THE MAN IN the seat behind me don’t like me. But he don’t know me. He knows I’m drunk though. Guess the whole bus does. Mrs. Rodriguez whispers when she say for him not to judge me too harshly. Life is hard for kids today, I hear her say. “The world is loco.”
He don’t agree. He think the driver shoulda kicked me off the bus. Did I do something to him? I don’t remember nothing except falling asleep with my head on WK’s shoulder and him covering my legs with his jacket. How long I slept like that? It was light when I got on the bus. Won’t be long before the moon is out.
WK wipes drool off my bottom lip with his thumb. “You always this nice to everybody?” I ask.
“I guess.”
Nice get you beat down at the schools I went to, I say. With my head in his lap, I tell him about Maleeka. How people bullied her. Made her do whatever they wanted. I don’t tell him it was me who done it most of the time.
He reach in his bag to hand me a bottle of water. “You need to stay hydrated when you drink too much alcohol,” he says. I swallow the whole thing down at one time. Next, he gives me bubble gum. “For that stank breath.”
We laugh.
I close my eyes. Try to remember what happened after that old man hit on me. I left the building, I know that. Came on the bus and sat on the floor. WK says I threw up outside the bus. He rubbing my ear and asking if I want another hole in it. No, I got three in each one already, plus one in my nose.
“I do piercings.” His tongue slides out. “I did my tongue but—”
I laugh while he tells me his tongue swelled up and turned blue when he pierced it. The doctor had to take the tongue ring out and drain the pus. He did his boyfriend’s tongue at the same time and the same thing happened ’cause the needle he used was rusted, it turned out. “Maybe he left you because of that.”
He laughs. Then gets serious. “Don’t be out here, drunk girl, or something bad is gonna happen to you.”
“I know.”
He makes fish lips and snaps his fingers. “And I’m too pretty to fight.”
“I know,” I say, and I mean it.
On my way back to sleep, I hear Miguel ask his mother when he’ll be able to come over and color with me. I promised him and his sister they could. I know what page we’ll color and everything. But I’m not up to it right now. On my way to sleep, I ask WK about the boy he was with inside.
“His name is Blaine. I’ll tell you about him later.”
“Hey.” I sit up, stretching my arms in the air. “What I miss?” I know I missed something because bun boy was sitting up front behind the driver. Now, he three rows away from us, still on the opposite side of the bus.
WK blows his breath in my face. “How does it smell? I brushed my tongue in the bathroom while you were asleep. Do you realize how long you slept?” He don’t let me answer. “Three hours, girl. We stopped again. Look.”
“At what?”
“Empty seats.”
My stomach burns and bubbles. I promise myself not to drink no more. “Did you kiss him or do something worse?”
He smacks my hand. “Girl, no.” He swear all they did was talk. “It’s too soon for me to do anything else.” He pull his jacket to straighten out wrinkles. “I keep myself a boo. But that’s not always a good thing, you know.”
“I know.”
If I see him hugging that boy or sitting too close to him, “Come get me,” he says.
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious.”
“Okay.”
“Because I have other things on my mind. Starting my own nonprofit. Giving presentations around the country to get people on the transplant list. Acting. Most guys my age don’t understand that.” He stands up. “And I am tired of trying to make them.” He holds on to the luggage rack on his way to that boy. “I’ll be right back. It’s just a little visit.”
Miguel makes a little visit too. Soon as WK leave he’s in his seat, then in my lap. He put his thumb in his mouth and hums. I squeeze him tight and tell him a story about crayons who act like people. The man behind us is surprised at how good a job I do. I ain’t. I would babysit at JuJu’s parties, find books in the trash and save ’em—just in case. When I got kids, I’ma already know what to do with ’em.
I ask Miguel what name he wants to give the red crayon. He says Rita. That’s his mom’s name. He names the black crayon Sky. When I ask why, he point out the window. “Because that’s the color it is sometime.”
If Mrs. Rodriguez was a different kind of mother, she wouldn’t let me be with her kid. Miguel stays as long as he want. His mom reads to his sister. When Miguel gets enough of me, his mother takes his seat. She don’t give me no speech. But she do let me know if I drink anymore for the rest of the trip, she won’t let them visit with me no more. Her fingers find my chin. She turn my face toward hers. She know I am not a happy girl, she say. “But things will get better.” Them Miss Saunders’s words. “Trust.” She points to the roof of the bus, but I know what she mean.