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for a few hours and at around three-thirty I’d go home, where no one was the wiser until the school started calling there when I’d go missing. Sometimes I would leave school between periods and not go home at all until after dark, when I would lurk around the house until one of my parents came out and found me. After that I was driven to school every morning, where the staff was instructed to keep an eye on me at all times. I still found ways to get out.
    One of my favorite places to go was the strip mall near our house. There was a Santa Claus shack stored in the back alley, behind the supermarket. The Santa shack was a little building where Santa would take up residence in front of the grocery store at Christmastime, but it was kept out in back the rest of the year. I would go to the store, buy a bag of caramels and a crossword-puzzle book, head for the alley, and hang out in the Santa shack, having put on several layers of clothes, given that it was winter, and resembling nothing so much as a twelve-year-old homeless girl. I might just as well have had a grocery cart loaded with empty cans. But I did have a home.
    I suppose the worry to my parents was at a breaking point. In fact, I recently learned that a photo of me from that year, a black-and-white portrait that was taken by a professional, was arranged for the express purpose of identifying me should I really run away, or worse.

    Me at twelve—photo taken in case I ran away—1968
    The pinnacle of this situation occurred that winter, after I’d played out every trick, both at home and at school. Either Mother or Dad was driving me to school in the mornings now to ensure a safe delivery. So one day I got up before anyone else in the house, while it was still dark, and left. Around the side of the house was the pop-up camper trailer we used to take on vacations. It was all folded up for the winter, but there was still a small door you could open to crawl into. I let myself into the cramped space between the two benches and in front of the cupboards inside the trailer. I locked the door from within, and I stayed there. It was cold and dark and tiny, and it was better than going to school. Anything was better than going to school. I heard footsteps in the crunchy snow as my dad came out to look for me. He even tried the door on the camper, but I had locked it, and he didn’t pursue that idea.
    I stayed and stayed. I stayed so long that I peed on myself. I was afraid to get out, because I knew I’d have been made to go to school. A war had begun, and neither my parents nor I had figured on my being so formidable an opponent. Finally I estimated that enough time had elapsed and that school must be over. I crawled out of the camper, my legs hardly able to stand, and saw that the sun was heading west. So it was afternoon, and I’d dodged another day at school. I began my walk to the Santa shack, but a neighbor saw me, put me in her car, and brought me back home. My mother was there, and so was my father. When he saw me, he got that look, the dark scowl that meant he was extremely displeased and that most probably sparks would fly. And sure enough, Dad grabbed me by the arm and began to drag me to the car. It was only two-thirty. There was still an hour of school left, and he wanted to make sure I got there. But my mother stopped him. Did she smell the urine on my clothes? She stopped him and gave me something to eat.

    My hiding place, 1966
    It’s ironic that my father was studying psychology during this time and didn’t see what was happening to me, but you have to understand he was a Skinner man. It was all about behavior and positive and negative reinforcement, usually with M&M’s as I recall. Clearly what I was doing did not fall neatly under the heading of behavior that should be positively reinforced. No M&M’s for me. My father decided the only way to deal with me was to reverse the lock on my bedroom door and nail my windows shut when I went to bed at