“I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She smiles; she’s in a funny kind of mood. I mean, she has a lot of energy, she wants to make me laugh, but it’s also like she’s bored and she just wants something to happen, she wants a reaction. Maybe I disappointed her, because she says in her normal voice, “It’s just a silly thing. It basically means good morning.”

“Good morning to you, too.”

The bus comes, and we file on. Mabley’s behind me, but the seat next to me is empty, and she sits down.

“I don’t even know my great-aunt,” I say, because she isn’t talking. “I don’t even know if I have one.”

“Mine died last year. She lived in San Antonio.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. She was crazy. She drove my dad nuts, but she liked me.”

For a while we don’t say anything—it’s only seven thirty in the morning. My brain is still half asleep. Then Mabley says, “How old are you?”

“Twelve. Why?”

“I don’t know. You just seem young for seventh grade. Young and innocent.”

“My birthday’s around Easter . . . so I don’t usually get a big party.”

“Why not?”

“Because everybody goes away for spring break. We used to go away, too.”

“That sucks,” she says, and I think the conversation’s over, but after a minute she says, “What school did you go to before?”

“It’s called Latymer. It’s in New York.” And suddenly I remember waiting for the elevator in the morning and sometimes meeting Jake on the way to school. It seems like years ago.

“I want to go to New York,” Mabley says. “I’ve never been.”

“My dad lives in London. They’ve got a . . . there’s a school there, just for Americans. It’s right by where the Beatles . . . there’s an album where you can see them crossing the street. It’s like a famous place to cross the street,” and I hear her laugh, and want to keep talking. But I can’t think of anything else to say, so I just say, “That’s where I want to go.”

She says, “Everybody wants to go somewhere.”

The bus isn’t air-conditioned, and already the leather seats feel sticky to sit on. We stare out the window for a while and then she asks, “When did your parents get divorced?”

“They’re not divorced.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not trying to be . . . it’s just that you said once you shared a bedroom with your mom, and I felt bad about not saying anything. I usually try to say something when people tell me stuff.”

“I don’t know what they are. . . . My dad just moved to London, and my mom didn’t want to go. She’s from Texas. I guess she wanted to come back home. We’re just living with my granma until we get our own place.”

“It must be nice to see your granma,” Mabley says.

“It’s all right.”