I sigh and walk over to her.
“Oh my God, are you guys leaving?” she says, glancing at our bags.
Birdie stands behind me.
“Kind of,” I say.
“Kind of?”
“Okay, yeah, we are.”
“Does Patrick know?”
“No.”
“Carl?”
“No.”
“Rosie?”
“No.”
“Okay, so it’s not just me you’re abandoning.”
“It’s not like that.”
She kicks at nothing and looks down the street toward the sunrise. “You guys know what you’re doing, then? You’re not gonna try to hitchhike and then get chopped up into little bits or something else horrible?”
“We’re taking the bus. Please don’t tell anyone.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to tell anyone. Come on—who do you think I am?”
I tell her thanks.
She shrugs and acts cool but as much as I don’t want to see it, there’s hurt just below the surface. She’s mad, she just doesn’t know it yet. “Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.”
“What are you doing at the salon so early anyway?”
Janet rolls her eyes again. “Ugh. Cherylene said I couldn’t graduate from sweeping the floors until I learned how to properly fold towels. And apparently they only fold towels in the morning. So here I am. Before school. Way before anyone should ever be awake.”
“We have to go,” I say, feeling sorry for the first time that we are leaving. I’d been trying not to think about Janet, and Uncle Carl and Rosie. I knew if I did, then the magic of Wolf Day would be gone. My resolve would crumble. I’ll call them later, I think. I’ll send them funny Portland postcards to let them know we’re doing well. They’ll come visit. “The bus comes in fifteen minutes and I want to be early, just in case.”
“Just don’t talk to strangers, okay? And don’t get into any creepy-looking vans with no windows.”
I smile and say we won’t. I wonder if I should hug her, but decide against it. I take a step away, suddenly feeling like she might not actually let us go.
But then she abruptly says, “Good luck,” and turns around and disappears inside the salon.
* * *
• • •
The local bus number 23 arrives right on time at 6:52 and we get on with no problem. I squeeze Birdie’s hand all the way to the bus station in the next town.
When we arrive, I go straight to the bathroom and check out my hair and makeup. I add a couple bobby pins, put more lip gloss on, and pinch my cheeks like Birdie told me to. I look down at my outfit—a sweater of Mama’s and a pair of stylish jeans from Janet—hoping that along with my hair and makeup I will look enough like an adult.
“Two tickets for Portland, please.” I practice in the mirror. “One adult, one child.”
I clear my throat and try again.
“One adult and one child, for Portland.”
I want to splash water on my face but don’t want to ruin the eye shadow.
“I need one adult and one child. For bus number three thirty-one.”
An old woman with a cane comes in. I tense up, thinking she might say something, but she barely glances my way before disappearing into a stall.
When I leave the bathroom, Birdie hops up from the bench and is like, “Can we get a hot chocolate from the machine?”
He’s a little too peppy and that’s when I realize he’s probably eaten a couple more Honey Bunny Buns.
“Hot chocolate will make you have to go to the bathroom,” I say.
“No it won’t. I just went.”
My hands start to sweat, and they never sweat, and I get more and more nervous as we stand in line.
I’m about to tell Birdie to calm down, when suddenly another ticket window opens up and it’s our turn. I clear my throat and pinch my cheeks and walk up to the window. I start saying I need some tickets but I can’t remember where we’re supposed to be going. Then Birdie tugs on my sleeve and says in a loud little-kid voice, “Mommy, can I have a hot chocolate, please? Please? I’m cold. Please, Mommy.”
I look at him for a second and then back at the ticket guy, who’s kind of smiling at Birdie.
I remember my line and say, “One adult and one child for Portland, please. And is there a place to buy hot chocolate nearby?”
I give him the money, and the tickets land in front of me just like that, and the guy points to the hot beverage vending machine. I thank him and we take the tickets and go.
I buy two hot chocolates and we drink them as we wait for the bus to start boarding.
“I wish you would have told me that you were going to do that,” I say, taking a sip of the hot chocolate, which tastes more like hot water with the idea of sugar sprinkled in.
“But it wouldn’t have worked then. Plus I didn’t know I was going to do it until I did it.” Birdie swings his legs. “I’m keeping this cup forever,” he says, holding his hot chocolate out. “It helped us get back home.”
As the clock nears seven forty-five, I start to get nervous again but the driver barely looks at us. He seems to use all of his energy on scrutinizing our tickets. Once we’re in our seats, I watch him get out and walk around the bus, checking the cargo area. He drinks three more cups of coffee and smokes two cigarettes and checks people’s tickets. Then he stretches his back, gets into the driver’s seat, pulls the bus out of the station, and hits Interstate Five.
**Observation #779: Bus People
In front of us: a lady with gray hair & a long skirt. She has a backpack & two grocery bags. Kind of reminds me of Mrs. Spater.
Next to us: a young guy with pasty white skin, black hair, black beanie, black pants, black jacket & a ring through his nose. He has headphones on & a skateboard. There’s also a Shasta Cupcake Company box on the seat next to him.
Behind us: a woman with 2 small kids, smaller than Birdie. She spoke softly to them in Spanish, hugging them tight, and then fell asleep before the bus even left. One kid fell asleep too. The other stared at Birdie.
Right here: a brother & sister (who might look like a mom and daughter or maybe two sisters), bags full of Honey Bunny Buns, water, clothes, books, colored pencils. They’re just trying to get home.
* * *
• • •
“Medford, Oregon. This is Medford, Oregon,” says a crackling radio voice.
I sit up and look around. The sun glares through the windows. We’ve been driving for more than two hours. I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping.
Birdie leans over to me, closing his Book of Fabulous. “I reeeeally have to go.”
“I told you this would happen,” I say. “The bus driver said there’s a stop coming up. You can go then.”
I’m not keen on getting off the bus. But Birdie is too nervous about the bad smell coming from the bus toilet and starts squirming and I realize that maybe a bathroom break is exactly what we need if I don’t want a scene.
“Put everything back in your backpack,” I say.
As everyone gets ready to stretch their legs, I spot the Alexander McQueen book in one of Birdie’s bags. “Birdie, that’s a library book. You shouldn’t have brought it along.”
“Mrs. Spater will help me mail it back.”
He looks embarrassed and quickly zips up his bag and I feel bad for snapping at him. Who cares about one library book? And then I think of Ms. Perkins and feel kind of horrible that I won’t ever see her again. But I shove that feeling down and stand up.
We file off the bus with some of the other passengers.
When I come out of the bathroom, Birdie’s standing there with a wrinkled forehead. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I didn’t go.”
“Why not? We have to get back
on the bus.” I look over at the bus, which is right where we left it.
“There are two guys in there and they are arguing.”
“What do you mean?”
“They are fighting about the little dog that one of them has. About whether it’s a purebred.”
“In the bathroom?” I ask. I glance again at the bus.
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be going in the boys’ bathroom anyway,” I say, thinking of Birdie’s outfit. Bathrooms are sometimes tricky things for him, but most of the time the boys’ bathroom isn’t much of a problem. I guess that’s also because Birdie usually holds it and goes at home.
Just then I hear shouting and then barking. I say, “It’s now or never.”
He hands me his bag and marches into the girls’ restroom. As soon as he does, the door to the boys’ bursts open and the little dog is barking its head off and the guy holding it yells, “Well who asked you anyway? Dogs have a keen sense of smell and Stella here smells ignorance all over you!”
Then he turns and walks away, but the other guy follows him and yells, “It’s not my fault your dog is an idiot!”
And that’s when the dog, which is wearing little pink shoes and a pink rhinestone collar, jumps out of the owner’s arms and runs toward the other guy and starts nipping at his ankles. Both of the guys shriek and the owner yells “Stella! Stella! Stell-ahhh!” over and over again while the other man jumps onto a bench with his bags.
“She’s crazy!” the man on the bench yells. He holds up his bags like he’s trying to keep them out of water.
The owner picks Stella up and holds her close. “Purebred Chihuahuas are known to be sensitive.”
“She’s not purebred! How many times can I say that?” Suddenly, he looks over at me and I guess he realizes how silly he looks standing on a bench, holding his arms out, yelling at a tiny dog with shoes. “What are you looking at, kid?”
I’m in the middle of thinking that Mama would have fallen over laughing at the tiny pink shoes and would have wanted to get a dog just so she could have it wear tiny sneakers. But when the guy calls me kid, all at once I remember we are very far from home and no matter what my ticket stub says, I’m not an actual adult.
Birdie comes out of the bathroom and I grab his arm and start walking toward the buses.
“What’s wrong?” asks Birdie.
“Nothing, come on.”
We try to board the bus, but we’re stopped by the driver. A woman bus driver.
“Excuse me,” she says. “Are you kids on this bus?”
I look up at her, and then up at the bus. Number 457. Wrong bus.
“Sorry,” I say, and pull Birdie away.
We look and look, but there are only three buses and none of them are number 331.
“I don’t see it, Jackie,” says Birdie as he holds on to the sleeve of my jacket. “I don’t see number three thirty-one.”
I pinch my cheeks, and then rub my eyes and I hope purple eye shadow isn’t smeared across my face.
“Did the bus leave?” asks Birdie, his voice a little higher.
“I don’t know,” I say, even though I know it must have. The station is only one tiny building.
The sun goes behind a cloud and the temperature drops.
I only have five dollars and twenty-one cents in my bag.
“Jackie?”
“Let me think, Birdie.” I take his hand, and we walk back to the benches.
The dog guy is on a bench near the ticket window frowning into his phone. I face away from him. The next bus to Portland isn’t supposed to come through until tonight. Would the bus driver even let us on?
When I glance back at the guy, I see him looking at us and my hands start to sweat again.
Maybe this was the dumbest idea ever. The last Wolf Day didn’t turn out well, so I don’t know why I thought today would be any different.
“Should we call Uncle Carl?” Birdie asks.
“What can he do? Come get us on his bicycle?” My head is beginning to pound along with my heart.
“What about Rosie?”
“Maybe. But she might just call Patrick.”
“No, Jack.”
“Birdie, let me think.”
“I don’t want Patrick to find out.”
I look around at the two vending machines, trying to decide if we can stay here until the next bus.
Birdie keeps tugging on my sleeve and whispering my name. And then I hear him say, “It’s Patrick. I think that’s Patrick.” And I look up and across the street is Patrick’s truck and there he is, standing with his hands on his belt.
He doesn’t run, but when he approaches us, he sounds out of breath. “What. In the heck.”
He goes to say something else, but a loud bus goes by, leaving us in a hot cloud of exhaust.
“Let’s go,” he says, his voice low and slow.
For one crazy moment I wonder what would happen if we refused or screamed if he tried to force us.
I say, “Please, just let us go. We have tickets.”
“Under no circumstance am I leaving here without you,” Patrick says. “So get in the truck.”
Still, neither of us moves.
“Look. Maybe I should have told you before. Mrs. Spater fell and broke her hip. She doesn’t live there anymore. She had to move in with her daughter. Your mama’s things aren’t there. That whole duplex has been sold.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Birdie is completely frozen, looking down at his rainbow sneakers.
Patrick takes another step toward us. “I mean it, guys. Let’s go.”
He’s so tall he’s blocking the sun.
The dog guy is starting to focus on us and Stella fixes us with narrowed eyes. So my feet walk toward the truck even though I don’t want them to. Patrick follows with Birdie.
When we’re back on the freeway, Patrick says, “We still need to deal with the clothing issue. I was going to wait until we had more time over the weekend, but it’s probably best we go straight to the mall and take care of it today.”
He pauses.
“Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about your mama’s house, but there’s nothing you need up there. If you think you need something, let me know.”
CHAPTER 7
SHOPPING WITH PATRICK
Patrick doesn’t say anything else the entire two-hour drive and Birdie pretends to sleep. When we pull into the mall parking lot, Birdie opens his eyes, but then closes them again as we park.
Patrick blows a bunch of air out of his mouth. “Let’s eat first.”
He gets out and I open the door. Birdie still has his eyes closed.
“Come on, Birdie,” I say. “You have to at least eat. I know you’re hungry.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, you’ll have to come anyway.”
He reaches into his bag, digs around, and pulls out his mad cap and puts it on. Patrick glances at it but doesn’t say anything.
We follow Patrick to the food court and order fried noodles, meat, and vegetables from a fast-food place called Panda Wok. We’re almost finished when Patrick finally says something.
“There are a couple stores we can go to. I want to get clothes that fit. Nothing too baggy. Something good for school. Pants and shirts.” He looks at Birdie. “And a new jacket.”
Birdie puts his chopsticks down.
Patrick stands up. “Are you guys done?”
I’m not sure Birdie actually ate more than two bites. He dumps the contents of his tray in the trash. I do the same and then we follow Patrick down to a store call Kid’s Closet.
“Pants, shirts, jacket, maybe a pair of shorts. This shouldn’t take long.” Patrick blows more air out of his mouth, then strides into the store. I don’t think he was talking to us.
Birdie pulls his mad cap
down as far as it will go and crosses his arms. “I’m not going in, not not not.”
“I don’t think we have a choice. Don’t you want to have some say in what he’s going to buy?”
“I don’t want anything from that store.”
“I know, I know.” Patrick looks over at us from one of the racks just inside. I kneel down. “Listen. I know you don’t want to do this. It’s horrible. But I’m going to figure something out, okay? If you do this, I will give you the rest of my Honey Bunny Buns. You can have them all and we’ll come up with a new plan.”
He looks into the store and says, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. We aren’t buying clothes for me. We’re buying clothes for a boy named . . . Norman. And Norman only wears the most boring, unoriginal clothes.” I nod at him. “And Norman can’t make it today because he has a disease where he can’t go outside. And he’s my same height, so I’m doing him a favor.” And then he goes inside and disappears in between the racks.
Birdie tries on all the clothes that I bring to the changing room. Patrick wanders around the store, sometimes picking up a pair of jeans or a T-shirt.
We repeat this two more times, once at a resale shop and once at a place called Caterpillar Kids where most of the clothes seem to be for toddlers. When we are done, Birdie has five pairs of pants, one pair of gym shorts, eight shirts, a sweater, a sweatshirt, a black jacket, and a pair of white-and-navy-blue tennis shoes. Before leaving the last store, Patrick adds a belt and a blue beanie to the pile in front of the cashier.
Most of the clothes are plain solid colors because Birdie can’t stand clothes with tractors or sports equipment or superheroes on them. He says they all just look the same so why bother? He doubts Norman would bother. “He has bigger things to worry about.”
But Birdie does get one striped button-down shirt that he says is “okay, maybe a little loud for a person like Norman.” It’s gray and has black, blue, and light green stripes. He’s not wild about the colors, but I’m pretty sure it’s the one thing that keeps him from crying right there in the middle of the store, no matter how much he’s doing it for “Norman.”
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