The Great Good Summer by Liz Garton Scanlon Page A

huh? You’re a nervous little cat, aren’t you?” he says, and he’s right, I’m scared. I’m scared of him and his heavy plaid shirt in summer and his yellow teeth. I’m scared of being stared at and I’m scared ofgetting caught and I’m scared of not finding Mama. Or of finding her and she doesn’t want to be found. Honestly, that would be the worst of all, wouldn’t it?
    I look up at Cigarette Man, actually into his eyes. I want to say, “Yes, I’m a nervous little cat and I want to get out of this line and out of this bus station and away from you. I don’t know what in heaven’s name I was thinking, leaving Loomer. I don’t like Houston, I’ve never been to Florida, and I don’t even know exactly where I’m going!”
    But instead I say, “Excuse me.” And y’know what? He steps aside. He steps aside, and I push and rush ahead, past some other folks in line and through the door into the station, where it may be cool and clean but there’s the same oily smell and my heart’s still flying.
    â€œPaul,” I whisper, because I’ve given up on getting much attention from God right now. “Paul?” And I finally find him, on his way inside, with a terrible look on his face, and I know why. Because right in front of him, there in the doorway next to Staring Guy, is a police officer.

    The next thing you know, I am looking up. Up at Paul and up at clumps of people and plastic chairs and bright lights. Up from the hard, cold floor and out the windowsat the awning and the buses and the high metal fence.
    â€œWhat . . .” I pull myself up to sitting, but then I promptly lurch to one side and throw up. Right there on the floor of the Houston Greyhound station.
    Paul squats down and hands me a red bandana that he’s dipped in a water bottle. “Dang, Ivy,” he says. “Are you okay? I mean, duh, no, you’re not okay. Here, use this. Are you thirsty? Are you, um . . . I don’t know quite what to do here.”
    â€œOh . . . Oh, mercy . . .” I take the bandana and wipe my lips as my eyes dart around, looking for trouble. “What happened to the police officer?” I ask, because all I can think—never mind the hard, cold floor and the fainting and the throw-up and everything—is that we could be in some serious trouble here.
    Paul doesn’t answer. He just hands me his water and then takes his own turn looking around.
    I take tiny sips like I would if I were home sick, tucked into bed with my mama tending to me. Paul uses the bandana to wipe up most of the throw-up and tosses the whole thing in the big trash bin right behind him before helping me slowly, carefully stand up.
    A few folks stare at us, and one woman in a blue dress and high heels even shakes her head, like I’ve donesomething I should be ashamed of, which I guess maybe I have.
    â€œThe police officer?” I ask again, once I’m solid on my feet.
    â€œHe was just a security guard,” says Paul. “He hustled those creepy guys along and he went with them. And then you fainted,” he says.
    â€œI did. I really did faint clean away,” I say.
    â€œYeah. Wow,” says Paul, and we stop talking and look straight into each other’s eyes. I don’t know for certain what mine look like, but Paul’s look scared for the first time since we left Loomer this morning.

    The plan is to do the same thing at the Houston ticket counter that we did in Loomer—buy our tickets separately, one-way, without a fuss. This time I’m going first. That’s the plan. So after I catch my breath, I walk through the waiting room and out to the main lobby, where they sell tickets. I have to pass another security guard to get there, but she doesn’t even look my way, and it feels pretty good being ignored. Everything would all be well and good,