A seat saved by a backpack belonging to a tall boy with floppy blond hair.
“I saw you running, and I thought I owed you one for soaking you this morning.” He grinned and a teasing expression crossed his kind face. “I almost had to fight that football player for you, so say you forgive me.”
“Of course I do,” I said, and wondered if it was my turn to have pink ears. After all, it’s not every day a boy says he’s willing to fight a football player to secure you a bus seat, even if it’s just a joke. “And—forgive me, too. I was rude, and I’m sorry.” I started to sit down in the space he made, then stopped. “I’m not on fire again, am I?”
His eyes flickered down to my jeans and back up. “All clear.”
I plopped my backpack and rose bouquet on my lap and set the mini-cooler between my feet, where I could keep track of its whereabouts. The orange and yellow trees whisked by outside as the bus lurched toward home. I was going to make it.
Except … the pig’s ear.
The pig’s ear that I didn’t want. The pig’s ear that I had to get … or else.
I sighed.
“What’s up?”
“I had a shopping list of stuff my aunt needed today … never mind.” I drummed my fingers on my jeans, thoughts churning over what to do. If I didn’t bring the witch all the ingredients, there would be punishments … but I couldn’t let her summon the demon … “Gah, I give up,” I said. “I’m just not going to get the last thing. I’m not.”
My earlobe fell asleep. Then a whole patch of my head. I shook my head, trying to get feeling to return.
One thigh went out. A shin down to the ankle. Then all my toes snuffed out, pop pop pop—
“Gah, I mean I am going to get the stuff, I am,” I said, desperately drumming my feet on the bus floor until sensation returned. I snuck a glance at boy-band boy, who seemed tempted to put his earbuds in again. “Sorry. My aunt … is kind of demanding. She needs a lot of specific things for her … job.”
Boy-band boy lowered his earbuds and looked thoughtful. “Does she work for herself?”
“In a manner of speaking. Yeah.” I massaged my ear as the pins and needles died away.
He nodded. “My parents ran a no-kill animal shelter in my old town,” he said. “My dad ran the place and my mom donated time as a vet. I had to pitch in. You can’t blow things off like everyone else can, you know? Not if your parents have a family business. There are dogs to walk. Cats to rub with disgusting flea medicine. Cages to scrub after the cats have scraped all the flea medicine off.”
“Up at five every day?” I said.
“Rain or shine.”
“Study with one hand, muck out kennels with the other?”
“Sounds like you know the drill.”
“Why did you move here?”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t ever get enough donations. We finally had to transfer all the animals to the local county shelter and shut down. That was rough … well. Mom and Dad wanted a change, and Mom found a new clinic up here.” He wound down, looking a little embarrassed about having shared so much. But he had done it out of kindness, trying to empathize with his animal shelter story. It made me warm to him.
Maybe giving him one piece of information was worth the risk. “Do you know where I could get a pig’s ear?”
“Like for a dog?”
“Oh!” Why hadn’t I thought of that? “Yes,” I said.
“There’s a pet store in biking distance from our bus stop,” he said.
“Right!” I had gotten emergency dog food there once for Wulfie when the witch was in D.C. trying to transform the vice president into a grain elevator.
“But don’t bother. I got a whole bag for Bingo the other day after he ate my sneakers. I’ll give you one.” He cocked his head, the boy-band-boy hair flopping, and it suddenly made him look devilish instead of sweet. “It’s the least I can do for soaking you.”
Another nice gesture. I could get used to this. “I don’t even know you and already I dub you ‘The Best,’” I said. “My name’s Camellia, but my friends call me Cam.”
“Devon.”
“So, Devon. Are you in a band?”
He looked startled. “How did you know?”
“You were humming and writing in a notebook this morning,” I said. I didn’t mention the part about him looking like a boy-band boy. “Songs?”
His eyes lit up. “They just grab you when you’re walking along. Bits of melody, lyrics.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I mean, they’re not all equally good…”
“Sing one?”
“On the bus?”
“Sure,” I said. “Don’t musicians like to show off?”
His ears went a little pink, but he closed his eyes and sang in a velvety sort of voice, “She’s a cool stick of butter with a warm warm heart…”
“So there was a stick of butter in it,” I said when he stopped.
“What?”
“Is that all there is to the song?”