Read Online Whirligig by Paul Fleischman - Free Book Online

for him. But unlike the others, when he stepped off the bus, he’d remain in a world of nameless strangers. He looked out. Except that he now knew Deneb. And Vega. And Altair.
    It was ten when the bus stopped in San Diego. Joints creaking, Brent clumped down the steps. The passengers gathered their luggage beside the bus, then scattered, their community disbanded. He alone remained outside, leaning his pack against a wall and fishing through his pockets for the paper. A young woman from Holland who’d gotten off in Santa Barbara had told him about youth hostels and had let him copy an address from her book. After the night in the San Francisco flophouse he was ready for a change, though not ready to use his Visa to stay somewhere like the Sheraton, as his parents had begged him. The trip was his to take, not theirs. The hostel—cheap, friendly, filled with students—sounded more interesting.
    â€œExcuse, please.”
    Brent looked up. A short, mustached man with a suitcase stood before him. In one hand he held a tiny address book.
    â€œI wonder, sir, if you can tell me where is this address in San Diego. My brother’s house.”
    Brent knew he would be of no help. But when the man held the address book toward him, pointing to the bottom line with a pen, he instinctively stepped forward, bent over the book, studied the microscopic writing—then caught a flash of movement and turned. Behind him, a scruffy teenager had a hand on his backpack. Brent stared at him, speechless. He saw the door he’d come through. Then he glanced back at the first man, realized they were a team, saw no one to appeal to except two drivers at the far end of the station, and yelled “Leave me alone!” loudly enough that both drivers turned. The thieves exchanged a long look. The hand reluctantly released his pack. Then the pair skulked wordlessly into the night.
    It took three packages of potato chips before Brent’s heart slowed to normal speed. He was inside the station, squeezed onto a bench, surrounded by fellow travelers and safe. It dawned on him why animals lived in herds. He scouted the room’s perimeter for predators, decided against walking to the hostel, marched outside, and got a cab. Through its window he saw the summer triangle following him and felt watched over.
    The cab parked. Brent hefted his pack from the trunk and stood on the sidewalk after the cab left. The night air was warm. A bird was singing somewhere. Beside him, he now saw, stood a palm tree. He sighted up its long trunk, touched it, and felt he’d entered a different country. The impression was deepened when he walked up the steps and past the porch, where two women were sitting in wicker rockers and conversing in a language he couldn’t place. Brent passed them and presented himself at the desk.
    â€œPassport or visa, please,” said the clerk. He was young, with a pungent English accent and a head heaped with black curls.
    â€œPassport?” Brent was stunned. “I’m American.”
    â€œWe only take foreign travelers,” said the clerk. “The theory being, as I understand it, that this being your own country, you’ve already got yourself a place to stay.”
    Brent sighed conspicuously, wondered what to do, glanced at a couple huddled over a map, and saw that the hostel was simply a large house and that he was standing in a corner of its living room.
    â€œOf course, it being as late as it is, and unlikely that anyone else will show up, and we being unusually empty as it happens, you might just convince me you’re Canadian.”
    A smile flickered on the clerk’s lips. Brent stared at him and slowly comprehended.
    â€œWhat city was it you’re from?” the man asked.
    Brent racked his brain, then thought of the cyclist he’d met at the campground in Washington. “Prince George,” he answered.
    â€œAnd what’s Canada’s capital?”
    Brent