Free So B. It by Sarah Weeks Page B

bus and I heard the kittens mewing and Alice clicking her tongue to comfort them, I was sure that I had never felt more lost in my life.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Good
    I called Bernie from a phone inside the Salt Lake City station. She was drinking her morning cup of coffee.
    “I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night, Bernie. I slept through Lovelock,” I told her.
    “I figured as much, but it didn’t stop me any from worrying,” she said. “How are you, baby?”
    How was I supposed to answer that? After what I’d just been through with Alice, I wanted to tell Bernie the truth. But if she knew I was sad and homesick, she would tell me to turn around and come back. I wasn’t sure I would be able to say no—and what bothered me even more was that I wasn’t sure I remembered why I was supposed to.
    A large red-faced man stopped right infront of me to light up a thick black cigar. He puffed on it a few times, then puckered his lips and blew out the match. A soft familiar sound passed through the air to me on a stream of gray smoke— soof —and I remembered.
    “You okay?” Bernie said.
    “Yes, Bernie,” I said. “I’m fine.”
    The line crackled.
    “Oooh! Did you hear that?” she said.
    “What was it?”
    “Thunder boomers. It’s pouring buckets here today,” she said. “You know how your mama feels about rain. She’s been hiding under the covers since it started.”
    More crackle, then the line hissed and cleared.
    “Are you still there, Bernie? Bernie?”
    “Calm down, baby. I’m right here,” she said. “And I’m putting a red pushpin right smack dab on Salt Lake City so I know exactly where you are the way I always—”
    The line crackled again, hissed, and this time, when it cleared, she wasn’t there anymore.
    “Bernie? Bernie? ” I shouted into the phone.
    I stood there for a while with the phone pressed tight against my ear, but she didn’t come back. There wasn’t time to call her again. As it was, I had to run to make it back to the bus in time. Luckily the driver wasn’t paying attention, or maybe he just didn’t care that Alice wasn’t with me anymore.
    I found a new seat and sat by myself, sleeping on and off until we got to our next stop, Rock Springs, Wyoming. We switched drivers there, but not buses, so even though I desperately wanted to hear Bernie’s voice, I decided I had to play it safe and stay on the bus. I didn’t know if the new driver would have the same feeling about me traveling alone, and I just didn’t feel up to facing having to find someone new to get me back on. I ate the second ham sandwich, taking tiny bites to make it last as long as possible. Then I did the same with the last package of Devil Dogs.
    The conversation with Alice played over and over in my head. I wished I had a mental switch to turn it off. I kept trying to convince myself that it didn’t matter what she thought of me since we’d never in a million years crosspaths again. I couldn’t help but wonder, though, if she was standing around with a bunch of other Alices at that very moment laughing about the silly kid on the bus who’d told her that Shirley Temple had tap-danced in her kitchen. It was humiliating to think about, but it wasn’t what was really bothering me.
    What bothered me was not knowing why I’d done it. A lie is the opposite of the truth. Truth is good and lies are bad. Black and white. Simple. Still, I’d lied to Alice for no good reason, and I hadn’t even felt bad about it until I’d gotten caught. What did that say about me?
    I got out my notebook and started a new list:
     
    Thin gs I Know About L ying
    Lying is bad
    Lying is wrong
    Sometimes people lie because the truth is too hard to admit
    Sometimes it’s easy to do
    Sometimes if you’re not careful you start to believe your own lies
    Sometimes it makes you feel guilty
    Sometimes it doesn’t
    People don’t always tell you when they know you’re lying
    By the time we reached our next stop, Cheyenne, I was