Day 6

DAY 6 THURSDAY

 

I wake up in the morning, feeling something twisting in my stomach. It's faint, but there's certainly something there. My walk down to the kitchen is reasonably alive, instead of my usual half-dead shuffle. Maybe this will be good for me.

My mother is in the kitchen when I arrive, filling a shopping bag with food from the pantry. I watch as small boxes of cereal, fruit, juice boxes, crackers, and much more go in, one by one until the bag is filled. Eventually, she turns around and notices me.

“Alex!” she exclaims. Her eyes are wide, and sort of red, but she looks excited enough. At least she isn't letting me see her cry. “I packed you a bit of food for on the way.” I almost smile at the fact that she thinks the bag stuffed to the brim is “a bit” of food. Almost.

“Thanks, mom. That's really nice of you.” I sit down at the counter, and grab a banana. I know she won't let me go without eating anything, so I might as well. Surprisingly, it isn't too hard to push down. Must be because I'm distracted. My mom stands across from me, leaning on the other side of the counter. She purses her lips before she speaks.

“So, I know you didn't want to plan anything, but I wanted to help, and I want you to be safe, so I figured out what bus you have to get on and at what time it leaves....”

My mother's eyes don't meet mine, and her fingers are twitching. For once, she's worried about my reaction. But I don't mind. I know I didn't want to plan anything out, but in a way, I haven't. This is just my mother being nice. And so, this time, I actually smile.

“Mom,” I say softly. I wait till she looks up before I go on. I see her face go slack at the sight of me smiling for real, and not just pretending.

“Mom, I think it's the sweetest thing ever that you want to help me. Thank you.” Then, in a Jacqueline-induced therapy moment, I move around the counter, and wrap my thin arms around my mother's body. It takes a couple of seconds, but soon she hugs me back, completely engulfing me.

“I'm going to miss you, Alex,” she whispers into my shoulder. Her voice sounds wet, and melancholy. Pain pricks behind my dry eyes, and for a minute I'm sort of in shock of the fact that I've actually gotten the urge to cry. I'm all my years of messed-upness, I have not cried in front of my mom once. What makes this different? But before any tears can spill, my mother pulls back, a sad smile on her bowed lips. I've heard that she has very pretty lips. I never really see them behind all the lipstick, so I wouldn't know. I do know they are capable of beautiful expressions, though, like this one. This is one of her smiles that says a million things. One day I'll write them all down.

“I'll miss you too, mom.” My voice sounds rough, even more so than usual. “But I have to do this.”

“I know, honey.” Her eyes sparkle. She leans in slowly, and kisses me on my forehead, the way my dad used to. “I hope it helps you.”

 

The next hour or two rush by in a blur of getting ready, trying not to notice when I hear my mom hiccup in between her smiles, and trying not to freak out. It's been a while since I thought about anything for very long, so it's a bit of an odd sensation. The excitedness is also slightly disorienting. I'm not sure if I feel terrified, nervous, or somewhat hopeful. My mother tells me it's normal to be scared of something so new. Jacqueline's voice in my head tells me that it's normal not to understand my feelings. But  I hear my own voice saying that I'm not normal anyway, so how the hell could these rules apply to me? Maybe I'm just going mad.

 

The actual moment when I leave is sort of anti-climactic compared to all the dramatics of the last day. I'm at the door, a backpack full of what feels like bricks hanging from my shoulders. The food from the bag my mom packed is mostly distributed throughout my pack, but I didn't take everything. Mostly snacks for along the way. My mom kisses me again on my forehead, and then on my cheeks. Her own cheeks are glistening, and her hands are shaking. It suddenly occurs to me that she might be scared of actually losing me to a murderer or something bad like that. With a delayed sense of guilt, I carefully lay my arms around her shoulders.

“Don't be worried, mom. I'll be fine. And I'll call a lot, okay?”

My mother sniffles and nods. She squeezes me once before pushing me away with a weak smile.

“Go see the world, sweetheart.”

I smile at her.

“Or as much of the world there is in America,” I say. Her watery smile stretches into a grin, and for a short second, it actually makes me happy.

 

Outside, it's cloudy but not cold. The weather is what I've heard described as balmy. As if the air really cares about what we think of it. My feet make a hollow slapping sound as my sneakers hit the ground. I should have thought about shoes. What if these wear out, or if I get blisters?

“Thank goodness for money,” I mumble dryly. My pocket feels heavy with my wallet, even though there is only about 50 bucks in cash in it. The walk to the bus stop is around 15 minutes, and yet my tired body protests. It's been much too long since I walked or biked anywhere. I'm out of practice. My mother used to try to push me to play a sport, but she quit once she realized that I spent every track meet cursing everyone out and purposefully messing up so that they would have to kick me off the team. Now, my body is weak with disuse and lack of nutrition. At least this exhausting process means I'll have to eat more. Jacqueline would call that a “plus-point”.

“Not much longer,” I say to myself. Then I roll my eyes. Five minutes down, and I'm already talking to myself.

 

When I finally reach the bus stop, I'm still ten minutes early. My mother planned it well, I guess. At least she knows my walking pace better than I do. I drag my backpack toward a bench near where the buses roll up, and collapse. My short hair sticks in strands to my forehead, and I can just feel the sweat spots in my t-shirt. Not a great way to be seen in public. Not that anyone is looking, but still. Just in case. I look around, checking out the people who apparently all live within a ten-mile radius of me. I have not seen a single one before. For the next ten minutes, I amuse myself by studying them, and giving them stories. I try not to think about why that has become a habit for me. My eyebrows lift when I catch a girl, probably around 18, wearing almost absolutely nothing. Now, I'm not exactly a nun, but this would make every single white soccer mom in the country die of fright. The girl's hair is short, like mine, but cut better. Probably not the result of a rage induced shearing. Her eyes are completely covered with all kinds of black stuff. Eyeshadow, liner, mascara, fake eyelashes; you name it, it's on there. I wonder if she can still see through them. Her shirt is practically a bra, that's how short it is. Her shorts are non-existent. If you told me they were bikini-bottoms, I would believe you in a heartbeat. Her shoes are pretty cool, though. They're white Chuck Taylor's, but they're covered in little doodles. I used to always want a pair of creative shoes like that. I glance at my old beat-up sneakers. They're not even beat-up in the snazzy way. They're just old and falling apart. I look up again when I hear a loud sigh. The girl has moved closer to me. She's probably waiting for the same bus as I am.

Maybe we could ride together.

The thought catches me completely unprepared, and I shake my head to get it out. Where the hell did that come from? I can't even talk to anyone besides my mother and my therapist, and I even suck at that. How am I supposed to talk to a stranger that looks like she could beat up the biggest bully at any high school?  But as I watch her, I realize she's not all bad-girl. Her eyes are actually pretty big, and very green. If you manage to see past the globs of make-up, they're impressive. And her shirt (or bra or whatever it is) is nice too. It's got the logo of a band I like on it, though the bottom is cut off to make it shorter. I eventually see that her shorts are tribal patterned underneath all the black paint that's splattered on it. And as I watch the girl slowly get more agitated and annoyed at our bus that's late, I decide that I like her. From there, it's only a small step to get me to talk to her.

“Hey,” I practically whisper. I clear my throat, and then I try again.

“Hey!” S**t. Now it's way too loud. The girl turns, and her hooded eyes focus on me. She's intimidating up close.

“What do you want?” She demands. Her voice is even raspier than mine. I wonder if she smokes. I shake my head, to show her I mean no offense.

“Nothing, I'm sorry. I just wanted to say that I like your shirt. I listen to that band.”

The girl stares at me like I'm crazy for a few seconds, and I worry that maybe she has no idea that the pattern on her shirt is actually a logo. Maybe she thinks I'm weird and stupid for talking to her. She c***s her head to the side, as if thinking, and then plops down on the bench next to me. I almost jump up out of surprise, but I catch myself.

“Thanks,” she rasps. “I like your hair. Where did you get it cut all edgy like that?”

Her eyes stare at me intensely. I don't think this girl can be anything but intense, so I try to relax.

“I actually cut it myself. With a pocket knife.”

I see the make-up move, so I think her eyebrows are rising.

“Are you an aspiring hairdresser?” she asks, her voice sarcastic. Her lips, blood-red, curl up into a half-condescending smile. I frown at her, but fix it and then go for an airy laugh. It fails.

“No, I have no interest in anything to do with other people's hair. I was just pissed at my mom, and found a way to show it. She always liked my hair.”

My new friend nods in understanding. “My mom is like that too. Always making sure I looked perfect. It's why I look like this now.”

I nod, too. Anything to keep the conversation going. I notice that I'm actually enjoying this intense, scary girl. She makes me feel like my problems are a tiny bit farther away.

“So, where are you headed?” the girl asks before I can comment. I watch her reach into her purse for a cigarette before I answer.

“Monterey, California. Ultimately, anyway.” Again, the make-up moves.

“You do realize you're not going to get there on one bus, right? This one goes only as far as _________.”

I frown at her. “I know that. But I have to start somewhere.”

Her face softens when she sees that she made me feel stupid. “Sorry, hon. I've forgotten how to filter after trying so hard to piss off my parents all these years. Forgive the occasional inappropriate comment.” With that, she gives me a real smile, one that stretches almost all the way across her face. It transforms her. “I'm Joe, by the way.”

I raise one eyebrow, and she laughs a short throaty laugh. “Short for Joan, but I like Joe better.”

I nod. “Same. My name is Alex, short for... well. It's not hard to figure out.” Again, the funny rasping laugh sounds. She holds up her hand in a boxing position, and I automatically touch her fist with my own. “Boy-name buddies for life, b*****s!” she yells, throwing her hands in the air. Her laughter rises, and it fills me with some type of warm feeling, as if something is going right for once. Laughter is still out of my reach, but I smile, and my lips almost part for real.

 

We talk for a couple more minutes, and then the bus finally pulls up. Joe groans dramatically, and I notice a couple of people glance out way.
“Why can't buses ever be on time?!” she exclaims as we make our way in, following the line of zombies, shuffling towards the beginning of their exhausting days. The bus driver glares sharply at Joe, and I know that she's glaring back just as hard. As we pass, I whisper a “Sorry” to the driver. It may be his fault, but I don't want to get kicked out of this bus.

Joe immediately heads all the way to the back of the bus. I'm not sure if I should follow her. I mean, yes, she just called me her boy-name buddy for life, but would she actually want to sit next to me for an entire bus ride?

“You coming Alex?” she yells, at the top of her lungs, all the way from the back of the bus. I practically snort, even though there are tons of people frowning at us. This feels way better than any type of therapy. Ever.

Once we're seated, Joe turns in her chair to face me. Her back is against the window, and so when I shift to look at her, I have to make sure I don't fall into the aisle.

“So you like London Grammar, do you?” Joe questions. I glance down at the logo on her shirt and nod. “I like that they're different,” I say softly. “The songs just sound so alive.”

Joe smiles at me in a way that I'm pretty sure is good. “You've got a way with words, my friend.”

My lips twitch in answer. “I used to write a lot.”

“Well, why the hell did you stop?” Joe's voice is loud and sounds slightly outraged, and I have to fight the urge to flinch. I'm not used to angry voices that aren't my own. I look down at my intertwined fingers as I think of how to answer.

“I just stopped being good at it,” I finally say. I can tell Joe isn't satisfied with my answer, but she doesn't push it. Instead, she moves so that her knees are pushing against the seat in front of her.

“My mom is a writer,” she says. “For the New York Times.” Her face is scrunched up when she says this, as if the New York Times consists solely of personal insults. I frown down at her.

“My dad always read the New York Times,” I say accusingly. Then I wonder why it matters to me. It's one of the few things I remember about him, but it's not exactly important. Tons of people read that newspaper. I work on softening the crease between my eyebrows, and go for a smile. I see that Joe is pinning me with a curious look that I'm keen to avoid.

“Never mind,” I say. “It doesn't matter. I bet the newspaper is awful.”

Joe snorts, and lets her head fall back. “It's technically not awful. But it's horribly, terribly, desperately boring!” she exclaims dramatically. I can't help but glance around to see if she's catching people's attention. And then again, I wonder why I care.

“What other type of music do you like? People always think I like rock and stuff but my favorite artist is actually Mikky Echo, which isn't really rock. You look more like a soft music kind of person, honestly. Oh, and do you have any food in that enormous backpack of yours?”

The last part of the question is accompanied by a swift grab towards my bag, which I clutch to my chest protectively. I've got the idea that if I let Joe loose on my food, it'll be gone in a matter of minutes. Joe glares at me, but I pointedly ignore as I grab a sheath of Thin Mints out of a side pocket. They'll melt soon anyway, so we might as well eat them now.

“Oh. My. F*****g. God. You have thin mints?!” Joe lunges forward and swipes the cookies from my hand, grinning like a child. In record-time, she's stuffed at least two of them in her mouth. “I love these things,” she moans. I chuckle at the sight of her puffed up cheeks.

“You look like a kid,” I tease. Joe hardens her gaze, but she's still eating, so I'm not too worried. At least she's quiet for the moment, so I can answer her questions. I save one cookie for myself before I begin.

“I don't really have a favorite artist. I essentially just listen to songs, and if I like them I  put them in one huge playlist that I listen to most of the time.” I pause and bite off tiny pieces of my cookie. Remembering which songs are on my playlist is harder than expected. “I think I've got quite a few songs by Kaleo, Hozier, and MisterWives. But for the rest they're all single songs from a bunch of different artists.”

Joe nods in understanding, but I can tell that most of her attention is focused on the dwindling number of cookies still in the plastic. I smile softly at her. I get the feeling that Joe is actually a lot sweeter than her exterior suggests.

 

 

 

 

 

When we get off the bus at the end of the line, it’s somewhere around dinnertime. I haven’t got a watch on me, but I can tell because my stomach starts to growl. Joe laughs her raspy laugh when she hears it. “Dinnertime for the runaway!” she cries out, and takes off at a dead sprint. It takes me a quarter of a second, but then I take off after her. I’m in a place I’ve never been, with a girl who apparently likes me, so I better follow. I race after Joe, who is quickly becoming smaller as she hurtles along the sidewalk. I push myself a little harder, just as a little. Memories of chasing my father along the beach flash in my mind. I crunch the thoughts under my sneakers as I work to catch up to Joe. When I can finally stop, I’m heaving, my hands on my knees and my head practically lolling off my shoulders. Joe grins down at me. She’s not even sweating, of course.

“You’re not so great at running for a runaway,” she teases. I tense, and frown at her.

“I ran cross country for 2 years in high school. Sorry if I can’t also be a sprinter.” I let my head drop again. I need to focus on breathing before I can get pissed off. “What was that for, anyway?”

Joe shrugs, a half-smile on her dark lips. “There’s nothing better than a bit of exercise after sitting in a bus for so long. And,” she says, facing the building in front of her. “This place serves the best udon noodle soup in the big, fat, f*****g universe.” With that, she pushes the glass door to the restaurant open, and heads inside. I stand outside in the cold evening air for another twenty seconds before I follow her. I don’t want to come into a restaurant heaving like I’ve just run a marathon.

Inside, it’s warm, almost uncomfortably. Everything is red or gold. The chairs are red plush, the floor is red carpet, and the walls are red with gold dragons squirming all over them. What is this, the Red Room of Pain? All we’re missing is some leather. I spot Joe a couple of tables away, talking to an Asian woman. I try to remember if udon is Japanese or Chinese. Japanese, right? I shrug. It doesn’t matter much to me, as long as it’s cheap. As Joe would say, “Runaways can’t afford fancy s**t.”

“Yeah, that’s all,” Joe is saying when I walk up. When she sees me, she grins. “Took you long enough!”

I roll my eyes. I’ve decided that to like Joe, I’ll have to pretend that she doesn’t say half the things she does. She’s just too mean otherwise. At the same time, though, I admire her carelessness. She definitely doesn’t give a s**t about what other people think of her, or say about her. That’s not something I can say about myself.

Joe snaps her thin fingers in front of my face. Her nail polish is chipping. “Hello,” she sing-songs. “Where are you?”

I focus back on her face. “Where do you think?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from my voice in great dollops. Joe throws it right back in my face. “Um, Mars maybe?”

Then she shakes her head and smiles. Joe smiles a lot.

“Come on, babe. Let’s eat some udon.”

 

The udon noodle soup is good, there’s no doubt about it. Whether it’s the best in the entire universe, I don’t know. It’s definitely the best in my universe. Dessert is bowls of fruit in ginger-juice. A faint memory tells me that this is actually Indian food, but I ignore it. It’s good, so it doesn’t matter where it’s from. Joe chews on a piece of pale fruit, staring at me.

“So,” she says after a moment. “What’s your plan now?”

I shrug. I hadn’t really planned anything. “I need to find some mode of transportation to get farther west,” I tell her. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do though.” I slurp up the leftover juice from the fruit bowl. The ginger stings a bit. When I look up, Joe is sucking in her cheeks, and tapping her spoon on her nose. I assume she’s thinking, but I’m not entirely confident.

“We can take a night bus,” Joe eventually says. I look up from where I’m stacking my cutlery. “A night bus?” I ask.

“Yeah, like in Harry Potter, you know?” Joe winks one heavily make-upped eye. Then she laughs loudly. “I used to love Harry Potter and magic and all that bibbidi bobbidi boo s**t.” A sigh. “Just look at us now, huh? Runaways.”

I frown at her a bit. “You’re running away from what, exactly?” I ask. In reply, Joe just glowers at me. Guess that means I’m not getting an answer anytime soon.

“Have you finished?” The same old Asian lady from before has appeared by our table. I sort of jump; I hadn’t seen her coming at all. Joe grins at her, her earlier scowl disappearing quickly. I zone out as they discuss the food and the price and whatnot. I think about my mom. She’ll probably be missing me by now. Should I feel bad? I can’t really tell. Maybe she's talked to Jacqueline about it. Does Mom really understand why I had to leave? For some reason, I don’t think so. She tries her best, but we’re just very different people.

“Hey!” Joe practically yells at me. My head shoots up.

“Sorry, sorry,” I mumble. I glance around, and see the Asian lady with her hand reaching toward me. On her hand is a receipt. Oh, right. I have to pay for the food.

 

After we pay, Joe and I head back outside. The evening air is cool on my skin, and it feels nice after the stuffy atmosphere of the restaurant. I glance at my watch. I’m surprised to see that it’s only 7:38 PM. I feel so tired it could be 11:38, and it would make more sense. I look over at Joe as we walk down the sidewalk. Her face is closed, brooding. Could this be because of the question about running away I asked her earlier?

“So,” I say to fill the silence. “Are you taking a night bus?”

Joe turns a bit to look at me, a frown on her face. It makes her look older.

“I don’t know,” she answers. “Honestly, riding a bus for eight-plus hours isn’t such a great idea if you’re alone. Especially being a hot girl like me.” She tries to joke, but I can tell her heart isn’t in it. I gaze down at my walking feet. A part of me had been hoping that I could travel with Joe a little longer.

“Well, how about two hot girls traveling together?” I suggest, smiling a little. Joe glances up at me, her eyes wide and her lips parted a little. A second passes, and then she’s grinning at me. Her white teeth flash in the dark.

“You mean you’d want to travel together for a while longer?” she asks hesitantly. I marvel for a moment. I don’t think I’ve seen Joe hesitant yet. It makes me happy. I’m glad I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to be alone just yet.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

Joe’s excited smile turns into a smirk. “Well, you know you wouldn’t really survive with out me anyway.”

Confident Joe is back in full force. “Come on,” she says. “I want to show you something.” Joe wraps her thin fingers around mine, and yanks me forward so I’m stumbling after her.

Joe doesn’t take anything slowly, I think to myself as we jog along the sidewalk. At some point we cross the road, and we reach a pier of some kind. Joe skips along the creaking wooden planks, and I find myself joining her. I laugh weakly, and a bit sheepishly.

“Joe, this is ridiculous. Someone could see us,” I protest, tugging on her hand to stop her. Joe turns, skipping backwards. She has a smile on her face, and she’s still pulling me forward.

“Who cares who sees?” she asks. “Skipping is fun! Everyone else is just missing out.”

I shake my head, but I follow her. She’s right, after all. Skipping is fun.

 

After another ten yards or so, -me lost in my thoughts- I notice that Joe is slowing down. I glance around me to take in my surroundings. It looks like we’re at the end of the pier. It’s getting dark quickly, and the crashing waves and the blank-fronted stores around us set a creepy mood. “Joe, where are we?” I keep my voice low, but I still feel like I’m disturbing some important silence.

“Shhh,” Joe whispers, echoing my thoughts. I follow her slow pace for a moment more, until she stops. We’re right at the end of a dock that branches off the pier.

“Look forward,” she whispers again. I do what she says, and I notice that I can only see the water. Not the stores, not the lights, not the pier. It’s just me, and Joe, and the endless ocean. I breathe as silently at possible. It’s absolutely amazing.

“It’s like being at the edge of the world,” Joe murmurs, and I nod to agree with her.

It’s the edge of the world. My world. And I’m about to jump right over.

 

 

 

*

 

“Here we are,” Joe says, her voice light again. I’m still lost, my mind left back at the dock, standing there in silence long after my body moved. I look around and realize we’ve arrived at a bus stop. It’s bigger than the one we arrived at earlier today, but there are fewer people.

“Where is here, exactly?” I ask. My voice is hoarse for some reason, and I clear my throat to get rid of it. Joe smiles at me, shaking her head.

“You’re really out of it, aren’t you?” she replies. “Don’t worry. You’ll have lots of time to sleep on the bus.”

That’s when I remember. We’re taking a night bus, like in Harry Potter. But where are we going? I voice my question to Joe. She shrugs.

“Let’s just take the first one going west.”

I shrug too. Sounds like a decent plan. I sit down on a bench, Joe standing above me as I fumble around in my backpack. I don’t have much, I realize, as I search for my wallet. My tattered blue wallet isn't very full. How long am I planning on being mobile, anyway? I’m going to have to shower at some point. I’ll ask Joe about it. She probably knows more than I do about this stuff. I take inventory of the rest of the stuff in my bag before zipping it back up. This is all I have now. It’s a weird thought. My eyes land on my phone. I’ve had it turned off since I left. Has Mom called?

“You know,” Joe starts. She slumps down next to me on the cold metal bench before she goes on. I watch her eyes in the yellow lamplight. “I don’t think you’re running away,” she says to me. Her expression is speculating, and a little confused. I wait for her to come to her conclusion.

“I’m pretty sure you’re running toward something.”

I turn so that I’m facing her. I’m dimly aware that I’m going to have stripes on my legs from the metal ridges of the bench.

“You’re right, I’m not running away, necessarily,” I say. I’m not sure how much I should tell her. How much do I even understand myself? I struggle with what to say, and if I'll say anything at all, but then I remember the look on Joe's face when I asked her about why she's running. She's not going to tell me anything about herself if I don't start. I glance up up Joe's heavily make-upped eyes before looking down at my hands. My eyes rest on my dad's ring.

“My dad died,” I say. I don't hear Joe react.

“My dad died and it messed me up. I still don't really know what it means, except for that he's never coming back. My therapist, her name is Jacqueline. She always says that I never learned how to grieve.”

At this point, I look up. Joe's eyes aren't pitying me. She doesn't look sad. She looks interested, and speculative. I wonder what's going on in her head for a moment before I continue.

“I've had therapy for about 10 years, but it doesn't do anything for me. Yesterday I decided that I needed to get out of my life. Jacqueline told me to find something, anything, to make me happy.”

It's silent for a few moments.

Then Joe speaks. “And here you are,” she whispers. It almost sounds like a question. I meet her gaze, and try not to look away. “Here I am,” I answer.

“So why Monterey?”

I shake my head. That's going a bit too deep into it. Joe understands, and nods. I watch her penciled-in eyebrows scrunch together as she thinks something through. For a moment, I think she might reciprocate and tell me about her as well. But just as she opens her mouth, we hear the rumble of a big bus in the night. Bright white lights blind me, and I have to squint to see the bus rolling up in front of us. Joe grunts as she gets up. “Finally.”

Holding her hand out to me, she helps me stand too. My legs feel wobbly from the long day. It's around 9:30, and it's pitch black except for the bus's blazing headlights. My eyes have to adjust when we walk up to head inside, because the only lighting inside are a few overhead lights, spaced unevenly along the ceiling. Is it called a ceiling in a bus? I have no idea. I follow Joe down the aisle, carefully putting my feet down so I don't trip and make a fool of myself. Joe has to grab me because I almost pass her.

“Sorry,” I whisper into the darkness. “I was watching my feet.” I can see Joe's bright smile flash in front of me. “Yeah, I figured.” She pulls me down, and I flop onto the chair. I have to reach around awkwardly in the limited space to switch my backpack from my shoulders to my lap. “So how long are we going to be on this bus?” I ask. I haven't even bought a ticket or something. How does that work?

“Probably until early tomorrow morning. A dude is going to come by soon to sell us tickets,” Joe answers my unspoken thoughts. And nod, and then fish my wallet out of my backpack.

“How much is it going to cost?” I frown at the 43 dollars and 40 cents I still have in my wallet. I can feel Joe shrug beside me, and then reach for something. “No idea,” she says casually. “Maybe like 20 bucks? Don't worry about it.”

I close my wallet and drop my head against the chair. What did I say to Mom? That I'd just go with what comes? I swallow, sort of worried. What was I thinking, leaving only 50 dollars? How is that supposed to get me all the way to California?

I'm trying to figure out what I'm going to do when see a flashlight bobbing along the aisle beside me.

“Ladies?” a young man's voice asks. I try to look up but I can't see anything past the light.

“Could you please lower the flashlight?” I ask, squinting. I notice that my voice still sounds hoarse. Probably just exhaustion. Once the man lowers the light so it's pointed at the floor, I can see him. He's young, as I thought he was. 17 years old, at most. He's good-looking too, or at least I think he is. It's still hard to see right. What's a guy like him doing working on a bus?

“The tickets are 30 dollars, ma'am.” My eyes widen and a breath escapes me. Thirty dollars. That's definitely a lot. I glance over at Joe, and it only takes her a second to figure out what's going on. Part of me is amazed at the bond I already have with this girl I barely knew this afternoon, but most of me is silently freaking out. What am I going to do? If I pay for this ticket I'll have a bit more than 10 dollars left, and that's not even going to buy me food for the day. I notice Joe's voice, but it takes me a moment to focus on it. I listen for a moment to the sound of her voice, rather than the words. It sounds sticky sweet, like honey. As I think this, something my mother always used to tell me runs through my head.

“You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, sweety.”

Suddenly I get it. Joe's flirting with the ticket guy.

“You wouldn't really do that to her now, would you?” I hear Joe say. I feel eyes on me, so I glance up to see the guy staring at me with sad, pitying eyes. I want to shout at him to go feel bad for someone else, but I realize that this might be exactly what Joe is trying to get him to feel. Who wouldn't discount the ticket price for the poor girl who's just lost her father and has nowhere to go? So I push down the urge to yell at the guy, and instead focus on making myself look tearful and upset. It isn't very hard, actually. I just think about my mom, abandoned by everyone she loves. I think about Jacqueline, who's probably upset about the fact that she can't just do her job and fix me. I think about myself, alone even when surrounded by people. And then the tears come quickly.

The ticket guy waves his hands around and looks flustered at the sight of my tears. Joe squeezes my arm a little harder than what's considered gentle, so I know it's working. I don't really notice when the guy disappears, but soon a large hand is holding a cup of something steaming out to me. Joe takes it for me, which is good. I'm trying to stop the tears, but my fingers just rub uselessly in my eyes.

“Thank you,” Joe says softly, and I can tell from her voice that she's smiling. I feel a hand pat my shoulder gently, and the words “Don't worry about the tickets,” before it goes quiet again. I force my sobs to stay inside my body. It takes another minute or so, but soon enough there are only a few stray tears leaking down the side of my nose. I take a few deep breaths. When I can open my eyes again, I see Joe grinning at me. She lifts one perfectly plucked and penciled eyebrow. “That was quite the show, my friend,” she says, and hands me the hot cup of tea from the ticket guy.

I sniff, and smile a little bit. It wasn't really a show, though it started that way. It's just that once the tears started rolling, I couldn't stop them anymore. It's not that surprising, given that I try to keep all my tears inside me.

“Thanks,” I answer, accompanied by a watery huff. It's pretty close to a laugh, and Joe laughs loudly enough for both of us. 

 

We quiet down after a moment, because I notice the other passengers glaring at us for making so much noise. Knowing Joe, she doesn't give a damn, but I still do. I really really don't want to get kicked off this bus.

“So,” Joe starts, and I hear the curiosity in her voice. I glance up at her. She looking at me with one eyebrow raised, makeup smudged everywhere. “I saw that you have a total of, like, 45 bucks. Are you planning to survive on just that?”

I blush, and then I gasp. I haven't blushed in ages. Joe pokes me in the side. She wants answers.

“This running thing wasn't really planned out well,” I admit softly. “It was a pretty unexpected decision and I didn't really have any money saved up. I sort of figured it'd all work out somehow.”

Joe nods slowly, with understanding. She tucks her dark hair behind her ears, and I suddenly notice that her pinky nail is painted pink. I wonder what that's about.

“When I ran away the first time, I didn't last two days,” Joe begins. She's smiling crookedly, and I think about how lips can create so many expressions while she tells me her story. “I stole ten dollars from my dad's office drawer, and I took a bus as far as it would take me. The bus driver figured out I was a stupid teenager, just wanting to get away, so he didn't make me pay. He did kick me out after six stops though. Told me to get my s**t together.” Joe laughs suddenly, and I find myself laughing with her.

“I spent the day walking around a park, and then around midnight I took the last bus back home. It really wasn't very impressive,” she finishes, her voice rough. Her eyes focus on something far behind me. “I've gotten better since then.” Joe looks back at me. She covers an emotion, something sad I recognize, with a smile, pushing it away. “We're a sad bunch aren't we?” she asks. And I know she's only half joking. I smile at her. I marvel at the fact that I want to smile, I want to make her feel better.

“We may be a sad bunch, but at least we're adventuring. When I was little I remember I used to dream about running away and seeing the world.” Joe's eyes grow a little lighter as I say this, and when I close my mouth, she pushes her shoulder against mine. “You're absolutely right,” she says. “We're living the dream.”

 

Joe's head is on my shoulder as the bus rumbles to a start. I worry out loud about the interesting sounds that I'm pretty sure are emanating from the back, but Joe just snorts and tells me to get used to it. Apparently it's normal to hear rattling and buzzing. I glance around at the other passengers as Joe snuggles into my side, getting ready to fall asleep. Right across from us is an old couple, and I wonder what's got them taking a night bus across the state. Hopefully they've got a new grandchild, or their son or daughter has graduated from university. There's a reasonably young guy sitting a few rows in front of Joe and me. He looks like one of those raggedy college students that somehow survives on noodles and bread for years. I speculate about whether Joe will ever end up with someone, maybe like the student guy. I think she needs someone to steady her, though. Not really another wanderer. I glance down at my new friend. Her hair has fallen into her face, and her eyes are closed. Her quiet breaths blow a few tendrils of her black hair up and down every few seconds, and I have to keep myself from chuckling. Her face is softened, her expression tranquil. What made her so tough? Why does she know so much about surviving without the care of loving parents? Thinking about Joe's situation keeps making me wonder about my mom. Is she okay? Should I call her? I decide that I should at least see if she's called me.

Trying to move as little as possible, I reach for my phone in the front pocket of my backpack. When I've managed to retrieve it without waking Joe, I lay back in my seat and wait for it to turn on. I'm curious to see if I have any messages. I don't have any friends at school anymore, so there really shouldn't be any messages, except maybe from my mom or Jacqueline. I hope Jacqueline isn't feeling too bad about not being able to help me the way she wanted to. Maybe I should let her know that I'm actually enjoying myself.

My phone's screen lights up the falling darkness, and I instinctively cringe away from it. It's already 10:19 PM of the first day of this new part of my life, and I'm surprised at how drowsy I am. Considering I've spent most of my day on a bus, just sitting, I shouldn't be this tired. But when I think about how I've had more social interaction today than I've had in the last few years of my life, it makes sense. Jacqueline used to say that because it costs so much energy for me to be social, I've simply stopped trying. I guess she's right. I get the feeling that she's going to end up being right about a lot of things.

My phone has completely started up, and I see I have three missed calls, and two voice mails. One from my mom, and one from a number I've never seen before. I decide to listen to my mom's voice mail first. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I press play.

 

“Hello, Alex, sweetheart! How are you? I know I haven't even waited a full 24 hours before calling, but the house is so quiet without you around shuffling through your books or your music playing out loud. I miss you already.”

 

There's a small, but heavy pause, and I can hear my mom swallowing. It hurts me to think that she's upset about this. I wait a few seconds before her voice comes back, quieter than before.

 

“Alex, I know you need this. I know you need to do this on your own and you need to figure stuff out. But do remember that I'm still here, and you can always call me if you need something. Please don't forget that.”

 

Another pause, and this time it's me trying to swallow my threatening sobs.

 

“I love you, sweetie. Have the time of your life, but don't forget to let me know how you are. I still am your mom, you know!”

 

When the message finishes I'm smiling at her fake scolding from the last sentence. I'm happy to realize that I miss her, too. I'll call her when we arrive at wherever we're heading. I frown. I probably should have payed more attention when we boarded this bus. How far are we even going?

I look back down at my phone, at the second voice mail. I wonder who it's from.

 

“Hello, Alexandra.”

 

All of a sudden, my head floods with memories from my childhood. This is a voice I know. This is a voice that was a huge part of my life up until my dad's death.

 

“It's your aunt, Margot.”

 

For a moment, I just freeze. A million thoughts run through my mind. Margot. My aunt. My father's sister. I haven't seen her since my mom moved us away from Monterey after my dad died. Mom explained that she didn't want to deal with all the grieving family around her, but I've always wondered how different it would have been if we'd stayed near the people who shared our misery, instead of trying to leave it all behind. Time starts again as I hear my aunt's voice continue.

 

“Gosh, you must be such a young lady by now. How old are you? 17? 18? It's been so long since I've seen you. But technically, I didn't call to speculate about your age. I actually had a reason. Your mom called me today. I have to say, I was surprised. I hadn't spoken to Janice since before David's death. But today she called me with the most interesting news. She said you're heading in the direction of Monterey? I would absolutely love to see you again, so I was obviously pretty excited to hear this. Let me know if you're going to need a place to stay. You know my home is always open to you.

Lots of hugs, your aunt.”

 

The woman in my phone loudly demands I make a decision about what to do with this message, and I struggle to silence it. I might be in shock. Her voice, her words, her unexpected kindness are all completely blowing me away. What am I supposed to answer to a woman, an aunt, who I haven't spoken to in years, who is suddenly inviting me to stay in her home? I shake my head in confusion. Maybe I can ask Joe for some advice in the morning. She might know better than I do. I lock my phone and deposit it in my bag. My eyelids are heavy, and I figure I might as well sleep while I can. I drop my head onto Joe's soft hair. My eyes flutter shut as I watch the lights of the highway flash by. The last thing that runs through my mind is that I really should ask Joe where we're going. Preparation isn't a bad idea.

Author's Note

Not edited

Reviews

[MichaelJHyde]

I'm enjoying your story. And I'm excited to read more. Thanks for sharing!