I flip through it. Thirty-two pages of small type, diagrams, and pictures. “This is way different, Epp.”
“Just the same, your opinion really matters to me.”
“Okay,” I relent. “But I warn you. I don’t know a thing when it comes to this stuff.” I take the booklet and glance at Epp’s watch. It’s past two in the morning.
“Have fun,” he says, then excuses himself.
The air feels cooler now. I want to snuggle inside my coat and go back to sleep. Instead, I suppress a yawn, flick on the overhead light, and start reading. How could Epp actually enjoy doing this? The main character is an elf dressed in fatigues and carrying a large weapon. He looks like a cross between a Smurf and G.I. Joe.
The first scene is set in the office of the president of the United States. The goal is to save the president, who has been abducted by terrorists and flown to some unnamed country. Only G.I. Smurf can save him, because he is the best-trained secret agent they have. He is given three things that will come in handy for his mission: a compass, ammunition, and a map of tunnels. Some of the tunnels will provide clues, and they’ll all hold danger.
The overhead light isn’t bright enough to read the small type. I hold the booklet up, closer to the light.
“Here. Use this.” I turn around. A guy with a crew cut who got on in Memphis hands me a flashlight.
“Thanks,” I whisper. He asks if he can sit in the seat till Epp returns. He looks about my age.
I have trouble finding the switch for the flashlight, a pocket type on a key chain.
“Here,” the guy says as he reaches for the flashlight.
“Like this.” He turns the top and the light comes on.
“I’m Billy. Did that guy really design a game?” His heavy Southern drawl is full of admiration.
“Yeah, he did. Epp wants me to read it, but it’s Greek to me.”
“I’m into this stuff. Maybe I could help.”
I worry that Epp might not like it, but then again I’m about to fall asleep. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all,” he says as if I’m doing him the favor instead of the other way around.
We hold the booklet between us and shine the light on the page. The rest of the bus is quiet except for a few yawns and shuffling noises.
“Cool graphics,” Billy says with an air of experience. “What’s your name?” He flips to the next page.
“I’m Erin.” This guy is good. He can talk and read at the same time. He shows an eagerness that I don’t feel, making comments while he reads, like “Totally sophisticated” and “That’s awesome.”
“Erin?” Epp is standing in the aisle. He’d been gone so long I almost forgot about him. He’s looking at me as if I just sold top-secret information to the enemy.
Billy reaches out to shake his hand. “Hi, Epp. I’m Billy. This game is extreme.”
Epp devours the praise. “You really like it?” he asks excitedly. Billy gives him the thumbs-up, and Epp smiles and sits in Billy’s seat behind us.
“Are you finished with this page?” Billy asks me.
“Maybe you can explain it,” I suggest.
He turns and looks at me; a slow grin spreads across his face, and warmth flushes up from my neck to my cheeks. He has a cute smile.
Chapter Nineteen
Just Past Birmingham, Alabama March 15, 1986, 2:45 a.m.
Is my fantasy of meeting Harper Lee any different
from Scout’s fantasy of meeting Boo Radley,
of sitting on the porch swing
talking about the weather
like friendly neighbors on a first-name basis?
But why do I expect Harper Lee to know me when
I get there?
The lights of passing towns cast dancing shadows across the ceiling of the bus.
“Where you from?” Billy asks me. He holds the flashlight steady, the beam focused on the page in front of him. For the last ten minutes, he’s been studying a graph that calculates the difficulty of each level.
“St. Paul, Minnesota. How about you?”
“I’m from Ripley, Tennessee, about an hour north of Memphis. It’s a small town, although we do have a country club.” He looks up and adds, “Not that I belong to it. My daddy ran off when I was eight. Makes it hard on my mom. But she just finished her nursing training so she’s doing okay now.”
I try to digest the sudden rush of information and can only reply, “Oh. That’s good.”
“You have a dad?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. I don’t have a mom. She died when I was little.”
Billy shakes his head. “My dad might as well have died. I know one thing, I’ll never be like him.”
I just nod my head again. He smells clean, a definite improvement over Epp.
“How old are you?” he suddenly asks, as he turns the page to yet another graph.
I’m tempted to say I’m eighteen, but I’ve learned from this trip that I’m a lousy liar and I don’t think I can pass for eighteen anyway.
“Sixteen.”
“Really? I thought you were older. I’ve heard talk on the bus about you.”
I take in a sudden breath and open my eyes wide.
Billy doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still staring at the page. “I’m eighteen. I just finished basic training and spent a few weeks back home. I’m heading to the Navy base down in Florida. So”—he glances away from the booklet to give me a quick appraisal, shining the beam of the flashlight on my face—“is it true about you?”
“Well, what have you heard?” I push away the flashlight.
He aims the flashlight on his own face and speaks in a mysterious voice. “That you’re on your way to meet with some author. That you’re a writer and she invited you to visit her.”
Jeez. This is worse than the rumor mill at school.
“Because I think it’s way cool,” he continues.
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
The man in front of us turns around. “When you reach Monroeville, be sure and stop at Mel’s Dairy Dream. It’s near where Harper Lee’s childhood home once stood. ’Course, I reckon she’ll tell you that herself, since you’re staying with her.”
I nod, amazed he knows that piece of trivia, amazed how the story has grown. Soon I expect to be related to Harper Lee.
I get up to use the restroom. It’s late, after three in the morning. Epp is dozing behind us. Part of his mustache has slipped into his mouth, and it floats in and out with each breath. I pat him on the shoulder as I walk past. Most of the people are making an effort to sleep, sprawled out in every possible position; others are talking quietly among themselves. I’m exhausted but past the point of tired, if that makes any sense. I sway between the seats with the uneven motion and don’t realize that the bathroom is occupied until I reach the back of the bus.
“Erin,” someone whispers. It’s a woman I remember from before. She’s older and heavyset, with tight brown curls tinged with flecks of gray framing her round face. She motions for me to sit down in the seat next to her.
I sit and she leans over. Her soft, Southern accent has a soothing quality. She talks quietly in the darkness. “I’m Helen. I just wanted to tell you how impressed I am that a girl your age would undertake such an endeavor. I’m a Harper Lee fan myself, and I’ve always wanted to write a novel. It’s a pleasure to meet a writer who is so motivated.”
“I’m not really a writer,” I explain. “I like to write but I haven’t been published.”
She puts her hand on mine. “Don’t sell yourself short. Do you think Harper Lee was a writer before she published To Kill a Mockingbird?”
“Yes, of course, but …” I stop as I realize what she means.
“And I hear your mother wrote as well,” she continues.
I smile.
“My mother was a schoolteacher. I followed in her footsteps. I’ve taught second grade for thirty years. That’s what I’d like to write about. I’ve got
so many stories in my head from all my years of teaching. I just haven’t had the time to put my thoughts on paper yet. I envy you. You’re already writing and you’re so young. It must be in the genes.”
“Thanks so much,” I say, my confidence boosted by her kind remarks. I excuse myself because the bathroom is now empty. I spend extra time brushing out my hair, leaving it down on my shoulders instead of pulling it back in a ponytail, wondering if Billy will notice. On the way to my seat, someone taps my arm. I flinch until I see his friendly face. It’s a man about my dad’s age dressed in a Kentucky sweatshirt, a matching cap, and jeans. He has dark skin and short black hair. He looks like he wants to say something, so I make eye contact.
“I’m George,” he says as he tips his cap respectfully. “Epp said you’re changing buses in Montgomery. You ever hear of the freedom riders?”
“I don’t think so,” I admit.
“Well, Montgomery is the most historic bus terminal in the nation. Since you’re spending some time down here, you should see the sights.”
“I’ll try,” I say as I find my seat and sit down.
The bus pulls to a stop in a parking lot next to a McDonald’s. We’re in a small town, the name of which I don’t remember. They seem to have all run together at this point. The door opens and the smell of diesel seeps in. Several passengers stretch their arms. A woman across from us looks around in bewilderment as though she’s not quite awake.
Epp’s seat is empty. He’s up at the front of the bus talking to the driver. Billy is reading about level four, studying a picture of huge desert scorpions.
Billy looks up from the page. “Would you like a soda? I’ve got a couple in my bag.” He reaches into his pack and pulls out two.
“Sure, I’d like a pop,” I reply, showing off my Minnesota slang. He gives me a funny look and hands me a Coke.
Billy glances back at George. “Do you know everybody on this bus?”
I suppress a smile. “Not yet.”
The bus lunges forward. Epp returns and stands in the aisle next to us. His expression is grim. “Jack told me he got a message that the police are looking for a girl. He’s wondering if you’re that girl.”
“Oh no,” the bald man in front of us says in dismay as he whispers the news across the aisle.
“Do you think they’ll be waiting at the terminal in Montgomery?” I ask.
Epp sighs. “Don’t know.”
I look down at my book.
“Is there anything we can do to help you?” Billy asks as he closes the booklet.
Epp shakes his head. “There aren’t any stops between here and the terminal. We’re less than half an hour away. I’m sorry, Erin. Maybe if you call your dad when the police pick you up, he’ll let you continue on.”
“No,” I mutter. “It won’t do any good.”
My trip may be over soon. The dread of having Harper Lee turn me away was beginning to weigh heavy on my mind. Maybe it’s better that I don’t find out.
I pick up Mockingbird and stare at the cover, searching for an answer. Nothing comes to me but a hollow feeling.
Chapter Twenty
Montgomery, Alabama March 15, 1986, 4:45 a.m.
Ever since Dad started dating Susan,
he says I’ve had an “attitude problem.”
I blame Susan.
She didn’t fuss over me like Dad’s other girlfriends.
Instead, she gave me a new journal.
Why did Susan have to be so nice?
Half the people on the bus have offered me their condolences. They really thought I’d make it to Monroeville and meet with Harper Lee.
I want to bury my head in the seat in front of me. It was a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants plan, and I’m embarrassed at the thought of being picked up by the police in front of all these people.
Actually, it’s amazing I made it this far. I know it’s because of Epp and Sedushia. I should be grateful.
Billy offers to create a diversion for the police so I can get away.
“Thanks, but I don’t want you to get in trouble. You might get arrested and not make it back to the base on time.”
“It’d be worth it,” he says, and I want to hug him.
Epp has been talking to some of the other passengers. It’s just before five o’clock in the morning, but there’s so much commotion on the bus you’d think it was the middle of the day. Some people look around in confused silence at the gathering crowd and angrily huddle under their coats, their red eyes casting irritated glances my way. But there’s genuine concern etched in the faces of those around me.
I close my eyes and imagine myself in front of the courthouse in Monroeville, posing with my arm around Harper Lee while a friendly passerby takes our picture. I’ve heard that if you can visualize an event, you can make it happen. I’ve tried it before. Of course, it hasn’t worked.
A small circle of people has gathered around my seat.
“We have to do something,” George says. “Can’t let her give up on her dream yet.”
“We can’t take on the police,” Helen objects.
“She’s a minor.” The man in front points at me.
“We could get arrested.”
Finally, they decide to talk to the bus driver, Jack.
“We need his support on this,” Epp adds.
“Epp, don’t,” I say.
Epp leans over. “We’ll handle it.” He marches off to the front with four others.
I hold my breath for what seems like forever. What are they going to do?
Jack picks up the microphone to make an announcement.
“Folks, I know this is off-schedule, but we’re making a quick stop at a restaurant just a block from the depot so that one passenger can depart. I ask all of you to remain on the bus until we reach the terminal.” He pauses. “Except for Erin.”
The whole bus breaks into applause; even those who seem annoyed with me clap. I feel tears start to well up and I try to hide them.
Epp sits next to me.
“Aren’t they great?” he says, shaking his head, his voice more raspy than ever.
“They are.” I let out a breath. “And so are you.”
A few minutes later the bus pulls up to Pancake Heaven.
“Wait for me at the restaurant,” Epp says. “I’ll check out the situation at the terminal, and see if it’s safe to get on the connecting bus.”
I stop at the door and turn to the driver. “Thank you so much.” Words don’t seem enough right now.
“Good luck,” he yells, and everyone on the bus waves good-bye. I wave back and see Billy smiling from the window.
I hurry into the restaurant. It’s not busy, but several people are nursing coffee mugs and a few are eating an early breakfast. I ask for a booth. The hostess shows me to a red booth hugging a white tabletop, away from the window. She hands me a giant menu, and I hold it up in front of my face in an attempt to stay low until Epp arrives.
I take out my ticket. I’m supposed to transfer to a smaller bus for Monroeville. It doesn’t say what time the bus leaves. I wonder if there’s a later bus, in case we miss it, and how we’re going to get on if the police are looking for me. Do they have a picture of me or just a general description?
A waitress with bright red hair and a bright smile to match approaches. “Y’all need a while to decide?”
“Could I just get a glass of water for now?” I ask.
“Sure thing,” she answers with more zest than anybody has the right to have at five in the morning.
Two policemen enter and I feel the panic flare up inside me. I quickly put the menu in front of my face and peek over the top. The waitress seats them across from me and they order coffee.
A glimmer of hope springs up. Maybe they’re not looking for me after all.
The hope turns to dismay when two more police enter.
The waitress seats them in another booth and brings me my glass of water on the same tray as the two coffees.
“Than
ks,” I say, the menu still covering my face.
After twenty minutes Epp still hasn’t come and the pressure is getting to me. I haven’t ordered yet, so I just put a quarter on the table and grab my bag. The waitress is bringing out more cups of coffee. I stand and hurry past her.
“I just remembered something. Have to run,” I say. She opens her mouth, but I’m already out the door.
The station is half a block down and I start to walk, tugging at the backpack pinching my shoulders, wishing I’d packed lighter. I have a bad feeling. I want to know what’s going on but I don’t want to go inside. A group of smokers huddle near the door; the red tips of the cigarettes glow in the early-morning light.
I approach the building at a slow pace.
“Hurry, Epp,” I whisper. Maybe he had to use the restroom and that’s what’s taking so long. Or else the police are questioning him. I don’t want anyone to get into trouble on my account.
I spot a security guard standing just inside the building. I turn around and head back the other way.
There’s a shout behind me. “Hey, you. Stop.”
I pick up my pace and make it partway down the street before I’m caught.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Bus Depot in Montgomery, Alabama March 15, 1986, 5:30 a.m.
I glance innocently up at the guard, but he returns my look with a glare.
“What’s your name, girl?” he demands in a heavy accent filled with anger. I can tell he’s not going to give me any breaks.
I stare at him, too scared to speak.
“Well? I asked you your name!” His voice thunders down the street, and the smokers turn to watch us.
“There you are.” Epp’s breathy voice rises behind me. He’s pulling a large green suitcase on rollers and running as fast as he’s able.
“This is my little sister,” he says, and I hold my breath. I don’t look anything like Epp.
The guard stares at Epp for a long time. “We’re looking for a runaway about her age.” He turns to me. “Next time,” he scolds, “don’t run.”
“Sorry,” I say, like it was no big deal, just a misunderstanding. He turns and leaves, and we hurry back toward the restaurant, where four more officers await us inside. We don’t talk until we’re almost in front of Pancake Heaven.
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