I watch after him, confused, maybe blushing a little. Man. I don’t know what it is about him. Okay, not true. I’ll admit that part of it is his looks: chin-length blond hair, dark brown eyes, T-shirts that are tight enough to show off his muscles, but not the sort of tight that makes him look like a douchebag. But mostly it’s because he talks to me. The fact that it’s only me.
“Goddamn,” Retha says, sliding up next to me. “Is Cameron getting hotter?” she asks seriously. “I think he is.”
“He definitely is.” We both stare toward the doorway, even though he’s already gone. I glance sideways at Retha. “He talked to me again,” I tell her, smiling.
“Of course he did. What did he say?”
“He told me ‘nice speech.’”
She’s impressed. I can see it in her eyes even through her gobs of black liner. “That’s because he wants you,” she says. “Now, can you please screw him and find out why he’s here? Ineedto know.”
“Sure. I’ll get right on that for you.” I swing my bag over my shoulder and survey the room. Travis is still asleep in the corner, his head down on his folded arms. “Grab your boyfriend,” I tell Retha, motioning toward him. “I have to get home. Evan will be there in fifteen.”
“Hey!” Retha yells toward Travis, making him jump awake. “Let’s take off. Savvy’s got her brother today.”
Travis stares at us for a second, blinking heavily as if trying to figure out where he is. He straightens and brushes his long, black hair away from his face. “Okay,” he says, sounding groggy. “But you drive, Retha. I think I’m still hungover.”
“Well,” I say as Travis strolls out the door with us, his skinny shoulders sharp under his thin, long-sleeved T-shirt. “That’s what happens when you drink in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven until four in the morning.”
“Hey.” He smiles. “You could have been there too.”
“Ah.” I raise my finger at him. “But I don’t drink. So I would just be tired. Not smelly and hungover.”
His expression falters, and he lifts his arm to sniff.
“Gross, Travis,” I say, pushing him hard enough to make him stumble. “That is seriously filthy.”
Retha agrees and starts cussing at him in Spanish, making me laugh. I’m not bilingual, but thanks to her, I know every swear word. Hell, she even makes a few up as she goes.
“Relax, woman,” Travis tells Retha, ready to play at fighting. But suddenly his expression hardens as he catches sight of something behind us in the hall. “Hey, I’ll meet you guys at the car. I’ve got business to take care of.” He touches Retha’s arm as he moves past her.
I turn and see Gris leaving the classroom, hiking up his low-hanging jeans. Clueless as always.
“Travis,” I say as he follows Gris down the hallway. Guess he hadn’t been asleep the entire class after all.
“Let it go,” Retha tells me, sounding bored. “Gris shouldn’t have messed with you. He deserves the ass kicking.”
She’s probably right. Punches sometimes help—at least they help us. It’s not like Travis is going to get in trouble. Gris knows better than to report it.
“Fine,” I say, and start toward the parking lot with Retha. “But if I’m late getting home because of Gris, I will come back and stab him.”
***
Hungover or not, Travis would never let anyone else drive his car. His Impala is old, and not in an “I’m restoring it” kind of way. It’s rusted and the carpet smells lightly of mildew, but he keeps it clean like he’s proud of it. Always swiping dust off the dashboard or sneaking into one of those do-it-yourself car washes when a person leaves before their time is up. So we’re proud of it too.
We pull up in front of my house at the same time as my little brother’s bus, and I know I’m too late. I grab my bag off the seat, yanking on the door handle. “I’ll call you after,” I tell Retha.
She raises her hand in a wave and leans over to adjust the radio volume. I slap Travis in the back of the head on my way out. He yells, but I’m already running toward the bus, my heart pounding. Evan is going to lose it.
I toss my bag onto the dirt of my front yard and stop outside the bus doors, panting as I wait for them to open. I can hear Evan crying through the open window. He likes to see me out here before the bus pulls up—he won’t get off otherwise. Because if I’m not here, he’ll think I left him. But I’m not Mom. And I’m not going to disappear like she did.
The doors screech open, and I climb up the steep stairs, nodding at the driver. She huffs out a hello, looking haggard. Exhausted.
I make my way down the aisle, and another little boy points to a seat across from him. I stop when I find Evan slouched down with his hands over his face. My heart breaks.
“Hey, buddy,” I say. My seven-year-old brother hitches in a breath, still crying—but softer now that I’m here.
“You’re late,” he croaks in a small voice from behind his hands.
