“Were they OK with you coming?” I asked before he figured out how to ask why I didn’t have a phone. “Your parents?”
“Sort of.” A sheepish expression crossed his face. “So . . . Yeah, I’m just going to tell you this story. Why not.” He laughed. “I’d been planning to come out to my parents for a while. I figured they kind of knew, especially my mom, but I thought I should do it, like, officially.”
“Sure.”
“But then this happened, and I figured . . .” He lifted both shoulders, making a face like I don’t know. “I could just do both at the same time.”
“What?” I asked with a laugh.
“I wasn’t sure how they were going to take the gay news, so I decided to just immediately follow it up with the scrab news. And then they’d be so distracted by me running off to fight scrabs in Europe that they wouldn’t care at all about me being gay.”
“Smart.”
“Thank you. So I walked in, and I said, ‘Dad, Mom, Grandma—’”
“Jesus, your Grandma was there too?”
“Well, she lives with us, so she’s always there. I said, ‘Dad, Mom, Grandma, I’m gay. And also I’ve signed up for Grayson St. John’s fight squads.’”
“How’d they take it?”
“Oh, it worked perfectly. They barely even reacted to me being gay.” He pointed one finger at his face. “Master of avoiding conflict here. I think that one was my proudest moment.”
“How out are you now?” I asked, even though I suspected I knew the answer. But I was the sort of person who liked to keep her secrets, and I didn’t want to go around spilling other people’s. “With everyone here, I mean.” I gestured around the bus.
“It’s not a secret. Please tell everyone so I don’t have to do it,” he said.
I smiled. “Got it.”
His phone dinged again, and he rolled his eyes as he pulled it out of his pocket. “She only made it three minutes.” His face shifted into surprise when he looked at the screen. It was a happy surprise, the kind that made his lips curve up. He typed something and glanced over to see me watching him.
“My dad this time,” he said. He was still smiling as he returned his phone to his pocket. He looked at me quickly, like he’d just remembered something. “Do you want to use my phone to call your parents? Or anyone?”
“No, thank you.” I wanted to check on Laurence, but I didn’t have his number memorized. I’d have to email him later.
“Your parents were mad?” he guessed. It was the guess of someone who had a good relationship with his parents.
“I’m pretty sure they think I’m crazy,” I said lightly.
“We’re not crazy. We’re brave. We just have to keep reminding people of that.” He grinned.
“Sure,” I said with a laugh.
Brave. I’d have to keep reminding myself of that, actually.
7
It was dark when we arrived in Atlanta. We were surrounded by tall buildings on all sides, lights twinkling in the darkness. A billboard advertised the new Apple Watch: NOW WITH SCRAB SENSOR! There were a lot of people on the streets, even at this hour. We must have been downtown.
The bus was starting to come alive, people stretching and checking their phones as they woke up. The girl beside me rubbed a hand across her eyes.
“The Centennial Park Memorial is on your left!” a male voice called from the front of the bus.
I turned to look. We were driving by Centennial Olympic Park, the site of one of the worst scrab attacks in the US. Hundreds had died. The images on the news had showed destroyed fountains, bodies lying in the grass, a statue in pieces.
The memorial was built about a year ago, a plain stone tower that listed all the names of those who had died there. It was faint in the darkness, partially hidden behind a tree, but I could make out the flowers, stuffed animals, and crosses that surrounded it.
The overhead lights clicked on as we neared the end of the street. We jerked to a stop.
When I stepped off the bus, the first thing I noticed was the sign on the street corner. I’d never seen one in person before.
Scrab sighting?
Dial 911 or
Text SCRAB to 911
SEEK SHELTER
My fingers tightened around the straps of my backpack as I looked down at the pavement. I’d never been in a city with a scrab threat before. There could have been one beneath my feet right at that moment, waiting for the right time to attack.
No wonder so many people had fled the East Coast cities. Half the residents of Florida never went back after the initial attack and evacuation in the summer of 2010, and I certainly couldn’t blame them. Dallas might have been one of the most expensive cities in the country, but at least we’d never had to deal with scrabs.
I tried not to think about it. If I spent too much time dwelling on scrabs, I might remember that I’d signed up to go to Europe, where there would definitely be scrabs beneath my feet.
I found Patrick standing next to a large roller bag. The bus driver was still unloading bags, and Patrick didn’t do a good job of hiding his surprise when I walked right by the pile of suitcases with only my backpack.
The balding man who had checked us in in Dallas stood near the bus, gesturing wildly as he talked on his phone.
“Yes! A full bus from Dallas!” he said. “And there’s a second one about half an hour behind us. What are they supposed to do, sleep in the streets?”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Patrick said.
The man listened for a moment. “Yeah, all right. Tell Grayson I’ll send them over.” He lowered his phone and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Recruits! There’s room for thirty of you at this hotel.”
