The Time I Ran Away From Home

From the ages of nine to twelve I lived in a housing development in the middle of nowhere in Shanghai. Eventually my parents and I moved to an apartment complex closer to actual civilization; but for those three years I ran around the housing compound with my friends and wreaked havoc.

In the dead center of the compound there was a clubhouse. My friends and I broke every single rule at the clubhouse, and then some. There was a secret shortcut that led through my across-the-street neighbor’s yard to the back door of the clubhouse, which was our go-to strategy to get around the compound quickly.

One day, when I was about ten or eleven, my parents and I got into a fight. I’m not sure what it was about, but I’m absolutely certain that it was something stupid. Nevertheless, I was angry, and I decided the only way to get back at my parents was to run away from home.

So I packed my bag with, at least as far as I remember, nothing but Oreos and a book, and slid out the side glass door of my house. I took the secret shortcut and made it to the clubhouse in no less than two minutes. Once at the clubhouse I made my way upstairs, as stealthily as possible, and hid under a table.

I was probably only there for fifteen minutes when one of the ladies working the front desk received a phone call from my parents asking if I was there. I had obviously not been as sneaky as I thought I had been because my parents didn’t take very long to come pick me up and take me home.

I’m fairly certain I was punished, but it probably wasn’t for long. It’s not like I had formulated a long-term plan, you can only live off of one pack of Oreos for so long.