Saucy Boy
St Louis, Missouri

We stopped in a place called St Louis, which is pronounced SAINT LEWIS. Snow dusted cars and sidewalks, but it wasn’t as deep as Chicago.

The driver announced that we’d have an hour to eat, if we wanted, in the ‘food court’ inside the St Louis Greyhound station. There were empty seats dotted about the bus now – there must have been stops I’d slept through. And even though it wasn’t even six yet, most remaining passengers were out cold, including the girl. She no longer had her head resting against my shoulder, which meant I could go.

I hadn’t moved so quietly and carefully since creeping downstairs last Christmas morning to squeeze presents. First off, I stood up, my chest pushing against the back of the chair ahead and my head bowed but still scraping against the plastic underside of the overhead lockers. I pulled one leg up, like a spider ballerina, and then placed it delicately between the girl’s.

Although I didn’t touch her, and made no noise whatsoever – even my jeans were silent – she stirred. I froze, waiting until she returned to regular breathing. This wasn’t a great position to be caught in.

A woman walked down the aisle, stopping to turn and look at me and shake her head like I was another example of the state of kids today.

I lifted my other leg and managed to swing it all the way over the girl’s lap and into the aisle. Turning, my backside was now dangerously close to her face. For a second of panic I thought I might overbalance, meaning I’d end up sitting on the girl. My life would be as good as over. I managed to grip a plastic handle on a chair across the aisle and saved myself.

I stood like a stretching dancer, my left arm and right leg forming a perfectly straight line. Was that a bead of sweat running down my forehead? All I needed to do was pull my right leg from her lap and I was free.

‘Kindly get your ass out of my face,’ said the girl, not moving.

I half hopped, half fell and ended up lying face down in the aisle. I apologised and said I hadn’t wanted to wake her.

‘I wasn’t asleep,’ she said, her voice coming from the darkness under the brim of her cap. ‘What’s going down? Apart from you.’

‘We’ve stopped for food. I was going to stretch my legs. Sorry.’

‘Get me a Happy Meal. Chicken nuggets. BBQ sauce.’

‘I haven’t really got …’

Her left hand flicked up. Between her fingers was a twenty-dollar note folded once lengthways.

‘Take it,’ she said. ‘Get yourself something. But don’t forget the BBQ sauce. I love BBQ sauce more than life.’

I took the money, even though it was probably criminal. Her hand returned to the package. She asked what I was waiting for.

I’m not sure I’ve ever been so hungry as I was in the queue for McDonald’s. The ‘food court’ was like one you’d find in service stations off UK motorways: really expensive tiny versions of fast-food chains, the smell of fat hanging in the air like drops of grease in water.

I turned on my phone to check for messages. Nothing came through. Its battery had been at 27 per cent when I’d last checked. It was now at 15 per cent. And it had been switched off.

Maybe batteries deplete faster in America? Because of the foreign electricity? No, that doesn’t work.

After eating, I’d ask the driver if I could get my charger out of the Princess. I mean, that was an entirely reasonable request. No reason for him to think me an idiot or anything.

When my food came, I took it to a free table. Our RS teacher often said we should take joy in the moment. As I unwrapped my cheeseburger, I finally understood what she meant.

Don’t worry about being in a place called Missouri, a word you can’t spell, let alone find on a map. Don’t worry about the girl and the police. Don’t worry about Mum or Dad. Consider only the cheeseburger: the true meaning of life.

And as I opened my mouth to take a bite …

‘You get my BBQ sauce?’

She stood before me. If she’d not been holding her package, she’d have had her hands on her hips for sure.

Yeah, so I’d forgotten the sauce, and there was sighing and eye-rolling and I thought I was about to be sassed to death. Sassocuted.

‘If I give you this package, do you swear to God that you won’t lose it or drop it or whatever other lame British stuff you might do because you’re lame?’

I nodded, my mouth full of cheeseburger. She handed over the package. As she did so, I could see a faint bruise that circled her right wrist like a friendship bracelet. It didn’t look that bad. I mean, I’d prefer she hadn’t fallen over the Princess, but … it obviously wasn’t broken.

She saw where I was looking.

‘It still hurts,’ she said. ‘Like hell. I can’t even be driving myself anywhere now.’

‘Sorry.’

The box was heavier than you’d imagine. It was weighty enough to be a pain to carry everywhere. Especially if you’d hurt your arm. I shook it very gently. Did it rattle? I wasn’t sure. Why hadn’t she left it on the bus? It must contain something massively valuable. Drugs, cash, diamonds. Gulp.

She was soon back with the sauce. And she was quick to recover the package, placing it between her and her food, which meant she had to eat round it.

When finished, she wiped her mouth with a serviette and stared.

‘My name’s Jennifer. Not Jenny. Not Jen. But Jennifer. Don’t forget that.’

‘Jennifer,’ I said. ‘I won’t forget.’

‘Too right you won’t. I’d shake your hand but it’s covered in ketchup, which is totally disgusting. And it’s all around your mouth. Also, you broke my wrist, so, you know, any movement is total agony.’

‘I could get you some …’

‘I’ve got Advil.’

I nodded like I understood. So was she going to tell me what was happening or …

‘What’s your name?’ (She continued talking so I couldn’t answer. She leant forward, hands on the package, voice lowered. She even glanced behind her to check nobody was listening.) ‘Thanks for covering with the police. Appreciated. I thought it was over. You didn’t have to do that. So I could almost forgive you. For breaking my wrist.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Almost.’

‘I’m Jacob,’ I said. ‘And all this is pretty new to me.’

Nervous laugh.

‘Same.’

I asked the question.

‘Yeah. So. Why are the police after you? I mean, you look too old to be in trouble for running away from home.’ She didn’t reply. ‘So –’ my mind raced through the other questions I wanted to ask – ‘is it what’s in the parcel? Is that why they’re after you?’

She stood from the table. I guess we’ve all got secrets.

‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ she said. ‘If you’ve never ridden Greyhound before, you should do the same. The on-board one gets gross. Where’re you headed?’

‘Hollywood.’

‘No way. All the way to LA? For real? Are you going to be in a movie?’

‘No but really. I am. I won a competition. I had to write a poem about my favourite superhero.’ (Why did I tell her that?) ‘But, you know, I’m not one of those kids.’

I sounded like a five-year-old. She raised a single eyebrow.

‘What kids?’

‘You know, the ones who think it’s all real. Fantasyland. I don’t think it’s real. I don’t camp overnight to get tickets for the release of the new Avengers movie.’

(Lie.)

‘You like superhero stuff?’ I looked to the tray, nodding with the shame of the bullied. ‘That’s lit.’ I looked up. She wasn’t even mocking me. ‘I’m going to LA as well. It’s warmer out there. People are friendlier. I mean, that’s not true, but …’

‘Sounds good,’ I said.

‘What’s the poem?’

I felt an ice-chill travel through my body.

Never ask me about the poem. Especially never ask me to recite it.

‘Nothing. I don’t remember.’

She shrugged. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Be like that.’ She pointed at the package. ‘I’m trusting you to babysit it. Don’t let it out of your sight.’

She hesitated as if, in actual fact, she didn’t trust me. But her bladder must have intervened and so she left, her braids bouncing as she went. ‘Be like that,’ she’d said. If there were anyone being anything, it was her.

She’d left a single fry. I popped it into my mouth, trying not to think about how she was travelling to LA, trying not to admit why I’d lied to the police, trying only to return to the sleepy, safe Jacob of sleepy, safe Somerset.