Free Summer on the Short Bus by Bethany Crandell Page A

all get fired.”
    I start laughing. It’s just so ridiculous that I’m at this piece of crap bowling alley with Zac Efron. “Canihave”—hiccup—“your augotraph . . . aaauutograph, Mister Efffffron?”
    â€œShut up, Cricket,” he says. “We’re trying to figure something out.”
    I get serious, and prop my elbows up on the table. “So whadar we disss”—hiccup—“cussing?”
    â€œYour drunk ass,” Fantine says all bitchy.
    â€œMy ass?” I lean to the side and give my butt a smack. “It doesnint look drunk ta me. But it looks damn goooood in these jeans.”
    â€œI just might kill her,” Fantine says.
    â€œWhoa! Whoawhoawhoawhoa, whoa.” I stare at her. Them. “Now you lisssen here. I . . . oh, God . . .”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you?” she says.
    â€œI don’t . . . feel so good.”
    â€œOh hell. Are you gonna puke?”
    Both Fantines are blurry now, and there’s a bad taste welling up in my throat. This is bad. “I . . . oh God. I think so. Yeah”—hiccup—“I need thuh bathroom. Now.”

    â€œThat sucks about her dad.”
    â€œSounds like a jerk.”
    â€œMaybe that’s why she’s such a bitch. Daddy issues . . .”
    As much as I try, I can only make out bits and pieces of the conversation going on around me. Everything is jumbled, like my brain is in a blender. My skin feels cold and clammy and my throat burns every time I swallow. “Coldplay blows,” I mumble hoarsely. At least I think that’s me.
    â€œWhat’d she say?” comes a voice from the front seat.
    â€œI thought she was asleep,” says another voice.
    â€œShe’s out of it, but I think it had something to do with Fantine’s sucky DJ skills.”
    â€œUp yours, pretty boy.”
    The radio clicks off, and for a moment everything seems okay. I try to open my eyes, but the world starts spinning again. “What happened . . .”
    â€œSsshh.” A warm hand touches my cheek, before settling into a divine rhythm of stroking my hair behind my ear. “Just close your eyes and go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
    â€œBut . . .”
    â€œIt’s okay. Just go to sleep, Cricket.”
    My eyes flutter open and for a moment I see the most beautiful pools of blue staring down at me. If I weren’t so out of it, I’d totally jump in. “Okay,” I say. And my eyes close.

TEN

    â€œR ise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.”
    I try to open my eyes, but I’m pretty sure someone has glued them shut. “What do you want?” I grumble. “What’s going on?”
    â€œIt’s time for lunch. You gotta get up.”
    â€œWhy are you yelling at me?”
    I hear Fantine chuckle under her breath as the foot of my bed sags beneath her weight. “Cricket, do you remember anything about last night?”
    Last night. Last night . . . Hillbillies, mullets, whiskey . . . “Oh God.” I slowly pry my eyes open, and am greeted by a blurry Fantine and a pain in my head like nothing I’ve ever felt. “Last night was bad,” I say, wincing at the ache in my throat.
    â€œYes, it was. It was kind of funny, too. But probably not for you.”
    I try to glare at her but that makes my face hurt, so I just close my eyes again and say, “Screw you.”
    â€œYou wish. Now sit up, I brought you some Motrin.”
    â€œI don’t think I can,” I say. My tongue feels like sandpaper as itscrapes against the roof of my mouth. “I don’t think I can ever sit up again. I’m going to die right here.”
    â€œWell, you don’t have much choice. Haven’t you ever had a hangover?”
    â€œNot like this. I feel like crap.”
    â€œWhich is pretty much how you look.”
    â€œI hate you so much right now,” I say, doing my best to glare at her.
    I