Free The Great Good Summer by Liz Garton Scanlon Page A

sigh again, for real this time.
    â€œYeah,” says Paul. “Yeah. Sorry.”
    I don’t know what to do with myself after that. I wish I would’ve brought a book or something, because I have a feeling this is gonna be a really long ride. My fingers find the little cross I wear on a chain around my neck. It was Mama’s when she was a girl, and it’s been mine since Daddy got her a new one. I love it, even though the gold has worn off in places and you can see a sort of unshiny silver underneath. Which I guess means it’s fake, but that doesn’t really matter much to me.

    I’ve pressed myself up against the corner of my seat to sleep for a little bit, on account of getting up early and all, when our bus hits something big. You can tell because there’s a bounce and a terrible bang—I lurch awake—and the next thing you know, we’re thumping off to the side of the road. Everyone around us sits up high and leans out into the aisle to see what’s going on.
    Our driver, an older woman who’s so large, she uses the steering wheel like a handle to pull herself up, moves a lever to open the door with a big swooshing sound, and out she goes.
    â€œOh my God. This was a crappy idea,” says Paul, too loud and kind of out of the blue. “The whole idea of leaving early was to get out of town—as far out of town as we could, before anyone realized we were gone. And now we’re stuck on the side of the road? I knew it. This whole thing was really, really a crappy idea.”
    He sits to the right of me—trapping me up against the window—and he suddenly seems bigger than before, with a voice that’s deep and mad. Even still, his hands shake and jitter on his knees.
    I turn my body toward him, my back up against the side of the bus. “Hey!” I say. “What on God’s green earth? This was your idea, Mr. Smart Man. And you’re givingup on it, just like that? I ran away from home because of you, and you’re giving up?”
    I’m shaking too, my hands and my voice. What is happening here? We just left! We planned this all the way out, pretty carefully, and still, everything is falling apart before we’ve even made it to our first stop!
    Our driver heaves herself back up the steps of the bus and booms, “Well, folks, as luck would have it, that was some heavy chunk of lumber we hit, and I believe our axle’s broke, and we’re gonna have to wait here for the mechanic to come and fix us up. Y’all make yourselves comfortable.” And then she turns and plops back in her seat as if she doesn’t have a place in the world to be.
    I sink down low and wrap my arms around my body, tight. It’s like I want to hold myself together so I don’t start to cry.
    â€œYou’re right,” I whisper to Paul after a solid minute of just sitting and squeezing and not crying. “This was really, truly a bad idea.”
    I turn back to the window, rest my head against the frame, and look out at a tangled field of soybeans that goes on and on and on.
    â€œOh, dear God,” I say, in that sort of yell-whisper I’ve used all morning. “Oh, please, please, please, dear God.”’Cause really, a little bit of God would come in handy right about now.

    Everyone on the entire bus has to stand on the side of the road while the tow truck guy uses some fancy jack to raise the bus up toward the back of the truck.
    â€œWow. Would you look at that?” I say. “That is quite the tool. Daddy needs one of those to get himself up onto roofs. He could kiss his ladders good-bye!”
    â€œIt’s a hydraulic lift,” Paul says. What he’s really saying is, “It’s a hydraulic lift, you dummy.” I can tell by the shake of his head and the sort of tone he takes.
    Any fool who’s been raised right would tell you I was just trying to be nice, to make conversation. But Paul has to