Wiping sweat from my forehead, I try to find the breath I lost during the dream. The rolling timpani of the bus engine, the horn section of murmuring passengers, and the occasional rimshot of backfire somehow help. It’s a symphony of transportation, a soothing reassurance that I am closer to my mom, farther from Mosquitoland.
I dab at the wet spot on my shoulder (courtesy of Arlene’s sleep-drool), and unzip my bag. Something about being hunted by bloodsucking devils compels a girl to double-check her resources. Popping the lid off the Hills Bros. coffee can, I count by twenty to seven hundred. The bus ticket cost one-eighty, so I’m— My heart flips over in my chest.
What. Is. That?
From the bottom of the can, I pull out a thin tube of papers wrapped in a rubber band. My epiglottis flutters out of pure fascination. What secrets might Kathy be keeping in her beloved coffee can?
Arlene grunts, opens one eye, scratches the peach fuzz on her chin, then drops her head on my shoulder. I nudge it gently toward the aisle, where it lolls for a second before flopping right back where it was.
Damn. Old broad’s persistent.
Tucking the cash and coffee can back in my bag, I stuff the papers in my pocket, hold Arlene’s head up with one hand, twist around in my seat, and peer down at the cute couple behind us.
“Wotcha, chaps.” For some reason people listen when you’re British, something I’ve witnessed firsthand from my mother’s undyingly cool accent. “I really must get to the loo pronto, yeah? Would you mind terribly if I climbed over into your seats? There’s a sweet old lady asleep over here, and I’m finding it rather difficult to get by.”
Only I say the word rather like rotha.
As their mouths curl into a smile, I decide to withdrawal the “cute couple” status, at least as it pertains to their teeth. Seriously. They could use a trip or seven to the orthodontist. And before the guy even speaks, something clicks in my brain.
“Where you from, mate?” asks His Ugly Teeth.
When your mother is British, you are keenly aware of fake accents in movies and on TV, which is part of the reason mine is so good. It’s also the reason I can tell this guy is, for sure, British.
“Oxbridge,” I say. Damn, Mim. London, Cambridge, Oxford, Liverpool, Dover—I’ve even been to London. Twice, actually, for family reunions. But no. Oxbridge. Ox-effing-bridge.
Her Ugly Teeth smiles at His Ugly Teeth. “Love, don’t you have a mate who lives in Oxbridge?”
He’s holding back a laugh now. “Oh, yeah, well, Nigel used to, love, but he moved down to Bumlickton remember?”
“Was it Bumlickton or Loncamdonfordbridgeton?”
Unfortunately for me, they know a real British accent when they hear one, too. Laughing their monarchical asses off, they shift out of their seats to let me climb over. What with the overhead compartments, it’s a tight fit, but I manage. I make my way to the back of the bus (the jeers of the Brits still ringing in my ears), then slip into the closet-sized bathroom and slide the lock to OCCUPIED. A tiny mirror hangs above the sink, barely large enough to reflect my face, and for just a moment, I consider using the war paint. It’s been a while, right? Okay, fine, I just used it last night, but after the BREAKING NEWS, who could blame me? I stick my hand in my pocket, twist the tube with the little silver ring in the middle, and— Patience, Mary.
Taking a deep breath, I push the lipstick farther down in my pocket, pull out Kathy’s covert papers, and sit on top of the plastic toilet lid. I pull off the rubber band, unroll the papers, and read. The first sheet is a disgusting love letter between Kathy and my dad, something I’d give a kidney to un-see. Half standing, I raise the seat and toss the letter into the toilet. The next six pages are letters, too, but far different from the first, and written in very familiar handwriting.
Kathy,
In response to your last letter, the answer is no.
Additionally, please don’t pretend that I won’t beat this. How are things at Mary’s new school? Tell her father I asked.
—Eve
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ??
Kathy,
I don’t have a television in my room, which doesn’t seem right. Would you mind checking on that for me? No one around here listens. And yes, I understand that it will get harder before it gets better. I’m the one who’s sick.
—Eve
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ??
Kathy,
These damn people won’t listen. Did you call about the TV?
—E
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ??
Kathy,
Feeling better. Please talk to Barry about an exit strategy.
—E
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ??
Kathy,
Seriously. I’m going to die in here.
Please help.
—E
The sixth and final letter is a haphazard scrawl, without salutation or signature. I read it at least a dozen times.
THINK OF WHATS BEST FOR HER. PLEASE RECONSIDER.
Every ounce of Mim-blood rushes to my head, wraps its tiny little platelets around my brain, and squeezes. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.