Kissing in America by Margo Rabb Page B

our shift at the laundromat, Annie helped me put together an entire file folder of stuff about the show, and when my mom walked in the door at six o’clock—Larry followed behind her—Annie and I stood up. I handed the file to her, and I told her about the $200,000 scholarship for Annie and the $50,000 bonus for me.
    â€œI need to make a brave choice and take this economic risk. This opportunity could change the course of my future. And you and Larry need time alone right now. So Annie and I are going to leave threeweeksfromThursdayonabus.” I said the last phrase really fast, hoping she wouldn’t notice the last word.
    â€œOn a what?” she asked.
    â€œOn a very, very safe”—I said it quietly—“bus.”
    She glanced at the pages we’d printed out. “On a bus. And where is this bus going—where’s this show taking place?”
    â€œLos Angeles,” Annie said.
    â€œTwo sixteen-year-old girls alone on a bus? Cross-country?” My mother laughed. She looked stunned that I’d even asked to go, as if I’d just asked if I could perform brain surgery on her with my fork.
    â€œMy daughter, my only child, is not taking a bus trip acrossthe entire country with no adult supervision,” she said. “The bus is for society’s underbelly. For sex criminals and moral degenerates and psychotic rapist-murderers.”
    I shook my head. “This is all Aunt Janet’s fault. She’s poisoned your mind.” When my aunt Janet lived in Syracuse, she’d take the bus to see us once a month and always arrived with stories of the crazies on board. One time she sat next to a recently paroled man from Auburn. The man wore an eye patch and proceeded to slowly eat his hair; he’d pick out a few strands and then munch the hairs in his gnarled paws like a squirrel. His patchy head resembled a checkerboard. Then he asked Janet on a date. Tonight’s yer lucky night. I’m gonna take ya out and buy ya an ice cream. She’d told him: No thank you . I’d thought it was a funny story. My mom and Janet hadn’t laughed.
    Now my mom shook her head. “It’s not just Aunt Janet. You remember that beheading in Canada.” Years ago, a crazy person had stabbed and decapitated a young guy on a Greyhound. I knew my mom would file that story away and use it against me someday.
    â€œWe could take the train instead,” Annie suggested. “Though it’s more expensive.”
    My mom shook her head. “It’s no safer.”
    â€œThey could just fly,” Larry said brightly. “It’s an easy hop to LA—I did it lots of times for my old job. Unaccompanied minors get special treatment.” He had a large yellow stain onhis button-down shirt; it was a rare day when he appeared stain-free.
    He glanced at my mom and me and suddenly remembered why we didn’t fly. He picked up the newspaper and hid behind it, as he always did whenever anything remotely relating to my father came up. My mom’s face hardened and she looked away.
    She asked, “Annie, is there someone else you can take with you? Your mom, or another friend?”
    Annie shook her head. “My mom can’t take off work. Eva has to come. She knows the most about my weakest subjects, like literature and women’s history. I can’t do it without her.”
    My mom seemed unconvinced. She glanced at the file we’d given her. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m sorry.” She handed the folder back to me, then turned and went into her bedroom.
    â€œYou have to let me go,” I called after her. “Charlotte Perkins Gilman says all troubles are traceable to the heart or the purse, so this could save me from a lifetime of trouble—”
    My mom’s door closed with a thud. I heard perfume bottles clinking. Whenever my mom had a bad day, she’d stand beside her dresser, remove the