WE IN THE bathroom, in the baby-changing stall. Cricket’s chewing on her fist, kicking and laughing when I lay her down. I wonder if she know that things about to change for her. That when she wake up tomorrow and her mother’s not there, she gonna cry till she run out of tears. Cry worse when April’s gone two days—a whole month. When do kids quit expecting their mothers to come home? I wonder. It took me a long time to stop looking out the door—going to the window—wishing my parents would come back. I ain’t care what JuJu said. I ain’t care that they was buried and I seen ’em in the casket. They was coming home, finding a way to me, I knew it. “But that ain’t how it works.” I kiss Cricket on her pink lips. “But at least I knew my parents was dead.” I unsnap the legs of her pants. “You not ever gonna get over missing her. I feel sorry for you for that.”

I’m quick at changing diapers. I’d win if there was a competition on TV for that. Once I’m done, I hold her little fingers under the cold-water faucet and wash ’em clean. She likes poop. Always finds a way to get her hands in it. Some on her mouth too. After I couldn’t get it from underneath her nails, I stuck her finger in my mouth and chewed the tips off. “Now you all clean.”

Before I can push the door open wide and leave, a woman walks in. “Here. It’s free.”

I take it before I know what it is. “Whoa. Hold up. I don’t need this.”

It’s a bar of soap with a 800 number on it. If I’m ever in trouble, being held against my will, trafficked, or just need to talk to someone no questions asked, I should call, the lady says. I hand it back. “I can take care of myself.”

I push the door open with my hip. People check me and Cricket out. “Yeah, she mine,” I want to say. But you can’t claim what ain’t yours. I done that with Caleb. It ain’t work out.

I talked April into calling her aunt again. I told her I would take Cricket while she tried. I walked her all over the building. We ended up outside. April is right. A fireman told me you could leave a baby at the station if you ain’t want it. He asked if I was dropping her off. I ran like my hair was on fire. That’s how we ended up in the bathroom. Once I calmed down, I noticed that Cricket needed changing. Babies always do, it seem.

“Did she answer? What she say?” I sit down beside April.

“No.” She shake her head no when I offer to hand over Cricket. In another hour, the cruise ship people gonna be here expecting their money and to drive off with April. How she gonna go with a baby?

April wipes dribble off Cricket’s bottom lip. “Some people’s lives never turn out right, huh?”

I pat Cricket’s hands together, patty-cake-style. “Maybe I should call her.”

“Call who?”

“Your aunt. From a different number, you know.”

I don’t gotta hand Cricket over to her, she grabbing her out my arms like a present she can’t wait to unwrap. I try not to forget the number on my way across the room. I say it out loud, then repeat it. With my fingers crossed, I dial her aunt, hoping she ain’t changed her mind.

“Hello. Hello! Oh, good. You answered.” Well, somebody did anyhow. “I’m looking for Mrs. Bodine Johnson. April’s aunt … Huh? But? Wait a minute? Don’t hang up! Okay … I ain’t mean to scream, it’s just. She got the baby with her. Your wife said … But April’s got a job. She paid … What? They made her pay for it. Huh? Well … I don’t know about that. She got the job anyhow. They coming to drive her to Florida. On a cruise ship, yes. Please? Well … what she supposed to do with Cricket—? She can’t take a baby on a ship. I know it’s hers but … Hello? Hello? Asshole.”

April don’t need to ask what happened. It show on my face like a lipstick smudge, I bet. It was her uncle who turned me down. He said his wife work a full-time job and got her own kids to contend with, and she can’t shoulder nobody else’s burdens. I’m all set to tell her that, but something else he said come out instead. “He said you don’t pay for jobs. Employers pay you to work.”

She say that plenty of important jobs ask for a down payment before you start. “My uncle doesn’t know everything. He only made it to the eighth grade.”

“How far did you go? In school I mean.”

She flips her hair and screams at me, “What’s that have to do with anything! I know more than you and my uncle!”

I jump up. “Here. She yours. Take her.” I sit Cricket in her lap. Grab my suitcase and leave. No looking back. ’Cause if I did, I might see Cricket looking sad, needing me. And right now, I need to look out for myself.