THE BUS IS empty when I wake up, parked at a rest stop. The building where you eat and buy food is right in front. I stay in my seat wondering why nobody woke me up or asked me to go inside with ’em.

Getting off, I see the Jacksonville, Florida, bus. I got an aunt there. We almost ended up living with her. But she lost a baby she was carrying, and my grandmother said, “Let her sit in her sorrow for a while.” Guess she never got over being sad ’cause she never came for me or JuJu.

Soon as I get inside, I’m sad too. ’Cause everybody got somebody to be with except me.

Mrs. Rodriguez and the kids found a table by the front window. She got a red plastic tablecloth, food on pink paper plates, napkins on her children’s laps.

The farmer and his wife eating white pizza with forks.

WK don’t notice me. He too busy up in bun boy’s face.

Amish men in straw hats, people wearing family reunion T-shirts, Indians, and white people in cowboy boots eat and laugh at tables in the middle of the room with people who look like they belong with them.

I wish I was home.

Passing a rack of magazines they let you have for free, I run to the bathroom. Soon as I get to the handicap stall, I take out a bottle and pour the whole thing in my mouth. It burn like fire going down. So does the bourbon.

Bourbon on ice was Mr. Bobbie’s main drink. He let me make it for him at JuJu’s parties, but not while I was staying with him. For breakfast he made me eggs every day, scrambled—almost as good as Dad’s. Mr. Bobbie wouldn’t let me cook or clean for him ’cause I was a kid, he kept saying, and he was letting me stay ’cause he was afraid I might end up someplace worse. Before I left, he put a fifty in my hand. If I ever came back to his house, he would call the police, he told me. Every once in a while, I call him. He don’t never answer. He said he wouldn’t. “’Cause you is a child, and I am a grown man, and we got nothing in common. Remember that, Char—you got nothing in common with grown-ass men no matter what they tell you.”

That wasn’t true exactly. He played checkers and liked old movies, same as me and Dad. He is good at baking brownies, like Mom. Except he puts nuts in ’em, and she never did. I would live with him, if I could.

It don’t take long for me to feel the liquor. To feel warm and happy. To hear music when there ain’t none playing. Snapping my fingers, I move my hips, dance out the stall and give that purple Mohawk girl the finger. I got my butt parked on a sink when I call Mr. Bobbie. I want him to tell me what to do—go home to my sister, take the bus to Alabama, or find my own place like I’m planning. He used to have voice mail. I think he disconnected it because of me.

My sister bought me this phone. It don’t do nothing but take calls and let you make calls. I used to have one that cost eight hundred dollars. It did everything except fly. JuJu took it from me, gave me this. That was my punishment for running away, she told me. “And for getting kicked out of school again.”

I try Mr. Bobbie one last time—hoping. He don’t pick up. I got nobody else to call but Maleeka. But all she seem to do now is talk about herself. So, I find another stall and drink the last bottle. Laughing, I dial her number. “Miss Saunders. You still ugly?”

“Charlese Jones, is this you?”

“You know it is.” I pee my shorts some, I’m laughing so hard.

She ain’t never quiet. Right now, she is. So, I wait for her to hang up on me.

“It’s good to hear from you.”

I don’t ever remember her being nice to me. She always yelled, “Charlese, stop cutting in the girls’ room! Charlese Jones, quit kissing in the hall!”

“I know it’s been a difficult transition since leaving McClenton.”

I guess teachers treat you better once they know you not coming back.

She bring up the three schools I went to, the time I ran away. How McClenton teachers and students posted flyers, asking people to call JuJu if they knew where I was.

“I ain’t run away.”

“Your sister told me—”

“I knew where I was. She ain’t know where I was, that’s all. And what you doing talking to her about me anyhow? I don’t go to your school no more.”

The room start to spin. I lean my forehead against the door and close my eyes.

“How are you, Charlese?”

Drunk, I want to say. Then I sit down on the floor, scoot over to the toilet. With my hands wrapped around the bowl, I stare at the water and wonder when I’m gonna throw up. “Miss Saunders.”

“Yes, Charlese.”

I gag. “I gotta go.”

She tells me that she is glad I called. That I can call her anytime—day or night. “It may not seem like it right now, Charlese, but your life won’t always be like this.”

I almost miss the toilet when I throw up.