One Week - By Nikki Van De Car Page 0,3

on my side.

Ow! What the hell? Giant Fat Guy is sitting on me.

“Excuse me?” I say as politely as I can, under the circumstances. “Sir, you're kind of hurting me…”

He grunts and continues shifting around.

“Ouch! Um, mister, could you sit still please?”

He starts digging around in his backpack (and thereby digging his elbow into my side, by the way) and pulls out a bag of chips and a liter of orange soda. Gross. I hate orange soda. One time when I was little I had too much at a birthday party and I puked and the smell has made me nauseous ever since.

Okay, Bee. Focus on the music. Focus on how the train is leaving LA. Focus on how you're skipping school tomorrow and every day for the foreseeable future. Focus on anything but the smell of the orange soda.

The train lurches as it rounds a bend, and Fat Guy drops the orange soda. All over me. Of course.

“Shit!” I yell, and stand up, doing my level best to spill the rest of the bottle on him where it belongs. But it's all gone. All over me and my bag. I'm smaller than him. By a lot. What were the odds that the soda would land on me?

I look at Fat Guy, waiting for the apology. But it doesn't come. He shrugs, and his hand goes back in the chip bag.

Oh God. I think I'm going to be sick. The orange soda smell is inescapable now and it's all over me and it's sticky and…

I run to the bathroom.

I brush my teeth—hey, when you have a bag this big, you have room for everything—and wash my face. I wish I had stopped to grab at least a change of clothes before I left. Usually I have at least an extra top in here, but wouldn't you know the day I run away from home is the day I'm low on supplies. I look down at my top and sigh. It's a thin cashmere halter top, and rinsing it here would ruin it. But then, the orange soda already took care of that, didn't it.

I strip it off, and rinse it in the tiny sink. At least this'll get rid of the smell. I wring it out, and do my best to reshape it into something resembling a shirt. I pull it back on, and glance in the mirror. Oh Jesus.

Why hasn't anybody thought of having a wet T-shirt contest using cashmere? It'd be a big hit.

There's knock at the bathroom door, and I realize that I've been in here for kind of a long time and there are probably people waiting. I turn off the light and open the door—in that order—hoping to keep my nipples to myself for as long as possible. The mother and the little boy who is holding his crotch don't even glance at me. Sorry kid, mine was a soda emergency of a different kind.

I take a deep breath and head toward the seats. A couple of heads glance up, and then a couple more. The twelve-year-old boy in row four starts snickering. I cross my arms over my chest. No way am I sitting next to Fat Guy again. He looks up and now hescoots over to make room for me to sit down. Asshole.

Goth Geek hasn't looked up. He's reading. I make my way over there, and sit in the seat next to him, and bury my head in my arms. I hate trains. I miss Carlos.

“Who's Carlos?”

I look at Goth Geek, surprised. Did using so many chemicals on his head make him psychic?

“You muttered that you miss Carlos? Your puppy or your boyfriend? Or both?”

“He's my dad's driver,” I say reluctantly. Thoughts aren't supposed to be muttered, Bee.

“Aww, what happened? Did the IRS remember you exist and now you have to take the train with the rest of the poor kids?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, that's what happened. And then my dad testified against the mobsters that have been funding his projects and now they're after me and I'm going into witness protection. So shut up and quit drawing attention to me.”

“You're going out of your way to draw attention to yourself,” he says, shrugging.

I glare at him, waiting for a wet T-shirt comment, but it doesn't come. “Shut up and read your book,” I snap.

I put my earphones in and try again to zone out. I wish I'd brought a book.

What's he reading? I try to surreptitiously glance at the book,