Free Charly's Epic Fiascos by Kelli London Page B

to make a new life for herself, and excitement shot through her veins. “Okay,” she said to everyone. “I gotta go. I’ll call you when I get to Chicago, then let you know which route I’m taking.”
    Charly climbed on board, then took one last look over her shoulder. She would miss Illinois but not enough to stay. “New York, here I come.”

II
    (some) NOT so
V
BEAUTIFUL FIASCOS

8
    C harly’s eyes stretched at the sight of the passengers. They varied in looks and cleanliness and age, she noticed as she made her way down the aisle, happy to be on her way. She plopped down into an available seat, one that was far enough away from anyone who appeared to be dirty or shifty. A smile spread and she nodded. The doors had closed, the bus had pulled off, and Charly was ready for her greatest adventure yet. She was headed to New York to move in with her aunt, find her dad, and snag two of her dreams: landing a spot on television and becoming Daddy’s girl again. Or at least she thought she was. About fifteen minutes into the ride, a horrid smell lingered in the air, a stench so strong she swore it was drifting above her, mistlike, like in a fabric softener commercial. She covered her nose for fear the rankness would shoot up her nostrils and strangle her with funkiness. Her stomach turned, and the bus cruised and bounced and jerked, making her already uncomfortable feeling vamp into full-blown queasiness. Charly looked left, and the swaying cornfields made her dizzy. Closing her eyes, she stilled herself, waiting for the feeling to pass. She opened her lids and turned to the right, and someone’s huge dented rear end was only inches from her face. The person, bent over, had on faded salmon-colored polyester pants, complete with an elastic waistband. Worse yet, the person’s butt crack showed.
    â€œUmph,” Charly grunted, certain that she could smell what she was seeing, and, sure enough, to her stomach’s dismay, flagrant booty odor assaulted her nose. Charly was certain she was only seconds away from throwing up in her own mouth. Her hand was clasped over her lips before she knew it. Her arm was through the handles of her tote and on the back of the seat hoisting her up while her feet were planted firmly on the floor helping her catapult to a stand.
    â€œExcuse me!” Her yell, muffled by her hand, came out loud and strong as she pushed past the perpetrator of stink, then hustled her way down the narrow aisle toward the bathroom in the back.
    Charly had never been so disgusted before. She stood in the tiny cubicle of a restroom, surrounded by a much worse smell than she’d run from. Her insides lurched, and she didn’t know whether to toss her cookies standing erect or bending forward. If she vomited while she stood, it’d get all over her clothes and the tote bag. If she bent over the disgusting excuse for a toilet, she was certain she’d die. The metal bowl hadn’t been flushed properly, and wads of used—skid-marked—toilet paper were inside and on the seat. Charly’s head bounced on the wall behind her, thanks to the bus jerking. Deciding it was too late to be concerned about dirt or lice or God only knew what other kind of infestations from the wall, she leaned against it, pulled the collar of her shirt up over her nose, and tried to settle herself, breathing in her own perfume. She was on a mission. She would succeed. If she wanted to be on prime-time television, surely she could pull off a bus ride. Those were the things she told herself, but her stomach didn’t have ears to hear, and it continued to turn.
    A banging on the door made her forget why she was there. Suddenly her heart raced and her stomach stopped turning. She’d never been on a commuter bus alone, and the rapping stiffened her. She wondered if the minutes she’d been in the lavatory were beyond normal bus etiquette.
    â€œLittle girl? Little girl, you