Free Waiting for Augusta by Jessica Lawson

tricks. I swallowed a Daddy word and gave Noni my best “what should I paint” expression. She ran over to the ticket office, peered inside, and jogged back. Then she glanced over atthe ticket seller, and her eyes grew soft, her lips pursing out like she was thinking real hard. More than a minute passed before I poked her and she turned back to me.
    â€œMountains,” she said. “That woman needs a picture of mountains.”
    I raised my eyebrows. How do you know?
    She winked. “Magic. Magical, mystical, mysterious powers.” Laughing at my expression, she kicked my shoe. “She’s got about five photos pasted to the wall in there, all of them with mountains in them.”
    Inwardly, I sighed with relief. Mountains were one of my specialties. While I painted and Noni looked at Daddy’s Augusta book, our adopted granny spread the word to other bus waiters about the sweet little silent boy and his special pictures. There were two colored women sitting on the next bench over, but I noticed that Ticket Granny didn’t talk to them.
    I sank into the landscape on my paper and lost myself for a moment. When I finally did look over, the old woman was holding Daddy on her lap. I’d taken him out when I got my paint box, and she’d gone and picked him up.
    I must have inhaled pretty loud, because she looked over at me and smiled. “This is real pretty, dear. Is it for your painting supplies?”
    Noni looked up from the book. “What’s going on? You need more paint supplies?”
    Mrs. Jones started to play with the top, and I lunged over and snatched the urn out of her hands just as she was about to try twisting the lid open. I almost shouted at her, but managed to let out a closemouthed moan, checking the clasp and hugging Daddy to me.
    She gave me one of those dirty looks that grandma types sometimes will, like you passed gas real loud in church.
    Noni reached over and smacked me. “Bobby Jones, you stop being rude.” She clucked her tongue. “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” she said, sweet as Mrs. Grady’s walnut bars. “That’s just got Granny’s cookie mix in it, and my parents will cook our gooses if it doesn’t get back in one piece. My mama still loves her mama’s baking, you see. Says she can’t make cookies as good as Granny’s for nothing.”
    Well, the old lady ate that up. She nodded at the urn. “I can understand that. I certainly can. My Jimmy comes to visit four times a year and says that his wife’s cooking has got nothing on mine.” The smug look on her face shifted to concern. “Why’re you grabbing your throat like that?” she asked me, scooting away. “You sick, honey? Need a lozenge? I got a lozenge. Oh!” She stood. “There’s my Jimmy.”
    She dug in her purse, and I accepted a cherry-flavored cough drop. We said goodbye to Ticket Granny and Noni carried my painting to the ticket seller, who took one glance and looked like she’d just walked in her home door after a long, long trip. She met my eye and waved, then put herwaving hand on her heart as Noni plopped back down beside me with two tickets.
    â€œCan’t believe that worked,” I whispered, covering my face with one hand. “By the way, that was a good story about our Grandma Jones you told. I liked the squirrel part.”
    Noni leaned over and retied a loose shoelace. “That wasn’t a story. My grandma, rest her soul, was backwoods and superstitious as anything. She had three life rules for avoiding bad luck. My daddy believed them, too. He even made me memorize them so I could recite them when we visited her.” Noni sat up, cleared her throat, and shook a finger at me. “It’s bad luck to trust the government,” she said in a high-pitched, shaky granny voice. “It’s bad luck to ignore a child in need. And it’s bad luck to turn down a meal made with