The Other Way Around by Sashi Kaufman Read Free Book Online Page A

I’m watching the bus-ticket girl and her friends in the corner.

THE FREEGANS
    There are five of them hunkered down in the corner of the bus station, sitting on backpacks and rolled-up sleeping bags. In addition to the bus-ticket girl, there’s another girl with long blonde dreadlocks facing away and lying across the lap of a kid wearing an army vest with an enormous anarchy symbol drawn on the back. An Asian-looking kid wearing a giant pair of headphones over his fauxhawk is talking too loudly to a tall guy with a short, scraggly beard as he makes peanut butter sandwiches.
    My stomach growls as I watch him dip a pocket knife into this jar of peanut butter and then drip gobs of it onto the bread. Every once in a while he stops to lick the excess off the top of the knife where it swivels and folds in. I ignore the obvious hygienic problems here as I watch him distribute the sandwiches. He’s sitting cross-legged as he does this—a way I’ve only ever seen girls sit. He’s also smiling so sweetly—like one of those naked babies that fly around in those giant Italian paintings. He just keeps smiling and handing out sandwiches. I’m so busy watching him that I don’t notice when the bus-ticket girl reappears at my side.
    She slams herself down into the seat next to me, rockingthe entire row of interconnected plastic chairs. She has two sandwiches in her hands.
    â€œYou want one?” Her voice is deeper and scratchier than before.
    I shake my head. “No, thanks, I just ate at home.”
    â€œOkay,” she says, almost smirking. “Suit yourself. I just know that when I first ran away, I learned pretty quickly that you should take food whenever it’s offered. You don’t know where your next meal is coming from.”
    â€œI thought I wasn’t supposed to take candy from strangers.”
    She gives an appreciative chin nod and takes a bite of her sandwich. “Good one. How about a puppy?”
    â€œAnyway,” I say, “I’m not running away.”
    â€œSure, traveling alone on Thanksgiving is just more convenient and hassle-free because everyone else is sitting down and eating with their families. Plus there’s nothing more pleasant than an empty bus station on a cold night. I get it.”
    I ignore her sarcasm. “It was a last-minute decision … to go to my grandmother’s house.”
    â€œDoes anyone know where you are?” she lifts the softened paper American Airlines tag still looped around my backpack strap, left over from Mom’s and my last trip to see Mima, and reads it. “Andrew?”
    I shake my head again. What was the point in lying?
    â€œThen you, my friend,” she says as she jerks the tag off the strap and crumples it in her hand, “are running away.”
    She shoots the crumpled tag at the nearest waste can. “You’re old enough that most people won’t bother you about being on your own. But until you get where you’re going, it’s better to avoid being identified if you don’t want to be. If youdon’t give the police or anyone your name, the worst they can do is throw you into state or foster care. And that sucks, but it’s not that hard to get out of.”
    â€œYour area of expertise?”
    â€œIt used to be.” Her voice hardens slightly. “I’m nineteen now, so I’m pretty much free to go wherever I want and do whatever I want. I’m G, by the way,” she says and sticks her hand out for me to shake.
    â€œAndrew,” I say as I accept her firm handshake. She’s small but solid. And I can’t decide if she’s pretty or not. She’s not unattractive, but there’s something about her looks that’s kind of serious, almost severe. “Just G?”
    â€œYeah, Maria Regina actually. It’s terrible isn’t it? Sounds like a nun or a pasta sauce. So I’m just G. What about you? Do you go by Andrew?