THREE HOURS UP the road most people asleep except me. I’m staring out the window at cows—so many they cover the grass and hills like weeds. I never seen one in person before. The prettiest ones—light brown with white spots—was up the road, outside a barn that needed painting. For a minute, I think about not eating hamburgers no more.

The bus pull off the turnpike, rocking like a boat. Then it turns into a parking lot, passes Macy’s and Penny’s, Target and Burlington—then stops outside a pretzel shop. I smell the butter, count the people—six—who think we got space on here for them.

The driver opens the door. “There’s plenty of seats, folks.”

The first person on takes a seat behind the driver. He got blond hair, a bun, bleached-blond eyebrows, skin that spent too much time in the sun. But he’s cute.

A girl with a purple Mohawk stares at the seat beside me on her way by. I close my eyes. People less likely to disturb you if they think you asleep. Only, I get disturbed anyhow.

“Excuse me.”

It’s a boy. I open my eyes.

“This seat taken?”

I look at the seat beside me. The one with my stuff on it. Then I get back to him—a boy so tall he got to hunch over so his head don’t hit the ceiling. Plus—he cute. Maybe my age—sixteen. Wiping my lips with my tongue, I sit straight up. “Can’t you see?” I turn and face the window like he ain’t nobody when anyone can see he is fine, my type just like Caleb, the boy Maleeka stole from me. Which is why I got to play hard. Easy gets taken advantage of.

“It’s the last seat left.”

I fold my arms. Close my eyes again. Ignore this pretty-ass boy and all them bags he got: one hanging off his shoulder like a purse, one in his hand, a black suitcase with wheels on the floor between his legs.

“Hey, you! Sit down!” the driver says to him.

“I’m trying to but—”

“Driver, she won’t let him have the seat.” It’s the man sitting behind me. He white, old with dark purple spots on his cheeks. “We pay for one seat each, girly. Pick up your things so the bus can leave.”

I tell him to shut up. The driver stomps up the aisle like my father used to stomp up the steps with his belt, ready to beat us. Only he never beat us. He wanted to scare us into behaving, is all. It worked sometimes. When I’m a mom, I’ll just use the belt.

He stops at the row in front of mine. I put my hand on my backpack in case he try to move it. “I retire tomorrow. This is my last trip.” People clap. “Know what that means?”

“I don’t care.”

“That’s exactly right. It means I don’t care about anything either. And I will throw you off this bus in the middle of the highway if you cause any more trouble. Do you hear me, young lady?”

If I answered, I wouldn’t say nothing nice. So, I keep quiet.

The driver got my backpack in his hand when I tell him to leave it alone. He drops it on the floor anyhow, just missing my feet.

I got my fist balled, ready to punch him in his big fat ugly stupid face, when I hear my sister say, “Why you always causing trouble, Char?”

I sit down. Not because of him but because of her. If I’m good, maybe she’ll let me come home.