Free Waiting for Augusta by Jessica Lawson Page B

and whys surrounding her. Why was she so willing to come with me? Was she running from someone? Howcould I trust her when she’d given away a good chunk of our traveling money and then had taken over at the bus station? Sure, I felt bad that she had no parents left, and sure, it was nice to have someone to share a seat with, but she was a bossy thing, and there was no getting around that. I had the feeling I’d have to stand up for myself at some point or things wouldn’t change.
    Ignoring the seatback in front of me, which was pleading for me to tell a white lie, I looked Noni straight in the face. “I don’t think I do trust you. Sorry,” I added for cushion.
    Her low-pitched laugh was followed by a snort and a nod of approval. “That’s fair. You don’t have as much faith as I do. But I think you’re wrong. You’re trusting me right now, and I appreciate that, even if you can’t admit it.” She kept shifting around, trying to get comfortable. “Know why you’re trusting me? It’s better than being alone. Same for me. And I’ve lost two parents, not just one, so you probably feel sorry for me, which is fine.” Her head nodded a little as she yawned again, fighting sleep. “Sympathy can come in handy.”
    She smoothed out the paper scrap, which had crumpled in her fist. “Back to my guidelines—number three, don’t talk to people you shouldn’t be talking to, or your wandering time will be up for sure. That’s all I could remember to write down. Now, stop talking my ears off and let me get some rest. Wandering’s more tiring than it sounds.” Wiggling her legs up to the seat, she wrapped both arms around herself and turned away, tucking her head into her body like a baby bird.
    My paint box poked my leg through the backpack’s fabric, so I took out my sketchbook and flipped to the third-to-last page. Most of the face was blank from the eyes down, but I’d drawn light outlines that could be erased and changed later on. Miss Stone told me that mistakes in art were okay. They were lessons in disguise, she told me. Clues to help you go about things a better way next time. From memory I drew a nose, then erased it, then tried again. Better. Ears and jawline came next, then the top lip line.
    Daddy wasn’t speaking, not even when I reached in the backpack and shook him around a little, so I stretched my arms high, then low, then leaned against the window and used the backpack as a pillow. When I closed my eyes, I drifted in a soft dream fog before recognizing our front porch. The fog parted, and I saw that it was a late-summer afternoon in August. Mama and a younger version of me were waiting for the day to cool and for Daddy to get home from the golf course, and I was floating above the scene.
    An ache filled me when I realized what would happen to the Ben Putter crouched over a bunch of papers. I tried to yell a warning to myself, but I’d floated too high for the little boy to hear and my words were coming out as silence anyway.
    Can’t change something that’s already happened , the golf ball in my neck sang out in a mocking sort of voice. I slapped it quiet.
    Then I watched the younger me, knowing exactly what would happen.

HOLE 11
A Gift for Daddy
    I was eight years old, just days away from getting the pounding of my life from twelve-year-old Willy Walter, the beating given because I’d won the second grade art prize for my drawing Pregnant Pig in Yard over his sister’s drawing Portrait of My Brother Willy .
    All day through, with only one break for lemonade and a cold ham sandwich, I had sketched and planned a project for Daddy. I figured that maybe he didn’t like me drawing and painting things like flowers and trees and Mrs. Grady snoozing and drooling on her porch, but he couldn’t help but like a comic strip. Daddy always chuckled at the Sunday funny papers, and I knew that