Andy? Drew?â
âIt doesnât matter, whatever is fine.â
âWhat do you mean it doesnât matter?â
âI really donât care.â And itâs true. Well, up until this moment itâs always been true. Andrew, Andy, Drew, whatever. Itâs all the same to me. Moving so many times, I kind of got to the point where it was enough if someone remembered the basic gist of my name.
âWhoa. This is your name weâre talking about here, not the condiments you put on a sandwich. This is how people greet you in the world. How they form their first impressions of you. How they decide if theyâre going to walk all over you or not.â
I just shrug the way I always do when I want uncomfortable conversations to end. But G isnât going to let me off the hook that easily.
âOkay,â she says. âWeâre going to decide this right now. Iâm going to introduce myself to you again, and whatever you say this time, thatâs your name. Okay? Iâm G,â she repeats and sticks out her hand.
âAndrew,â I say and shake it again. She seems satisfied with this.
âGood. Drewâs okay, but Andyâs a little weird. It always reminds me of those dolls. Remember Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy?â I donât really, so I just shrug my shoulders again.
Over in the corner, the girl with the long blonde dreadlocks gets up from the floor and walks out of the bus station. She comes back carrying an enormous Hula-Hoop covered in black and white stripes.
She sets the Hula-Hoop down and proceeds to remove several layers of clothing. Off comes a rather large, black hooded sweatshirt. Underneath is a brown cardigan sweater that Mima might wear. That sweater comes off and underneath that is a smaller sweater; that only comes halfway down her stomach. Sheâs wearing a short skirt, like the field hockey girls wear, a pair of red-and-white-striped tights, and black combat boots.
Altogether she looks like a grungy version of Pippi Long-stocking. G and I watch as she picks up the Hula-Hoop and begins to swing it around her stomach. Everyone in the bus station is staring as she gets the thing going faster and faster. Itâs hard not to. Even the guy behind the glass is temporarily distracted from his show. He looks like heâs trying to think of a reason to tell her to stop but canât come up with one. This girl has the most amazing stomach muscles Iâve ever seen, not that Iâm an expert. I try not to stare at her midsection but itâs next to impossible. I focus instead on her face, her brow furrowedin concentration. Her eyes are focused on the floor and the spinning hoop on her hips. Underneath her dreadlocks, which Iâve always thought were pretty tacky and gross on white people, sheâs really pretty. She has sharp cheekbones and perfectly shaped pink lips. Sheâs like a hot girl in disguise!
âThatâs Emily,â says G, sounding a little annoyed. âI guess sheâs just practicing. Itâs not like weâre going to make anything here.â
âIs that what you do?â I ask without ever taking my eyes off Emily and her undulating midsection.
âSort of. Thatâs Lyle over there,â she points at the boy with the anarchy vest. He has light brown hair that looks like itâs on the verge of thinning and enormous sideburns as if to compensate. âHe and I do a trapeze and ropes act. Jesse made these.â She holds up the peanut butter sandwiches and offers me one again. This time I take it and bite into the squishy wheat bread. The peanut butter sticks to the roof of my mouth, and I shovel it off with my tongue. Jesseâs hands are stretched over his head, and the sole of one foot is pressed into the opposite leg in what looks like some kind of yoga pose. âJesseâs kind of like the MC. Heâs a storyteller. Heâs just kind of got a way with the audience.