Nest (28 page)

“Round-trip?” He sounds irritated.

I’m not sure what that means, so I just shake my head.

“Two one-way tickets to Boston,” he mumbles to himself, and pulls out a little booklet of tickets and rips two out. “Ten dollars,” he says. I hand him a ten-dollar bill. He hands me two tickets. That’s all there is to it. Easy-peasy. I’m reaching for the door handle. I want to show Joey the tickets. I want to eat a strawberry Pop-Tart and then a brown sugar–cinnamon Pop-Tart, which is absolutely not the kind of breakfast Orensteins ever eat.

“Hey, kid!” the man yells from behind the counter.

My heart starts racing like it did in my bad dream. Is he going to run over and pin my hands behind my back and call the police? I don’t want to not go to Boston. I don’t want to not see the swan boats. I don’t want to have to come up with another perfect plan.

“Don’t get off in Hyannis,” he yells. “Just stay on the bus until you get to Boston.”

“Okay!” I yell, and let the door slam closed.

“What time’s the bus coming?” Joey asks. We’ve each just eaten two Pop-Tarts. Joey wants another, but I think we should wait, because if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that you never have a clue what’s going to happen next, and I don’t want to be caught
off guard with not enough Pop-Tarts. The bus could break down on a deserted road, and we could be stranded for days with just our carrots and the tiny bit of pita and cheese that’s left.

“Chirp, I asked you a question.”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t ask what time the bus is coming?” Joey’s voice is all squeaky, like he just can’t believe it, like I’ve got to be the stupidest girl on the planet.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “We still have to sit here on this bench until it gets here.”

“Well, it would be
helpful
to know what time it’s arriving,” he says, all snotty.

“We don’t even have a watch,” I say. I look up at the sky and pretend that Joey isn’t here.
Vanished. Poof
. What’s here is the bluest sky, with two herring gulls circling and a flock of red-winged blackbirds shooting by and a wind that smells like wet grass and a brown paper bag sitting on my lap that’s packed with two almost-f boxes of Pop-Tarts and a bottle of apple juice.

There’s not even time for Joey to notice that I’ve vanished him when the bus roars up. It’s much, much louder and bigger than our school bus. The driver just takes our tickets. He doesn’t say a word. He must figure that the ticket seller checked out our story. When the door closes behind us, my heart squeezes tight, and I grab Joey’s hand before I even realize what I’m doing.

“Cowabunga,” he says, and doesn’t pull his hand away.

“Bowacunga,” I whisper, because suddenly there’s a rock in my throat.

The bus is almost empty. Just two guys in the back in hard hats and a lady sleeping with her head against the window, with red lipstick smeared around her mouth and her blond hair all poofed up. There’s a dark line from her eye to the middle of her cheek that looks like she cried a big black tear.

Suddenly I’m not sure I can make it to a seat. A rock on my head is pushing me down. My legs are crumpling, like I’ve landed a leap wrong.

“Joey?”

“C’mon,” he says, and shoves me into a seat across the aisle from the black-tear lady. He climbs over me, sits down, and the driver takes off. I don’t even ask Joey, I just lean my head against his shoulder. He touches my hair. This should be a big adventure, alone on a bus with Joey, heading to Boston. I should want to pay close attention to everything. I should want to look out the window and not miss a beat. But my rocks are weighing me down. I close my eyes. The noise of the bus is swirling green water, spinning whirlpools of almost-black green.

When I wake up, my face is pressed against Joey’s neck. It’s soft and warm and smells like hay. I keep
my eyes closed an extra minute so I can keep sniffing, and then I sit up.

“I missed Hyannis?”

“We’re almost to the Sagamore Bridge. I just saw a sign,” Joey says.

There are all kinds of people on the bus now. I look around. Two men with matching black eyeglasses and flabby faces talking to each other. A pretty lady with skin the color of coffee with cream reading a book and chewing gum. An old Chinese lady with wrinkly skin, snoozing with her head against the window.

“Too many people,” I say.

Joey looks at me. “What do you mean?” he says. “You’ve got tons of room.”

I can’t explain it. Even though Joey’s right, I feel crowded. I don’t want all of these people on the bus. I don’t want them talking and reading and chewing gum and sleeping.

“I wish I could throw them off,” I say.

Joey just stares at me.

The bus is pulling onto the bridge.

People on the bus. People on other buses. People in their houses. People in their cars. People going to work. People cooking dinner.

“Wow,” Joey says, looking out the window. “The Cape Cod Canal. See the boats?”

What I see is the water. The dark blue stripe of cold water.

“The boats are cool,” Joey says.

I nod. I don’t tell him what I’m seeing now. All the people pushed into the water. The pretty lady. The two flabby men. The bus driver. The Chinese lady. The black-tear lady. Flapping their arms. Yelling. They make white splash. They scream for help. No one hears them.

“Are you okay?” Joey asks.

They’re sinking down. They’re disappearing.

“Chirp?”

“No,” I say, “I’m not.”

Joey hands me a brown sugar–cinnamon Pop-Tart. I scrape the hard white frosting off with my front teeth. The sweet feels good in my throat. As soon as I eat the Pop-Tart, Joey hands me another. Then another. Then another.

“I
S THIS WHERE WE
get off?” Joey asks. “South Station?”

I look out the window. Pavement. Train tracks. Parked buses. Cars whizzing by. Nothing looks familiar.

“I’m not sure,” I say. Where’s the green grass? The last time we were here, I remember people throwing Frisbees. A pretzel vendor on the corner. A hippie girl in a long purple skirt playing the guitar under a tree next to a man with frizzy red hair who banged on a bongo drum but not to the beat. Mom and I walked through Boston Common and came to a garden with tulips and fluffy pink peonies. And then the pond with the ducks and geese following behind the white swan boats, where we met the handsome boat man with green eyes.

“You
have
to be sure,” Joey says. “If this is it, we need to hurry up and get off!”

“Ask somebody,” I say. The Chinese lady is in front of me, and the black-tear lady is across the aisle. I just pushed them into the water. I just watched them disappear. I didn’t want to help them. I can’t ask
them
for help.

“Excuse me,” Joey says to the Chinese lady through the space between the seats, but he’s too late. The bus has started up again.

“Shoot,” Joey says, staring out the window. “What if we just totally screwed up? We should have asked the name of the stop. I just thought we got off in
Boston
. How was I supposed to know that there’s more than one stop? I can’t believe this! What if—”

“Can I help you kids?” It’s the black-tear lady. She’s leaning across the aisle. She’s smiling at us. Her voice is really deep.

“Is this where we get off for the swan boats?” Joey asks.

“Boston Common,” I say. “We’re meeting our aunt and uncle in Boston Common.”

“Next stop,” she says. “You’re fine. It’ll just be a few more minutes.” She’s got a bit of a mustache, which looks kind of strange on a lady. And really big hands.

“Thanks a lot,” I say.

“I love the swan boats,” she says in her deep voice. “I’ve been riding them since I was little.”

“I love them, too,” I say. “My mom and I used to ride them together when we’d come to Boston.”

She’s waiting for me to say something else.

“This time it’s just me and my brother, just the two of us, to see our aunt and uncle. We want them to take us on the swan boats,” I say.

“Okay,” she says. “Just you two this time.”

“That’s right,” I say. I don’t like lying to her.

“Okay, honey,” she says. “Anything else you want to tell me?” She’s playing with her hair, floofing it up with her fingertips and patting it back down again, as if she’s not that interested in my answer even though I think she is.

“Did you know that a female swan is called a pen? Most people don’t know that,” I say.

“Nope, that’s new information to me.” She’s looking right into my eyes, but gently.

“I know a lot about birds,” I say. “They’re kind of my hobby. I read about them and I watch them.”

“That’s great,” she says. “It’s important to pay attention to what’s going on around you. Especially when you’re traveling without a grown-up.”

“Oh, my aunt and uncle will meet us in Boston Common,” I say. “They’re very excited that we’re coming to visit. They have all kinds of special things planned for us. And anyway, I’m pretty mature for my age.”

She nods. “Sometimes, when I was a kid, I’d pretend the swan boat was a real swan that could read
my thoughts. Being a kid was kind of rough sometimes.”

I can’t tell her everything, but at least I can tell her something. “The last time my mom and I were here, the swan boat driver was super nice, and he said he bet my mom was a beautiful dancer and that we should come back someday and visit him.”

She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me like it’s still my turn to talk. When I don’t say anything, she says, “I’ve got to ask you something. Is everything okay, little sister? Anything I can do to help?”

I can’t think of one thing to say. There’s a sad hunk of quiet between us. Finally she says, “Okay, then. If you’re not going to tell me something, I’ll tell
you
something. When I was a kid, I really wanted to be a swan boat driver when I grew up. I thought pedaling that boat around the lagoon under the weeping willows, with the ducks and geese swimming along, would be the most wonderful way to spend my days. All of the tourists from around the world asking me questions. And the kids, out on the water, getting just a little bit of peace for a change.”

“Well, then, how come you aren’t one?” I ask.

She looks at me, shakes her head, and lets out a laugh so low and bubbling I can’t help laughing, too.

“Let’s just say that life took me in a different direction, honey,” she says.

“Life does that, I guess,” I say, and she cracks up, like that’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

“You’re one smart cookie,” she says. “A philosopher. Don’t let anyone keep you down, you hear me?”

I nod and smile. She has the nicest smile I’ve ever seen, even with her messed-up lipstick.

Joey’s staring at her. “Are you a—”

“How about you don’t ask me the question you want to ask me, and I’ll keep my burning question about you two to myself?” she whispers, like we’re in a secret club together.

I have no idea what Joey wants to ask her, but I’m pretty sure what she wants to ask us.

“That’s fine,” I say, poking Joey.

“Absolutely,” he says, turning red and looking away.

I don’t know if Joey’s upset her, but I give her a smile, just in case, and she smiles her beautiful smile and touches her hand to her heart. I want to keep talking with her, but she leans back in her seat and closes her eyes.

“What did you want to ask her?” I ask Joey.

He just shrugs. “Nothing,” he says, leaning forward to take another peek at her. He pulls
From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler
out of his duffel bag. “I think I need to learn more about city life.” Joey opens the book. “Pick up some tips and stuff.”

“Park Square!” the driver yells. We jump up.

Joey didn’t get to read even one sentence.

I feel a hand on my arm.

“Listen, you be careful, little sister,” the black-tear lady says. “There are all kinds of crazies out there. You need to take good care of yourself.”

“C’mon, hurry up!” Joey’s pushing my knapsack, trying to shove me down the aisle.

“Don’t worry, lady,” I say, and then I surprise myself. I bend down so low that I can see the makeup stuck in the crinkles near her eyes. And I kiss her cheek, right on the black line where her black tear must have rolled down.

“Where’s everybody going?” Joey asks.

We’re standing on the sidewalk, and people are streaming past us. Ladies with shopping bags from Filene’s Basement and Jordan Marsh. Men with briefcases in one hand and cups of coffee in the other. A guy with no hair, playing tiny cymbals and wearing a twisted-up sheet the color of a Creamsicle. There’s a steady wind and lots of hair is blowing.

“This is what it’s like here,” I say. “Everybody’s just doing their thing.”

“Well, it’s loud and smells bad, and I don’t think you know where we are,” Joey says.

“Yes, I do. I know exactly where we are.” I watch a lady rummaging around in a garbage can. When I realize who it is, my heart starts racing. It’s her; it’s the marsh lady! She must have taken a bus here, too, or maybe she hitchhiked the whole way. But when
she stands up with a wrinkled Burger King bag in her hand, I see that it’s just some other wrinkly lady with snarly hair, wearing a lumpy green jacket.