“It’s going to be okay,” Mercedes says. She sits on the curb next to me, so close her shoulder is touching mine. Her voice is quiet, gentle, but her fists are clenched into tight balls. “It’s not our fault.”

“What are we going to do?” I ask through my tears. I can’t help myself. And I can’t stop crying. My hands have gone cold and clammy, and wiping them on my jeans doesn’t help. My heart is a ticking time bomb waiting for the moment to explode out of my body. I cover my face with my hands. Even through closed eyes, I see spots of light and red and black. Am I going to faint? Please, I think, please don’t let me faint. Please don’t let me die. If my mom were here, she would tell me to breathe. In. Out. But I’m so sick of breathing, of trying to calm myself down.

“It’s over.” My voice is as hard as the concrete curb.

“No,” she says firmly. “This isn’t over.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice shaky like I’m on the Speeding Saucers. I use the edge of my not-so-new T-shirt to wipe my nose. “It is over, Mercedes. He’s gone. Drove away.” I sniff the snot in my nose. “It’s over.”

“Wait—”

“It’s got to be past four twenty. I have no idea how we’re getting home!” The thought of my mom thinking I’m safe at Mercedes’s house and all the lies I’ve told is too much. I sob. I don’t care what Mercedes thinks of me right now.

She watches me for a moment. Then she sighs and rummages in my backpack.

“Hey—” I protest.

She pulls out the Santa Cruz Transit schedule. The edges of the paper are soggy from a leak in my water bottle. “We’re going to get you home. If that’s what you need. We’ll take the bus home and say we tried.” She smooths out the schedule. “We may have missed the four twenty pickup, but we can wait for the six fifteen.” She zips up my backpack and hands it to me. “Come on. I saw the bus shelter near Madrone Hall.”

She starts walking, certain that I’ll follow her.

And I do. I jump off the curb and chase after her. She’s right; we see the Santa Cruz Transit bus shelter in a grove of trees near the main entrance to Madrone Hall. We slump on the bench inside. The shelter is made of three plexiglass walls scratched with initials and dirty words. The air is crisp. The sun casts orange shadows on the eucalyptus.

Mercedes folds and unfolds the bus schedule. I don’t comment about how she should be glad I kept that paper copy.