THE SUN’S DANG near up when the driver burst out singing. It’s a soft song—one I never heard before. I got my fingers on the window ledge, my nose pushed against the glass, listening to him sing people awake. Nobody say for him to shut up. Maybe ’cause his voice is smooth as the Jack Daniel’s Black that JuJu serves up when people walk in looking like they got money to burn.

The farmer knows the song, seem like. He hums while the driver is singing; while Mrs. Rodriguez sings under her breath too. Most anybody that’s awake or knows the words do the same.

If you think I’m gone

Then you gone crazy, girl, ’cause

Gone ain’t nothing but a word someone made up

to keep us apart but, but, but

I’m never leaving you, gonna be gone from you

’cause can’t four letters get in between me and you, you, you.

I’m sad again. Partly because of the song, partly because I did have fun on this bus. Now I won’t. From here on out, I’m on my own.

“People!” The driver goes through the toll booth and up on the turnpike. “In just a little while we will be at the Greyhound bus terminal.”

A few idiots clap.

“It has been my pleasure to be your driver.”

More people clap, including me—don’t ask me why.

“Thank you for making my final trip a fun, memorable adventure.”

Mrs. Rodriguez’s children follow her to the back of the bus. The driver give us instructions. People traveling to other cities will find their bus information on their tickets, he tells us. If we got luggage, then wait on the platform until the baggage people open the door to de-board our things, he says. “Folks with a few hours to kill before their buses take off can purchase drinks, food, books, and lottery tickets inside the terminal.” He drives onto the highway. Tells everybody to stay put until we get to the station. But people gonna do what they gonna do.

WK grab his bags from underneath his seat. The man behind me asks his wife to let him by so he can get their things from the overhead rack. The driver’s nice voice is gone. “Sit down, people. I told you. You can get your things once I’m in the terminal, parked.”

Miguel flops down in WK’s seat. “Char.” He got a hat in his hand, full of ones, fives, and tens. “We’re giving the driver money for being nice. You have any?”

I need all I got if I’m gonna be on my own. But I go in my backpack anyhow. Drop a candy bar in that hat.

“Charlese—no!” Mrs. Rodriguez acts like she my mother. “A generous spirit gets generosity. A tight fist—”

“Gets to punch back when people come for you.” I ball up my hand.

Her lips get tight. Her arms fold. I don’t know why ’cause I’m not giving up my money for the driver or no one else. “Here.” It’s the farmer. “Ten bucks.”

“But you already gave,” Mrs. Rodriguez says.

I look up at him staring down at me. “For her.” He drops two fives in the hat.

“You don’t gotta—”

“You are good with that baby. Better than her own mother.”

People don’t say that to me much; that I’m good at something. I mess up. I screw up. I’m too loud. I fight too much. But that don’t mean I ain’t got feelings or don’t want what other people want. Who knows, maybe I could be a daycare worker. Or go to school for nursing and be a baby nurse. Or own my own daycare center. I take out a piece of paper, then write down all the things I already know how to do like cook and clean, change babies, make ’em laugh, read to them. Then I make myself a promise. No matter how hard things get, I won’t never give up or give in or stop believing I can be somebody my mom and dad would be proud of. I take out my phone and almost call JuJu to tell her that. Only, I know what she would say. “Char, you been in the seventh grade three years straight. Why don’t you put your mind to finishing that first?”