by Linda Benson
47-Olive
I watch out the window through the gray drizzle. My feet are cold, and my socks and shoes are wet. I was never this cold in California. David stands forlornly on the pavement outside the Chevron station. Is he—was he—my boyfriend? I don’t know. I wish I had told him everything, but I didn’t.
The bus heads down the highway, slow as a tortoise. I think about Rags on my bed. She’ll be waiting for me to come home from school. And Goldy will be anxious for play time. Aunt Trudy would miss me too, but today she’s filling in for Dorothy at the animal shelter. She might call the house to see if I made it home safely, but she won’t really worry until she gets home later. Unless she looks in her purse and notices the money is missing. I feel bad about taking money from her. I mean, she has taken care of me all of this time.
But she’s the one who didn’t tell me my mother was out of jail. She should have told me right away, so I could decide what to do. I fish around in my pocket but can’t find a tissue. My eyes fill with moisture and I swipe at them with the back of my hand.
“Hey, what’s your name, anyway?” The guy beside me leans over, and his breath smells like garlic and cigarette smoke.
I really don’t want to talk to him. He’s creepy. But he did get me on the bus.
“Olive,” I say.
“Olive?” he smirks. “God, whoever thought up a name like that? I’m Willie.”
I don’t respond to this at all.
“So what are you doing after you get to Portland?” he asks. “Are you running away, or what?”
I glance toward the front of the bus. The bus driver is checking the rearview mirror and I see him scanning the seats, as if scouting for trouble. Then his eyes switch back to the highway in front of him.
“No,” I say in a small voice. “I’m going to call somebody, once I get there.”
“Oh. Well, I know some people,” he says. “Down in Portland. I mean, if you need a place to stay.”
I cannot imagine staying with anyone this guy knows. I don’t like the way he leans close to me when he talks. Maybe I could just change seats, but the driver thinks we are related, and I don’t want to get kicked off the bus. I decide to just sit there real still. It can only be a couple of hours to Portland, right?
But I forgot how slow the bus goes. Instead of getting on the freeway, it stays on the old highway and creeps along past the river bridge close to the field where Swede’s barn burned down. It stops at the tiny town of Tamarack, where we pick up two more passengers and the elderly man gets off. I really don’t remember the bus stopping at all these little places on the ride up here with Pendleton. But I had Rags with me then, and she was restless, so I wasn’t really looking around too much.
“Hungry?” Willie pulls out a bag of cheese sticks and some chicken wings that must have come from the Chevron station.
My stomach lurches at the smell of greasy food. I ate hardly any of my lunch in the school cafeteria, and this food looks even more disgusting. I shake my head and look out the window, wondering how much longer until the next stop.
“So are you really fifteen?” he asks. “Girl like you, built the way you are, I would have said seventeen or eighteen.”
I’m only fourteen. Yesterday was my birthday, but I don’t tell him that. For some reason, I picture the carrot cake Aunt Trudy made for me, and how it looked when she walked out of the kitchen with all the candles lit. I never even got to blow them out. I bury my face against the sleeve of my windbreaker.
“So, hey, when we get to Portland,” he says, “especially if you wear a little makeup, you could probably get into some clubs with me. You know, music? Right?”
I move closer to the window.
“That is if you want to—geez,” he says. He begins to fidget. “I need a cigarette. I can’t believe they don’t let you smoke anymore on these buses.”
I shudder, and he laughs at me.
“You don’t smoke, do you Olive? I can tell, you’re a pretty innocent girl. Ever smoke any weed?”
“Just leave me alone, okay?” I say. “I…I need to use the restroom.”
I climb over his spindly legs, conscious of his closeness as I scramble over the top of him. David never laughed at me when I told him my name. And Swede was always nice as he could be. For some reason I think about how he brought the sparklers over on Fourth of July last summer. Sparklers—everybody knows those things are for younger kids. But still, it was fun, and he—
“Hey, sis.” Willie winks at me with a sickening leer on his face. “Hurry back, all right?”
I rush toward the back of the bus and open the folding doors into the bathroom. It reeks of vomit and human waste inside, but at least it is private, and I’m away from Willie. I take shallow breaths, trying not to inhale the smell. The space is tiny, but I reach into my back pocket and pull out the letter from my mother.
It feels like a lifeline between me and her—kind of like that six degrees theory. I mean, I am holding onto the actual paper that my mother held in her hands, that she wrote on, and then she folded and stuffed inside the blue envelope. I carefully straighten out the lined letter and reread each word she wrote, trying not to drip tears on the paper.
I try to imagine her sitting at a table somewhere, thinking of the words she’ll write to me, and then scrawling them out on this paper she found. It’s a lot of words, and I read the whole letter twice. Then I carefully refold it and tuck it in back inside the envelope. I turn it over to memorize the return address written on the back, so I can formulate some way to actually get there. But I almost gag when I look more closely. In the upper lefthand corner of the envelope, underneath my mother’s name is not an address, but a post office box in Long Beach, California.
I want to bang my head against the grimy metal wall next to me. A post office box. How could I be so stupid? I search my memory, trying to remember Lily’s last name. Mom always called her Crazy Lily because she was so much fun to hang out with. I’m not sure if I ever knew her last name.
Last night, when I planned everything out in my head, this whole scheme of going to find my mother seemed so real. If I could only see her, I thought, or talk to her, I know we could figure out how to be a family again. Maybe we can move to Las Vegas together—Mom, Lily, and me.
A sick feeling of dread settles in the pit of my stomach. Not only do I have no money to get further south than Portland, but if I can’t find out Lily’s last name or where she lives, I have no way at all to get in touch my mother. Six degrees. I shudder. All I feel right now is six degrees of lost.
48-David
My insides churn. I need to hurry, need to sprint back to school in order to be on time for my dad and our appointment with the senator. But what about Olive? She is barely fourteen years old, and now she’s on the bus with that weird scruffy guy. The Greyhound pulls out of the station in a haze of smoky exhaust, and turns onto the highway, headed south.
As I stand on the wet pavement at the edge of the Chevron station, bogged down with indecision, a brown Dodge pickup careens into the parking lot. The driver pulls up to the pump and kills the engine. Swede jumps out, sticks a credit card into the pay slot, and begins pumping diesel. Why is he in such a hurry?
I should tell him about Olive. Does Aunt Trudy even know that Olive just left on a Greyhound bus?
“David,” he hollers, looking up and recognizing me. “I need a favor.”
“Sure,” I say, hustling over.
Swede seems agitated. He only pumped a little fuel and he’s already hung up the nozzle and jumped back in his truck. He starts the engine as he lowers the window. “Trudy’s back in the hospital. They just took her by ambulance. She passed out at the animal shelter, and they called me from there. Can you go up to the house and help Olive? Make sure the animals are all fed and see if she needs anything. I’m not sure how long I’ll be at the hospital.”
“But Olive—”
Swede guns the diesel engine and squeals his tires as he pulls out and head
s north toward the hospital. A huge lump forms in my throat. My feet feel stuck to the ground, like they don’t know which way to move at all. My father is waiting for me, right now, back at the school. He’s probably already pacing the sidewalk, checking his watch, and if I don’t show up soon, the meeting with the senator will be canceled. Again.
But if Swede doesn’t know that Olive was leaving, and Aunt Trudy was at the shelter working, then I bet Olive is running away, and nobody knows about it at all. Except for me. And I just told Swede that I would look after Olive. What should I do?
I think about Olive and that greasy-looking guy holding onto her bag. A shudder goes through my body. I need to go find her. That’s what I need to do, before it’s too late.
I sprint back inside the Chevron station. The guy inside is helping another customer. I glance at the clock. Two fifty. I can just imagine my dad waiting in the car for me, scowling. But I don’t think about that.
“Where did that bus go?” I ask. “The Greyhound that just left?”
“It’s going south, as far as Portland. Next bus is tomorrow, same time, buddy.”
“Does it stop anywhere else before it gets there?”
“Yeah, Tamaracks, Cowlitz, several towns. Here’s the route.” He hands me a printed bus schedule.
I scan through the towns quickly. Cowlitz, 4:00 p.m. That’s the last big town before Portland. How can I possibly get there? Then I remember someone with a car. Someone who just got his license. I dump my book bag behind the counter.
“Can you watch this for me?” I ask.
He looks at me like I’m out of my mind, but I don’t care. I can run faster without my books banging up and down against my back. I dash out of the parking lot. Two blocks up to the right, my dad is probably plenty steamed by now. I could go there, and try to explain everything to him. But he wouldn’t help me. He’d just lecture me on the important things in life. But suddenly, I know what’s important. And a meeting with some stupid senator is not on my list.
I run, fast, toward the parking lot of the high school, four blocks to the west. School lets out at two fifty-five over there, and the kids are just wandering out to their cars. I shake the raindrops off my face and search. The shiny paint of Sherman’s brand-new Toyota stands out like a beacon. I race for it.
“Hey, David, what’s up?” he says as I approach, lowering his window. “You’re like, all wet. Don’t you have practice?”
“No,” I say. “Open the door.” I slide into the passenger side, my wet jeans sticking to the seat. “I need you to drive me to Cowlitz, Sherm.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Sherman screws up his face. “I just got my license. You know I can’t take anybody else in the car with me. I can only drive from home to school. That’s all.”
“Yeah, but what if it’s a matter of life or death?” I say.
“Who’s dying?” he asks, like it’s a joke. He takes a hard look at my face. “Oh, you’re not joking, are you?”
I run the whole scenario by him in about thirty seconds, talking fast. Olive getting on the bus, the weird guy she’s with, she’s only fourteen, and nobody knows about it.
“If you start the car, like right now, Sherm, we can make it to Cowlitz before the bus. That bus takes the old highway and stops everywhere along the way.”
“Okay, fine,” says Sherman. The engine purrs and he puts it in drive. “But duck down, okay, until we get out of town, so nobody sees that I’ve got someone with me.”
“Gotcha.” Feeling stupid, I crouch down in the seat and put my head between my knees. I can hear the rain pelting the top of the roof, and I’m cramped and uncomfortable. “Let me know when I can sit up,” I say.
“Not yet,” he says. Sherman drives through a couple of stoplights, making a right-hand turn and then a left. I can hear the engine accelerate as he speeds up.
“Are we on the freeway yet?” I sit up gingerly and peek out the window. Sherm has pulled out onto the interstate. Right up ahead is a sign that says Cowlitz—35 miles.
“Dude, I’ve only driven on the freeway one time. And it wasn’t raining.” Sherman keeps the Toyota in the right-hand lane, going ridiculously slow. A huge semi looms behind us and the driver blares the horn. Ronk! Sherm flinches at the sound and the little car twists to the right, hitting the rumble strips on the edge of the road. Ratatatatata.
“Sherm!”
He overcorrects to the left, and then to the right, as the car lurches across the slick pavement and finally straightens out.
I can barely breathe. This was a stupid idea, and Sherman’s not even that good of a driver. We’ll probably both be killed. Then my dad will really be mad.
“Are you okay with this?” I squeak out when he finally seems to have the Toyota under control.
“Yeah,” says Sherm, but he doesn’t sound very positive.
The driver of the truck behind us puts on his blinker and pulls around to the left. As it moves alongside us to pass, it splashes water all across the Toyota’s windshield. Sherman fiddles with the wipers, trying to adjust them. There’s so much water you can barely see the road in front of us.
I hold my breath and say a quick prayer. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I think to myself.
Finally Sherman gets the wipers on high speed. He keeps a death grip on the steering wheel, trying to keep the Toyota centered in the lane. As the truck passes and pulls back in front of us, another huge spray of water splashes the hood. Sherman ducks and jiggles the wheel again.
“Hey, keep it going in a straight line, okay?” I say.
“I’m trying, all right?”
“Sherman, I really appreciate this.”
“Yeah, well you owe me, okay?” He’s trying to crack a joke, but I can tell he’s scared because his voice is shaky. “If we get busted for this, assuming we make it out alive, they’re going to put us both in juvie and this time they’ll throw away the key.”
I laugh. But I’m thinking something else. One more screw-up, and I’m never going to the Air Force Academy. At this moment, though, none of that matters at all. All I can think about is the panicked look on Olive’s face when she boarded the bus.
Sherman stays in the right-hand lane, and car after car sloshes by us on the left. Come on, come on, I think. How many more miles? The bus will get to Cowlitz before we do at this speed and I’ll miss my chance. But I don’t want to distract Sherman, because he’s focused on the road, trying to concentrate, and it just keeps raining and stinking raining.
Finally, I see a sign. “Cowlitz.” I point. “Exit right here.”
“I see it. I see it,” says Sherman, pulling off the freeway. “Now where?”
“I don’t know. The bus station. Where would the bus stop be?” I pull out the bus schedule and search for the address. “It’s right on this street,” I say. “Turn left.”
Sherman pulls up in front of a small building. I let out a small sigh of relief when I see there are about four people waiting on a bench under a metal shelter. And no bus yet.
“Do you want me to wait for you?” Sherm asks.
“No, you better get home before anyone misses you.” The rain has let up a little. “You did a good job on the freeway,” I say, as I open the car door to get out. “Hey, do you have any money I can borrow? For a bus ticket?”
“Money? Geez, David. Now you do owe me.” Sherman pulls out his wallet, laughs, and hands me a couple of tens.
I have seven dollars of my own. I hope that’s enough. I enter the small building. “One ticket to Portland,” I say to the lady behind the counter.
“Twenty-four dollars,” she says. “Need to be fifteen years old.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I am.” I’m waiting for her to ask me for ID and breathe a sigh of relief when she does not. She hands me a printed bus ticket marked Portland, OR.
I go back outside and sit on the bench with the other passengers, waiting for the bus. I wonder what my dad is saying to the senator right now. If he had any idea what just h
appened and where I am at this very moment, he would definitely disown me.
49-Olive
After rereading my mother’s letter, I go back and take a seat by Willie, only because my purple bag is stashed under the seat next to him and I don’t want to create a scene trying to move it. I lean over toward the window and pretend I’m sleeping so he won’t talk to me.
The heavy rain lashes against the window pane and I wish I’d brought the warm jacket Aunt Trudy got me for my birthday. At least it’s warmer on this bus than it will be when I have to get off in Portland. I take a deep breath and try to calm myself, but I can’t stop shivering. I have no idea what will happen when I reach Portland, the end of the line.
Willie has given up trying to talk to me, because I just ignore him. That’s fine with me. I watch as the bus turns down another road and pulls into yet another station, with several people waiting.
“Cowlitz,” says the driver.
The new passengers climb the stairs and gaze around, getting their bearings. There’s an older couple, a single woman with a young child, and a tall boy who looks familiar. How could this be? I just said goodbye to him. David.
He has no bag of any kind. He walks straight down the aisle until he reaches our row.
“Hey Olive,” he says. “Are you okay?”
I nod. I am so glad to see David, I almost start crying, right there in front of everybody.
David motions toward the back. “Want to come sit with me?”
I nod, and get up, reaching for my bag. Willie puts his arm out as if to stop me. “Hey,” he snarls. “She’s with me.”
“I’m not with you,” I say. “I was just sitting with you.”
Willie scowls and I’m afraid he’s going to make a big deal out it. But he doesn’t and I move down the aisle quickly, following David. We find two seats together near the rear, on the opposite side of the bus from Willie.
