Questions?

After taking a ‘Blue Line’ CTA train to a place called Clinton, I walked for ten minutes through real American streets with real American snow piled high. At some point an American must have gone crazy with a shovel around here. American cars splattered sleet on passing pedestrians, more coat than people, who swore, and nobody paid me any attention, which was great.

(That’s a lie – some dude on a bike shouted, ‘Nice suitcase.’)

I finally arrived at the bus station. A man with an afro stood behind a desk.

‘I’m John? How can I help you?’

Everything he said sounded like a question, which made our conversation really confusing.

‘Is this the right place for a bus to Los Angeles, please?’

‘Buses all over the country from here, sir?’

Was that a yes or no? Before I could work out how best to ask again, he continued. ‘You want a ticket to LA? How old are you? I can’t be selling any tickets without proof of age or an unaccompanied minors form?’

‘I’ve got the ticket already,’ I said, struggling to pull it from my coat pocket. ‘I’m sixteen and British. Thanking you.’

John stared.

‘I don’t want to see the ticket? I thought you looked young, that’s all? No problem? The LA service leaves at 11.05? That’s just over one hour’s time? Boarding begins twenty minutes before the departure? Tie this round your suitcase handle and hold on to the receipt? Hand your luggage to the driver on boarding? I’ve always wanted to see London? Is it super sweet?’

I nodded. I thought this was the safest tactic.

The waiting room was empty. A TV played in the corner, warning of ‘severe weather’ and ‘unprecedented disruption’. My phone’s battery was already down to 27 per cent because why wouldn’t it be? I messaged Mum.

Problem with plane but now on bus, so everything’s okay! LOL.

(I couldn’t contact Marvel because I didn’t have their number. The only arrangement made was a promise of someone at LAX holding a sign with my name on it.)

Three seconds later, my phone started vibrating. Mum. And she didn’t even say ‘hi’.

‘What do you mean there was a problem with the plane? Where are you?’ I could hear rumbling in the background. It wasn’t thunder; it was worse – it was Dad. ‘Your father wants to know if you missed the connection.’

‘I’m on a bus. Like when we went to Bath for that wedding but the train was cancelled. It’s fine,’ I said.

There was a rustling sound like Mum had dropped the phone in a bucket of leaves. (I don’t think she had.)

Dad’s voice barked from the other end. ‘Did you miss the connection, Jacob? Tell me the truth. Don’t lie to your father.’

‘There aren’t any planes flying,’ I replied, which was a clever response because it was true. ‘It’s very snowy here but everything’s fine. I’m on a bus and I’ll be in Hollywood soon. I’d better go because I haven’t got much battery left.’

‘Stay safe,’ commanded Dad. ‘And don’t go leaving the bus. Not even for the toilet.’

Before saying goodbye, Mum made me promise to keep hydrated, which was contradicting Dad if you think about it.

I turned the phone off. Parents: my Kryptonite. I sat and tried to think about the movie to make myself feel better. Visualisation. Maybe this (sitting in a downtown bus station) was what it was like to be an extra? I tried imagining being on set, of being introduced to genuine Hollywood actors, but my thoughts always returned to the conversation with home. My lies hung over me like a snow cloud.

The front doors snapped open and a girl, who looked old enough to drive, ran through to John’s desk. A ponytail of dark braids flashed from a blue baseball cap and across her shoulders. She moved like she was training for a marathon and couldn’t stop because it would ruin the workout. But this wasn’t the weirdest thing – she held a box wrapped in brown paper. I say ‘held’ but she was more hugging it. It was the perfect shape to contain a football, although that probably wasn’t what she had in there because Americans, like Dad, don’t ‘get’ soccer.

I pretended to scratch my neck and turned to watch. She was all energy, her muscles jerking. She asked for a single on the first bus to Los Angeles. There was something about her face that suggested you’d not want to upset her. Or, at least, that she wanted you to think that you’d not want to upset her.

‘How old are you, miss?’ asked John. ‘Minors need a letter—’

She interrupted him. ‘Seventeen. Here’s my ID.’

She paid. Her ticket cost less than mine but there was no way I was ever going to complain. She asked where the restroom was and disappeared in its direction. She was either really nervous or really confident. I stopped thinking about her (after ten minutes) to return to worrying about being sat alone in a Chicago bus station.

Soon, but not massively, a big blue coach pulled up outside, its engine shaking the ground. It was like one you might take for school trips, the type where we’d all pile on to the back seats before the teachers could stop us.

‘There’s your coach, sir?’ said John.

‘Is it?’ I asked.

‘It is?’

I saw LOS ANGELES above the driver’s window, so decided that John wasn’t asking me a question but stating a fact. I stood up. I turned the Princess on to her wheels and stepped towards the exit. I checked my pockets for my wallet and my phone. Neither was there. Both objects lay on the chair where I’d been sitting.

I stepped silently to grab them. The Princess toppled over, like she was jetlagged and had fallen asleep. There was a bang from the direction of the restroom and out came the girl, running and saying, ‘This my ride?’

And I would have warned her about the resting Princess, ankle-high and pink, but she moved too quickly. The parcel she held must have obscured her view or something. Her feet struck the bag and she tripped, flying through the air and crunching her face and arms against the front doors, which stood unopened and impassive. Her parcel, a perfect cube in brown paper, bounced away like a die.

‘Ugh,’ I said, my brain glitching. This wasn’t good.

She yelped. And the noise crackled through the space.

‘Are you okay, ma’am?’ asked John, standing and definitely asking a question.

Frozen at the chair, holding my wallet and phone, I hated the snow and especially hated Marvel, but only briefly, for not putting me on a direct flight.

‘Whose pink bag is this?’ she asked, standing up and cradling her wrist and, somehow, grabbing her box like a squirrel finding the last acorn of autumn.

At least she hadn’t died, I thought as I raised a hand.

‘Sorry?’ I said.

(The whole question thing was contagious.)

‘You’ve broken my arm. Open the door for me. I mean …’

She glared/winced as I did what I was told. Cold air rushed in like it needed the toilet. John asked if she required first aid, but she ignored him.

‘Great job, Princess,’ she said, stepping out, leaving John and me gawping from the waiting room.

‘You think she’s okay?’ he asked. ‘She really slammed into those doors?’

‘I hope so?’ I replied. ‘I don’t know?’

Because I didn’t. Not about her and not about anything.

‘Hey, I like your bag, though,’ said John. ‘Is that a Brit thing?’