I ran all the way to the bus stop, and then spent the entire ride peering out the window, heart pounding as I searched for Dad’s car. It never appeared. Tears pricked my eyes. I wasn’t sure if it was relief or fear.
I’d done it. I was seriously volunteering to fight scrabs. I took in a ragged breath.
I spotted the Grayson St. John bus as soon as we pulled into the station. A white sign taped to the back said , and a few people were in line to board.
My bus let me off at the end of the parking lot, and I gripped the straps of my backpack as I walked across it. A couple nearby was saying goodbye, the guy with a bag slung over his shoulder, the girl sobbing. He said something that didn’t seem to comfort her in the least.
Everyone had boarded the bus except for a balding man holding a clipboard. Another bus screeched to a stop behind me.
“Atlanta for tryouts?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Name?”
“Clara Pratt.”
He scanned his sheet and crossed something off. “You’re a minor? I need your consent form.”
I dug the forged consent form out of my bag and handed it over. He barely glanced at it before slipping it in a folder. I bit back a smile.
“You by yourself?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Perfect. I have one more spot on this bus. Hop on.”
I gripped the straps of my backpack and stepped onto the bus. A sea of faces stared at me.
Probably about 70 percent of the bus was male. And they were mostly big guys, with broad shoulders and muscles. A few had military-style haircuts. The women were all older than me, probably in their twenties and thirties, and some of them looked like they were also no strangers to the weight room.
People were talking and laughing, like they already knew each other. Were we supposed to enlist with friends? Or were they bonding in that way normal people did when they met someone with similar interests?
The only open seat was in the back, next to a girl about my age with pale skin and dyed black hair. She peered at me, didn’t appear to approve of what she saw, and turned back to the window.
I walked down the aisle and sat down, backpack in my lap. The girl wore leggings, an old white T-shirt, and, notably, handcuffs. They weren’t attached, a chain dangling from each wrist, like they’d been cut off.
It was jewelry. Probably.
She caught me staring and raised an eyebrow.
I quickly looked away.
“Hey.”
I turned at the whisper from across the aisle. We were five hours into the twelve-hour drive to Atlanta, and so far I’d spoken to no one.
It was the tall, ridiculously attractive Asian American boy seated in the row across from me. He had tousled black hair, long, lean limbs, and a smile like he’d never been so happy to see anyone as he was to see me. He should have been modeling skinny jeans, not joining an elite group of monster hunters.
“Were those handcuffs on her wrists?” he whispered, his gaze cutting to where my seatmate had disappeared into the bathroom.
“I think they’re jewelry? I hope?” I said softly.
He tilted his head back as he laughed. He had the sort of laugh that put normal people at ease. The guy in front of him actually looked back and smiled just at the sound of it.
“I’m Patrick,” he said, extending his hand to me.
I shook it. “Clara.”
He leaned closer, gesturing for me to lean in as well. “Do you get the feeling we’re on the wrong bus?”
I laughed softly, relieved he felt the same way. “Yeah. Everyone seems kind of . . .”
“Intense? Yeah. This guy next to me?” He glanced over his shoulder as if to confirm the large bearded man next to him was still asleep. “He went to Belgium last year with friends to chase down scrabs. Just for kicks. One of them stuffed a scrab head, shipped it back to himself, and hung it on his wall.”
“Wow. That’s . . .”
“Illegal?” he guessed.
“I was going to say intense, but that too.”
His eyes skipped over me, though not in a sleazy way. It was hard to describe how some men simply surveyed you, and others were obviously mentally running their hands all over your body. You just knew.
“You didn’t run off to Europe to chase scrabs for fun, did you?” he asked. “I guess I’m making assumptions because you look young.”
“No, you’re right. I’m seventeen. No time for trips to Europe yet.”
“Eighteen. Are you done with high school?”
“I mean, it wasn’t done with me, but I ended the relationship anyway.”
He laughed. “I can respect that. I mean, I did well in school and everyone loved me, but not everyone is so lucky.”
“And you’re so modest about it too.”
“Modesty is overrated. I’m great, honestly. Just wait until you get to know me.” He leaned out of the aisle as the handcuffed girl exited the restroom. I stood so she could slide back into her seat.
Patrick grabbed a black messenger bag from the floor and flipped it open to reveal snacks—chips, cookies, nuts, a few sodas, even some sandwiches packed in plastic bags. He noticed me watching him, and I quickly looked away.
“Did you forget snacks?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I lied.
“Here. Do you like peanut butter? My mom packed me enough for five people.”
He held out one of the sandwiches and a bag of chips. I could see why everyone loved him.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the sandwich. My stomach had been rumbling for hours. In fact, he may have heard it.
I unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. Patrick passed me a soda, and I smiled at him as I took it.
“So why’d you join?” he asked.
I chewed slowly, considering how to answer that question. “The fame. The glory.”
“Well, of course.”
“What about you?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t notice that I hadn’t given a serious answer.
“Well, I was always complaining about the government’s policy to close our borders and not help overseas. I marched and protested and yelled at my dumb friends until they were smarter. So when the opportunity came up, I couldn’t really say no. What was I going to do, make my Facebook picture a solidarity ribbon again and not join? I mean, come on.”
“Sure.” I was surrounded by badasses and do-gooders, as expected. I was going to be the only loser who joined just to put an entire ocean between her and her family.
“Are you from Dallas?” I asked.
“No, Austin, but Dallas was the only Texas bus. My boyfriend drove me.” He rolled his eyes like he’d just remembered something annoying. “Ex-boyfriend. He said he couldn’t be in a relationship with someone if he was scared for their life the whole time.”
That sounded reasonable to me. “That sucks.”
“Meh. Clearly I can do better.” His phone dinged, and he pulled it out of his pocket. A smile twitched at his lips. He typed something and glanced over at me. “Are your parents freaking out too?”
“A little bit.”
“My mom’s been texting me every twenty minutes.”
I popped a chip in my mouth. “I guess it’s good I don’t have a phone.” I’d really wanted it, but now I wondered if Dad would have kept the service on for the sole purpose of sending me mean texts. He loved dropping terrible shit on me randomly, probably just to ruin my day.
Patrick’s eyebrows knitted together. It was weird not to have a phone, and I realized too late that I probably shouldn’t have admitted it. He looked from my five-year-old backpack, dirty and frayed at the edges, to my scuffed combat boots. Judging by his perfectly fitted jeans, the expensive laptop I’d glimpsed earlier, and the designer label on his messenger bag, he’d never spent a second of his life wanting for anything.
“Were they OK with you coming?” I asked before he figured out how to ask why I didn’t have a phone. “Your parents?”
“Sort of.” A sheepish expression crossed his face. “So . . . Yeah, I’m just going to tell you this story. Why not.” He laughed. “I’d been planning to come out to my parents for a while. I figured they kind of knew, especially my mom, but I thought I should do it, like, officially.”
“Sure.”
“But then this happened, and I figured . . .” He lifted both shoulders, making a face like I don’t know. “I could just do both at the same time.”
“What?” I asked with a laugh.
“I wasn’t sure how they were going to take the gay news, so I decided to just immediately follow it up with the scrab news. And then they’d be so distracted by me running off to fight scrabs in Europe that they wouldn’t care at all about me being gay.”
“Smart.”
“Thank you. So I walked in, and I said, ‘Dad, Mom, Grandma—’”
“Jesus, your Grandma was there too?”
“Well, she lives with us, so she’s always there. I said, ‘Dad, Mom, Grandma, I’m gay. And also I’ve signed up for Grayson St. John’s fight squads.’”
“How’d they take it?”
“Oh, it worked perfectly. They barely even reacted to me being gay.” He pointed one finger at his face. “Master of avoiding conflict here. I think that one was my proudest moment.”
“How out are you now?” I asked, even though I suspected I knew the answer. But I was the sort of person who liked to keep her secrets, and I didn’t want to go around spilling other people’s. “With everyone here, I mean.” I gestured around the bus.
“It’s not a secret. Please tell everyone so I don’t have to do it,” he said.
I smiled. “Got it.”
His phone dinged again, and he rolled his eyes as he pulled it out of his pocket. “She only made it three minutes.” His face shifted into surprise when he looked at the screen. It was a happy surprise, the kind that made his lips curve up. He typed something and glanced over to see me watching him.
“My dad this time,” he said. He was still smiling as he returned his phone to his pocket. He looked at me quickly, like he’d just remembered something. “Do you want to use my phone to call your parents? Or anyone?”
“No, thank you.” I wanted to check on Laurence, but I didn’t have his number memorized. I’d have to email him later.
“Your parents were mad?” he guessed. It was the guess of someone who had a good relationship with his parents.
“I’m pretty sure they think I’m crazy,” I said lightly.
“We’re not crazy. We’re brave. We just have to keep reminding people of that.” He grinned.
“Sure,” I said with a laugh.
Brave. I’d have to keep reminding myself of that, actually.