The Great Good Summer by Liz Garton Scanlon

park, and I hoped she’d understand and could she kiss Lucy and Devon on the tops of their little heads for me? I didn’t leave a voice mail for her, because what if she answered?
    â€¢ I left nothing, no note and no email and no voice mail, for Abby. I’m just praying that nobody sees her or calls her and asks where I am, even though I’m pretty sure it’s sacrilegious to pray that you don’t get caught when you’ve done something wrong.
    â€¢ Paul left a note for his parents saying that he and Dash were taking a field trip out to the flying field at the Woodlands, since the one at East Loomer Park had shut down, and they were gonna get back late and he thought he’d spend the night at Dash’s afterward. So, yeah, he’d see them tomorrow.
    That was my idea, the story about going off to fly planes with Dash. I thought it was a good one. Until Paul turns to me from his nice comfy blue seat on our new bus and says, “So, hey. There’s really a flying field out at the Woodlands, right?”
    â€œOh,” I answer. “Oh, mercy. I honestly don’t know.”
    As our bus finally pulls back onto the highway and rolls farther and farther away from Loomer, I hear Mama’s voice humming along underneath the rhythmof the wheels: “Not every idea is a good idea, baby. Not every idea is a good idea.”
    I look at Paul, who’s closed his eyes, and at our backpacks shoved down by our feet, and at the broad blue sky outside. It all looks plenty promising, if you ask me.
    â€œHush up, Mama,” I whisper. “I don’t see you coming up with anything better. And also? You should talk!”

Chapter Eleven
    A s we step off the bus, the line that we’re in sort of clumps up and slows down with everybody waiting for luggage. Paul and I didn’t bring anything except for our backpacks, so we don’t really have to stop, and it’s a good thing too. If the Greyhound station in Loomer made me jittery and sad, the one in Houston may just knock me all the way out. It’s really hot, even though we’re under a great big concrete shade awning, and the buses are lined up, tight and close. Plus, there’s a thick, sick smell in the air that’s a mixture of oil on the pavement and bus exhaust and half-smoked cigarettes and dirt.
    â€œLet’s just keep on moving,” says Paul to my back, and I try to, but people are pushing out of, like, three buses at once, and it’s crowded.
    I look back over my shoulder so I can actually see Paul. I want to look him in the eye to make sure he’s with me. But instead what I see is a fence, a high metal fence, stretched all around us like we’re in jail or something. And suddenly I feel very, very bad. Weak. Kind of hungrybut kind of nauseous at the same time, with a tight sourness up near my throat.
    â€œOur Father,” I whisper automatically, like Mama might if she were here, “who art in heaven—” And just then someone presses up against me, and it’s not Paul. It’s a guy, and there’s another guy on my left side too, and they walk with me as I walk. It’s like they were waiting for my bus to arrive and they’ve come to pick me up.
    â€œGot a cigarette, pretty lady?” asks the first guy, which is kind of strange, since he’s holding a cigarette, or part of a cigarette, up near his mouth already.
    â€œI’m sorry. I don’t smoke,” I say, and he laughs, as if that’s funny. Also, he’s standing really too close to me. I want to scootch away, but then I’d bump into the guy on my other side, who’s shuffling along and not saying anything. He’s just staring at me, which is almost worse.
    I look back toward Paul again, and there are a couple of people between us now, and it’s hot, and there’s Cigarette Man in my face again. My heart starts to bubble like water on the stove.
    â€œWhatcha afraid of,