Free Summer on the Short Bus by Bethany Crandell

quickly. “She had breast cancer and died when I was four. Is that all you want to know, ’cause I really need to go to the bathroom.”
    Looking confused by the sudden turn in conversation, she says, “Yeah, that’s all I wanted to know.”
    Quinn barely has enough time to exit the table before I’m crawling across the torn plastic seat and heading toward the bathroom.
    â€œDo you want me to come with you?” Fantine calls after me.
    â€œNo,” I say, not bothering to turn around. “I’m good.”
    Aware that they’re probably watching me, I make a hard left at the hallway marked with a CRAPPER THIS WAY sign, but freeze as soon I round the corner and am out of sight. I do a quick ten count before looking back around the corner. As hoped, my tablemates have resumed their conversation and are fixated on each other rather than me.
    Here goes nothing.
    With my head down, I quickly cut back through the main entry area and out the front doors. The night air is thick and makes my lungs feel heavy. Already I long to be back inside where it’s cooler, but turning around now isn’t an option. Not when there’s Jack Daniel’s out here and I have to get drunk in order to earn a get-out-of-handicapped-jail free card.
    Thanks to the fluorescent streetlamp mounted in the corner of the parking lot, I have more than enough light to see where I’mgoing. Not that I’d need directions to Red Neck Avenue. I sprint toward the entrance of the lot, more than surprising the mullet guy who is still camped out in the back of his truck.
    â€œHi. Um, I need . . . some of your Jack,” I say, feeling like the world’s biggest loser.
    He stares at me with his mouth gaping. Leaning forward in his lawn chair, he says, “You what now?”
    â€œI need a few shots of your Jack.” I point to the bottle at his feet. “Please? I’m sort of . . . desperate.”
    I have no doubt he wasn’t prepared for what I was going to say, but it’s almost as if I’m speaking a foreign language. This dude is either too drunk to follow what I’m saying or he graduated from Camp I Can last year and just doesn’t get it. “Look,” I say, fishing a ten-dollar bill out of my pocket. “I’m going to take a couple of drinks from your bottle and then I’m going to give you this money, okay?” I extend my hand, offering him the cash.
    His impaired gaze drifts from me to my hand and back to me again.
    â€œOkay?” I repeat.
    His response isn’t immediate, and only comes after he hocks a chunk of tobacco over the side of his truck. “Help yerself,” he says, nudging the bottle toward me with his foot. “And keep your cash.”

NINE

    â€œY ou arrre really pretty. Have you ever cosiddered modeling?”
    Through blurry eyes I see two identical versions of Fantine.
    All four of her eyes are rolling at me.
    â€œGirl, you are messed up.”
    I snort. “Isn’t it awesome !” I have no idea how much of that Jack I drank, but damn. I’m so rocked right now.
    â€œHow is it even possible that one beer can do that to someone?” Quinn asks.
    â€œYou got me,” Fantine says.
    â€œShe’s probably still dehydrated from yesterday,” Colin says. “But it doesn’t matter. This is going to be a huge problem for us.”
    â€œWhad’r you guys talkin’ about?” I slap my hand against the table and do my best to stare them straight in their eyes. Which is proving to be a challenge. “I’m not a prob”—hiccup—“broblem. Yoooo on the other hand are a biiig problem, Mister!”
    I look down to see that my hand has found its way to Quinn’s chest, and my left leg is draped over his right thigh. Ooopsy! When did that happen?
    â€œWe gotta sober her up,” Quinn says, easing my leg off of his.“If Rainbow catches her like this, we’ll