Synopsis:

When her mother is sent to prison, 16 year old Sylvie runs away in search of the grandfather she has never met, a burned out 70s rocker in retirement with his former band members in a derelict convent that they share with 3 elderly and mysterious nuns. When Sylvie joins the group she learns that there are worse places to be than prison and worse things than foster care.

Excerpt:

“Can’t do business with you officially, Sylvie, you being a minor but since it’s for your mom . . . “ The pawn broker caressed the guitar. “I’ll give you what I always give her when she brings it in, fifteen-hundred. Strictly off the books, you know - favor for a friend. Sky can pick it up when she gets out.”
Some friend, thought Sylvie. She didn’t need to be telepathic to read the greedy bastard. But she kept her mouth shut since she needed the money to get out of town.
“Sorry ‘bout your mom,” he said as he hung the red Fender up on the wall like a big game hunter hanging the head of a Bengal tiger.
“Thanks, I’ll tell her.” Like that was going to happen. At least maybe now her mom would get some help and never have to set foot in a pawn shop again but Sylvie had no intention of telling Sky she had pawned her precious guitar.
“How long she in for?”
“Judge gave her a year - you know, after detox and rehab.”
“That sucks. What are you going to do, kid?”
“I’ll stay with friends.”
Sylvia Bee cringed. “Kid”. A tiny word loaded with dismissal and disrespect. She wanted to scream at the pawn broker - scream that she’d been having to pick up the pieces for useless adults since she was twelve - scream that if it hadn’t been for her Sky would have died years ago - scream until she ran out of breath. But the guy hadn’t opened the cash register yet.
“How do you want the money? Cash or check?”
“Better make it cash. Might take a while for the bank to clear a check.”
“Yeah, I hear you. Cash it is.” His aura fluttered like a happy butterfly. He could hardly wait to pay her off and shove her out the door so he could drool over the Fender.
Instead of opening the register he took a stack of bills out of a drawer under the counter. Keeping the transaction literally under the table. He’ll have the guitar up for auction in outside of a week, thought Sylvie. Well, what do I care, it’s only a guitar. More important things at stake here.
Her next stop was the QFC where she bought three hundred-dollar Visa gift cards while ignoring the clerk’s buzz of distrust that a teenager would have that kind of money. Thinks I’ve been dealing dope. Well, let her as long as she sells me the cards without asking too many questions.
Gift cards were easier to use than hundred dollar bills when you’re on the road, especially when you are barely sixteen. Sylvia repeated the gift card purchases at a variety of supermarkets all over town on the way to the train station. For people rude enough to question her she invented a recent birthday. And in a way it was her birthday.
Carrying the cards tucked into her backpack had her feverish with paranoia. Every shadow was a gangbanger ready to pounce. She ducked into the library across from train station to access the internet. It took a second to pull up her grandfather, assisted in large part by his recent nomination to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. If you knew where to look you can find anyone, she thought, especially if that person is in the public eye, has recently bought property and is dumb enough to tell a reporter. “Rock Band Buys Convent on the Washington Coast”. What an idiot. Yet, it was a good place to start looking.
Which didn’t mean he’d be out there of course. Not if the convent was just an investment - or a publicity grab. Convent? Who buys a convent anyway? Didn’t really matter. It beat hanging around waiting for Social Services to show up. Sylvie crossed the street and bought a one-way ticket to Olympia,Washington. Once there she’d catch a bus out to the coast. Then . . . who knows. No sense thinking that far ahead.