My Memoir – Where the Dark Things Grow
**The following is part of my memoir. Please read this page for more information, as well as an easy-access list of each chapter.
Note: The images used in this chapter are placeholders until I can find the rest of my old photos.
“And thine ears shall hear a word behind thee, saying, This is the way, walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to the left.”
Isaiah 30:21
Thirteen-year-old Jessica, officially a runaway in late 1988, sat in the truck bed of a stolen blue Chevy Silverado, a friend, Nikki, huddled next to her. Her heart banged against her ribcage and into the tips of her fingers, though it wasn’t fear that took hold of her that day in Greenville, Texas, but rebellious excitement.
Rob, another runaway friend, stood outside the truck, filling the gas tank. It had been a long drive all the way from Little Rock, Arkansas, and if they didn’t get this over with soon, they’d end up stranded on a Texas highway and never make it to San Francisco.
Jessica’s fingers tightened around Nikki’s when Rob placed the gas pump back and walked hurriedly around to the driver’s side. Jackie and Belinda, two more friends who waited impatiently inside the truck, motioned for Rob to hurry.
Rob jumped in, turned the key in the ignition, threw the truck into gear, and sped out of the parking lot, fishtailing as he rounded the corner onto the main road.
The chase was on.
Jessica felt her body lift from the hard metal, and she grabbed the side of the truck bed, holding on for dear life as they made their escape. Nikki screamed as she rolled from beside Jessica and hit the other side.
“Hold on!” Jessica called out to her, her fingers slipping from the metal.
More screams pierced the air as their truck crashed into another vehicle, and Jessica lost her grip; she rolled left and right, her head and back banging against the wheelhouse.
“Whoohoo!” Nikki shouted, trying to cover her fear with excitement.
After a few minutes, sirens wailed, but Jessica stayed low, lying flat against the metal. She couldn’t see how many cars chased them, but knew there had to be several—the owners of the store, the people from the accident, and now the Greenville police. She was shaken, but, like Nikki, she pretended to be on the wildest ride of her life. She cackled and hollered as the truck bounced, swerved, and fishtailed until finally it skidded to a dead stop, kicking up gravel and throwing her against the tailgate.
Seconds later, voices shouted at everybody to get out of the truck, and Jessica, dizzied from the dangerous ride, stumbled from the back of the truck, hands up behind her head and guns pointed at them, just like she’d always seen in the movies.
She spent the next seven days locked in a small, dingy room with one barred window at a juvenile detention center, wearing a bright orange jumpsuit, but not nearly enough regret.
I was the youngest of five friends who decided that day we wanted to go to San Francisco.
I left home without any possessions, and along with my friends, in the middle of the night, we stole a truck from the old man who’d let us hide out at his trailer. By the time we made it to Greenville, Texas, we were out of money, and the truck was nearly out of gas. So, what do rebellious, broke, runaway teenagers do when they don’t have money to pay for gas in a stolen truck?
They steal the gas, too. Back then, it was called “pump n’ jump”.
The first gas station we stole from was a big chain station, and we got away easily because no one chased us. But the second gas station was what southerners call a “mom n’ pop” store, and the last place you want to steal from is one of those, especially in the South—especially in Texas!
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