Wellington, Somerset

‘If we stay on the bus, it’ll take thirty-two hours to get to Los Angeles.’ Jennifer picked at her nails, which took some doing in a sling. Hers, like mine, had specks of black under their white crowns. ‘Meaning …’

She brought a finger from her good hand up to her mouth and bit a nail. As she did this, I did the maths. The numbers demanded some proper thinking, so I even used my fingers but made like I was inspecting my nails, inspired by Jennifer.

Calculation conclusion: we’d get to LA late Thursday afternoon. Which would be bad, seeing how my scene was due to be shot at midday.

‘So I won’t get to LA in time? I won’t get there by twelve?’

‘Not if we stay on this bus.’

Anxiety bubbled through my blood. I tried to stop thinking. I imagined my mind a blank canvas, a ceiling, a page of my homework diary. Because the last thing I wanted to be doing was imagining telling Mum and Dad that I’d missed the shoot. That would be worse than imagining missing the shoot.

Why hadn’t I stayed in the Chicago hotel? Like everyone else. The normals, with their normal decisions. Why’d I ever decide that getting on a Greyhound was a good idea?

I felt my heart begin to shift and wriggle against my ribcage. Sweat broke from my forehead. I needed to shift focus. I needed to calm down. I needed to start a random conversation.

‘You live in Chicago, then?’

‘Yeah. Kinda. You live in London?’

‘No. A place called Wellington. It’s near another place called Taunton. It’s the other side of England. Which is like the distance between two neighbouring towns out here, I guess.’

‘Right. What’s it like?’

‘It’s, like, really crap.’

‘No kidding?’

I dropped my voice like I was announcing the most shocking piece of gossip ever.

‘It doesn’t even have a McDonald’s.’

She was shocked.

‘No way.’

‘It sucks. But there’s a drive-through in Taunton, so …’

‘I’d kill for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich right now. Like, literally kill.’

The look in her eyes meant I completely believed her. Maybe food was all she thought about.

‘A what?’ I dared.

‘A sandwich is two pieces of bread—’

‘No,’ I interrupted, ‘the other bit.’

‘You’ve not heard of peanut butter? Is England medieval?’

‘I mean, yes. I’ve heard of peanut butter. But I’ve never tried it. It sounds gross.’ I had a vision of melted butter with broken nuts inside and, to be honest, it didn’t look very appetising. ‘It’s the jelly bit. Doesn’t it fall out? Or just, like, wobble?’

‘Okay, so tell me what you think jelly is.’

‘Red. Wobbly. You have it with ice cream on your sixth birthday.’

‘Right. That’s Jell-O. Jelly’s a spread.’

‘Like jam?’

‘If you say so.’

My half-reflection stared back from the window, an untidy ghost. It was thinking about Hollywood, about missed opportunities, about stupid decisions. But mainly about strawberry jam on toast.

‘So, anyway, Jell-O aside, we’ll get you to LA on time, no problem,’ said Jennifer. ‘Because there’s something I’ve not told you.’

Was she pranking me? Was this a prank? You never knew. Whatever, I had to control the puppy excitement bouncing in my chest.

Chill and Zen, Jacob.

‘What haven’t you told me?’

‘We’re not taking the bus all the way. I was thinking we could get a plane.’ Full-beam Jennifer stare.

I pretty much choked on my crisps.

‘Say what?’ I asked. ‘How much will that cost? Are you pranking me? Is this a prank? You’re pranking me, right?’

(I mean, planes are quicker than buses.)

She raised her eyebrows, meaning, of course, that we had a credit card and so money didn’t matter. And, no, she wasn’t pranking me.

‘It’d take, like, two hours to fly to LA, Jay. Two hours. You get to Hollywood by today, I get to Dad before I’m caught. All this could be over by tomorrow. And the neat trick is they won’t be looking for us in airports. They’ll assume we’re on a Greyhound. Because we are. Think about it. We’re on a bus for a day – that’s a whole day we’re likely to be caught and you miss your scene. If we’re on a plane, we have two hours to worry through and, boom, we’re in Cali tonight.’

I didn’t say yes. But I didn’t say no either. Because, like diamonds, Jennifer’s eyes sparkled and, also like diamonds, they were so hard it meant there was no point arguing.

Also – a plane would mean arriving on time, which was all kinds of okays.

‘And the Cowboy hates planes. Anyway,’ she added like it was nothing, ‘our bus tickets are only good for travel to Albuquerque. Where the airport is. And part of being a superhero is taking risks, Jay. It’s not just Superman who flies. People do it all the time over here. It’s probably like trains in the UK. Or horse and carriage. No biggie.’

I wiped my hands free of Lay’s Sour Cream and Onion and thought about how best to respond.

‘A: Wolverine’s scared of flying. B: I don’t like trains.’ I paused, then: ‘C: Will they let me on the plane? I’m fourteen.’

She was looking out of the window as she replied, her reflection grinning.

‘Course they will; you, me and Mom too. It’s like a family.’

We had hours to kill. And loads of them. Jennifer slept through most. I found a book in the seat pocket. It was a child’s version of a story called The Odyssey by a long-dead man called Homer, who I’d heard of because of The Simpsons. Someone had probably bought it for their kid, thinking it perfect reading for a long journey.

I dipped in and out. The hero had it easy – he was only trying to get home. It would have been a different story if he’d been on his way to Hollywood.