But feet hurt bad from yesterday’s blisters. Have to stop. Sit, then sprawl, on a bus bench. Catch a few more winks.

Wake in an entirely different world. Sunshine, traffic, stores open. Lady with groceries waiting for the bus four feet from my head.

Sit up. Feel scummy, stinky. Lady pretends not to notice me. I’ve done that: Tried not to stare at weirdos. Now I’m the weirdo.

Bus comes and the lady hurries on. Looks, no, glares at me through the bus window. Turns her head to stare longer until the bus carries her away. Must’ve thought I was a homeless drug addict loser, violent and crazy—sleeping on a bench.

Scratch my head. How long’s it take to get fleas? My kid brother would think it was a riot if I got fleas. Hope he doesn’t think I’ve left him. Hope Dad is leaving him alone. I should call.

Think of Ma, probably flipped out, imagining I’m lost or dead. Get up, look around for a pay phone. Find a broken one. Someone ripped off the receiver. I don’t have money anyway.

Feet are killing bad. Starving, mouth tastes like a sewer. Find a working phone a few blocks down. Ask three different people for change to make a call. All three walk past like they don’t see me.

Then notice the sticker right on the phone about collect calls. Raise the receiver, listen to the tone. Hope my kid brother answers. Ma is second best.

But what if Dad does? How will I explain worrying my ma like this? Have to tell him about the cheating stuff, too. Now he’ll be ten times as mad that I’ve been cowardly, didn’t come home and take my punishment like a man.

No winning this one. None.

Hang up. Sit down to think it through, plan my script.

A guy charges out of his store. “Shoo!” he yells, waving his arms as if I were a fly. “Move along, you! Just you keep moving.”

So I do.

Ruby

I’m not looking what you’d call my, like, personal best today—last night’s sob-fest left me all lumpy. But my sister has it worse: The star woke up with, like, a humongous screaming zit—right on her chin! No makeup in the world could hide that thing. I would’ve died.

Mom is wreck number two. Totally freaked over the tablecloths being, like, peach when the flowers are practically apricot, which is reason enough to slit your wrists if you’re her. Then Dad gets an “emergency” call from some, like, client, and off he goes, swearing to be home in plenty of time for the luncheon.

Right.