Free Waiting for Augusta by Jessica Lawson Page A

squirrel.”
    â€œOh.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. Nobody’d ever offered me squirrel meat. “The only time my daddy got superstitious was on the golf course. He had lucky tees and ball markers, and he said it was bad luck to get into an argument before starting a round of golf. But I think he said that just so my mama wouldn’t fuss about him skipping church.”
    While we waited for the bus, a few more people, mostly old ladies and old men, chatted with me after overhearing that I didn’t talk at all. They filled in my silence with whatever they expected to hear and seemed pleased with my responses. I wondered how they learned to do that and whythe words my mind filled Daddy’s silences in with weren’t so nice.
    When our bus arrived, Noni told the driver in a loud voice how her brother didn’t talk and not to be offended that I didn’t say hello or thanks. Both of us took seats about three-quarters of the way back, ready to go home to our fake parents if anyone asked.
    I let Noni have the aisle seat. We sat across from a very pregnant woman who kept rubbing her belly the way I rubbed at my throat, and I wondered if her baby was moving around in there, the same way my lump moved. She caught me staring at her belly and gave me a small smile. She was the only colored woman on the bus. Was it hard to be the only colored person on a bus, the way it was hard for May to go to my school? I didn’t know, and I wasn’t about to ask.
    As we pulled away from the station, raindrops splattered on the window beside me but stopped within a few minutes. Whatever clouds had set them free weren’t quite ready to let a storm pour down yet. I wondered what they were waiting for.

HOLE 10
A Matter of Trust
    I stared out the window as the bus drove along, taking me away from my first and only home and toward Daddy’s final one. Flashes of planted fields, corn and soybeans, thick-trunked brown oaks, swaying branches feathered in new leaves, hanging gray moss, fading red roadside restaurants in need of fresh paint and new customers, old towns, white-chipped porch swings and rocking chairs, kids running-playing-pushing-staring, burn piles smoking, gas stations. We moved by it all fast, the window painting changing every time I blinked.
    â€œWhere’d you come from?” I whispered to Noni, not sure how long I’d have to pretend to be a non-talker.
    â€œDoesn’t matter,” she said, pumping the skirt of her dress up and down. “Man, it’s hot.”
    â€œBut why were you in Hilltop? There’s nothing there.”
    â€œThere’s good pork. I followed the tracks behind my house and ended up there. Good enough? You ask too manyquestions.” Her mouth went wide in a yawn. “There are rules, you know.”
    â€œRules for what? Being a . . .” Being a runaway? Being an orphan?
    â€œI’m a wanderer and lucky to be one,” she said firmly. “But there are rules. I’m not generally a fan of rules, but wandering rules are more like guidelines for living by.” She reached down into her sock and pulled out a scrap of paper. “Here. I wrote ’em down so I wouldn’t forget.”
    â€œWhere’d you learn them?”
    â€œNone of your business.”
    â€œMaybe you just made them up.” When her glowering began to make me uncomfortable, I swallowed hard. “What are these guidelines?”
    She squinted at the paper. “Number one, always keep your focus on the next step ahead. Number two, don’t ever be telling anybody the whole truth. Little truths are okay if you find someone to trust.”
    â€œAnd you trust me?”
    Her eyes drifted up to the bus’s ceiling. “Yep, I trust you.”
    â€œWhy?”
    She looked at the backpack. “Because I miss my daddy, too. Why do you trust me?”
    I didn’t trust her yet. I couldn’t. There were too many blanks