When Birdie and me get to town, the sky is purple and I can’t wait to feel the sun on my face. We walk through town toward the bus stop and I nearly fall over when I hear a shout.
“What on God’s green golf course are you two doing?”
It’s Janet and she’s sticking her head out of the salon door.
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
