didnât know he was going to ask. The words just spilled out of my mouth, like a mistake, but even though I knew I could take them back, I said nothing and waited patiently for my change.
Only when I turned around did I see Danny coming out of the menâs restroom, his hair wet and combed.
âWhat?â he said when he realized it was me.
His forehead was crinkled up with the irritation you feel when youâre surprised and it isnât something like a present or a snow day. But I thought I saw something else, too: a little gladness in his eyes.
âAre you still going to Chicago?â I asked. My heart was beating in my ears, and a voice in my head was keeping time with it, whispering,
Say yes, say yes.
âYeah.â He hoisted his duffel bag higher on his shoulder. âIâm not sure about calling your uncle. I may just want to be on my own. I really appreciate your help, though,â he said. I could tell he thought I was going to be mad, was going to start arguing with him again about not knowing anyone, not having anywhere safe to stay.
âWell, Iâm going to Chicago, too,â I said.
âWhat?â
âNot because of you. Because of other reasons.â
âWhat reasons? You donât have any reasons.â
âHow do you know? You donât know anything about me.â The old lady glanced over at me. âI have lots of reasons,â I whispered.
âLike what?â
I didnât want to say. It was pushy, asking me like that, not even thinking that maybe it was too personal for me to talk about. âI donât have to tell you anything.â
A man in a gray uniform emerged from the bus and pushed open the door to the waiting room. âYou folks on the six forty to Chicago?â he asked, not looking at any of us in particular. âBackpacks and luggage gotta go in the back.â
We fell in line behind the old couple, who were hunched over but fast. You could tell they liked being first in every line they stood in. The old man turned and looked at us, probably thinking we were brother and sister and wondering where our parents were. âYou youngsters have any breakfast?â he asked.
âYeah, we did,â Danny said. âAt home.â
My heart flipped over when he said âwe.â
âYou like those Honey Clusters? I love those Honey Clusters. Itâs a cereal,â he said.
âYeah,â Danny said. âTheyâre good.â
âNot too sweet,â the old man said. âNow my grandson, heâs a Capân Crunch man.â
âCapân Crunch is good,â Danny said.
âHeâd eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if my daughterâd let him,â the old man said. âI never seen a boy so attached to one food before. It ainât normal.â
âOh,
Ed,â
the old lady said.
The old man looked at her and almost said something but seemed to change his mind. He turned back to us. âHeâd eat it without milk. Just dry, right out of the box.â
âI used to like Capân Crunch,â Danny said. âBut itâs a little too sweet.â
I let myself pretend that Danny and I were grown-upsâmarried and on our honeymoonâand Danny was doing all the talking because he knew I was shy about having to make conversation with strangers. Then it was like he was doing all this talking for me, like he was protecting me in a manly, husbandly way. So all this talk about cereal was almost sexy.
âThe sweetness kind of gets to you after a while,â Danny said.
The bus driver took my backpack and stowed it in the luggage compartment, which was already half-full of suitcases. I looked up and saw people staring out of the bus window. As if he could read my mind, he said, âWe started out in Houston.â I thought how going somewhere on a bus is different from going on a plane, which is probably thrilling even if youâve done it a