The bus hisses to a stop, and we get on, instantly hot under the heating vents and florescent lights. I'm suddenly glad Brandon's here because I don't have any money, and given the car boy disaster I'm seriously doubting my ability to have begged my way onto the bus. He pulls out a small wad of fives and tens and twenties. I stare at it until he fishes out a few singles and puts the rest back in his pocket. I've never had that much cash in my life.
The bus makes limited stops. We should be at San Ysidro in less than an hour and a half. But I think about Jude, and Frank's voice, and that heavy plastic phone, and I wonder if that will be soon enough. I wish I was religious. They say it helps in these kinds of situations. But all I can do is pray to a God I don't believe in that my little brother is all right.
Brandon and I sit next to each other in plastic seats. I stare out the windows, my eyes barely registering the blurring city streets. For a while I jiggle my leg up and down, trying to loosen some of my nervous energy, but after a while I realize I can't tire them out because the three of us might have to run. I stop immediately.
We stay silent most of the way there. After a while I realize that now that I've stopped shaking, our legs are touching. He probably doesn't even notice it, and I don't bother to pull away. I just stare at my lap, helplessly trying to push thoughts of Jude out of my head. The driver turns on some classical music and I look at Brandon.
"Wait, didn't you have that music thing tonight?"
He brushes off the question: "Oh, yeah, don't worry about it. There'll be others."
Guilt and worry crawl over my body like snakes. Stef and Lena might not care that I'm gone, but they'll definitely miss him if he's supposed to be at something with them. But there's nothing I can do about it now.
I look over at him. He's sitting quietly, not looking at me. I don't know what to say to him. Who is this boy, and why is he so willing to give up everything to help me?
He looks over at me. "So what happened? At the house?"
I swallow and look away.
He's been nice to me so far. If he decides I'm lying, or exaggerating, or gets freaked out by my having been in Juvie—well, after a day of being stared at and judged, that would be really hard to take. But he dropped everything to help me, even though he barely knows me from a bum on the street. I guess I owe him this.
The words are so hard to get out, though.
I take a deep breath and stare out the window.
"When my foster father caught my little brother trying on one of his ex-wives' dresses, he started beating the crap out of him."
Brandon looks shocked.
"Seriously? He hit him?"
"Yeah." I can't fully hide my contempt at his naiveté. I wonder what it must be like to be raised in a world where a kid getting hit is so shocking. It's like he's never even considered the idea that it's possible.
"I mean, he used to hit me all the time…but, you know, whatever," I say automatically. It's not like it hasn't happened a thousand times before.
"But when I saw him going after Jude…" the memory hits me again, and I have to stop and take a deep breath to try to push away the anger.
"Well, I tried to stop him. But he kicked me in the stomach. So I went outside, grabbed a baseball bat and beat the hell out of his precious Trans Am."
The anger is taking over my body now. I feel stiff, rigid, like I might break or lash out if anybody touches me. I'm not even telling the story to Brandon any more. It's just pouring out, and my voice, my heart, feel dead.
"When the cops came, he told them that I went crazy, and that he was just defending himself. Nobody seemed to care very much about my side of the story."
Enough. That's enough. I swallow and look up at the ceiling. I will my body back under my control, my muscles to relax, my tears to drain before they can give me away. I don't have the time or energy for crying. I have a job to do. I have to save Jude. Brandon is looking straight at me now, but I can't read his expression. Concern? Disgust? Sympathy?
I don't look at him. It doesn't matter. I don't care what he thinks anyway.
Somewhere in a tiny corner of my brain, I notice that Brandon's leg is edging even closer against mine.
I hope I'm wrong.