garage to join him.

"Hey," he whispered, slinging her bag back toward her. The both shouldered their backpacks, standing in silence for a minute before Peter said, "I'm gonna miss this place."

Amelia saw genuine sadness in his eyes. And why shouldn't there be? Her house had become a sort of safe haven for Peter. He loved the noise, the business. The incessant activity. His house, Peter said, was too quiet. It fed his depression.

Peter said he never told anyone but Amelia about this depression of his. From watching him at school and with other people, there was no way to tell that deep down inside he was battling with his demons. He let her read his poems sometimes. They scared her.

In the past months, Mel had become increasingly paranoid about losing her best friend. Especially in light of his mother's recent suicide attempt, she couldn't stop seeing Peter's body, floating face down in the river, crumpled on the bathroom floor beside an empty pill bottle, hanging from the ceiling of his closet . . .

She remembered the most recent scare. He'd called her about two months ago, twelve, twelve thirty at night, sobbing and saying things that didn't make sense. Amelia had jumped out the window, rode her bike and arrived to find Peter sitting in his hideout with a bottle of wine he'd stolen from his foster mother, the phone and a kitchen knife.

After that, Amelia had told him that if he didn't get help soon, she would get it for him. He kept telling her he would, he would, could she please stop nagging him? He never did.

"I'll miss it, too," she said, looking from each darkened window of the Dawit family to the next. It hadn't sunk in yet, not really, what she was planning to do. She didn't know when she would be back, if she'd ever be back at all.

All she'd done was leave a note, a little lie for her parents. It was short, scrawled on a post-it note and stuck to her bedroom door. Mom & Dad, it read. I am fine, don't worry about me. Peter either. We will be back soon, promise -Amelia xx

She couldn't bring herself to write "I love you".