Free The Other Way Around by Sashi Kaufman Page B

being twisted up against the bucket seat, and there’s a strand of dried drool on my chin. I wriggle out of my seat, shedding the sleeping bag like a snakeskin, and carefully pull the metal door handle, pushing the van door open. The sun is up, but it’s obscured by a blanket of gray clouds and has barely the brightness of a full moon. Still, it seems warmer outside the van than in it.
    The Walmart parking lot is big but not empty. Apparently we aren’t the only ones to use it like a motel. A few RVs are parked together in one corner, and a rusting sedan stuffed midway up the windows with clothes and papers sits two rows over. I can’t tell if there’s a human in it. I put my hands over my head and try to stretch out my back by bending first to one side and then to the other. It’s a mistake. The second I put my hands over my head, my shirt comes untucked and a draft of late autumn air sweeps up under it. I shiver and jump in place for a while to warm up.
    There’s no avoiding it; I need to call Mom. I’m sure she’s losing it, and every minute is probably making it worse. As far as she knows I’m arriving in Cleveland this morning where I will get on another bus that will bring me back home. Except that’s not going to happen, and I’m not sure how to tell her. I look back at the van nervously, hoping and fearing that someone will wake up and come out to interrupt me.
    I pull my phone out of my pocket and press the power button waiting for the lights to come on and the phone to beep. Itake one more look at the van but no one is stirring. So I dial.
    â€œAndrew,” she says. With that one word I can tell she hasn’t slept.
    â€œHi, Mom.”
    â€œAndrew, where are you?”
    â€œI’m in Cleveland,” I lie.
    â€œAndrew, we need to talk about this, and we
will
talk about this when you get home. But right now I just need to know what bus you’re getting on and whether or not you need to me call in a ticket for you.”
    Here’s the jumping-off point. I stand on the platform, staring straight down at the ground. I can’t do it. I’m not going to jump. I need to be pushed. There’s a long pause while she waits for me to say something.
    â€œAndrew? Are you there?”
    â€œYeah, Mom, I’m here.”
    â€œDo you have any idea how irresponsible and dangerous your behavior is?”
    I roll my eyes. There it is. That’s the push. “Mom, I’m not coming home. Not right away.”
    Her voice gets instantly cold. “What do you mean, Andrew?” I can hear the headmistress coming out in full force.
    â€œI met some people, some kids, and they offered to give me a ride so I’m going to go with them.” Even
I
realize how bad this sounds. I try to make it a little better. “Don’t worry, Mom; they’re straight edge,” I tell her, trying out my new terminology. “You know, no drugs, no alcohol, they don’t even eat meat.”
    â€œAnd this is supposed to make me feel better? You’re getting a ride home with complete strangers, and I’m supposed beglad that they’re vegetarians?! Where in God’s name did you meet these people?”
    â€œIn the bus station.”
    â€œIn Cleveland? But you just got there.”
    â€œMy bus got in early,” I cover quickly. “I was hanging out talking to them. They gave me a sandwich and offered me a ride.”
    â€œAndrew, this is ridiculous. You don’t even know these kids. Who are they? Where are their parents?”
    â€œThey’re around,” I say. “Look, Mom, I know this doesn’t make a lot of sense, but it’s just what I need to do right now.”
    â€œWhat makes you think you know anything about what
you need
to do right now?”
    I’m silent because we both know I can’t answer that. All I know is that something about what I’m doing right now feels right. But I know