software, she was sure she’d never use it. But she ended up playing around with it one day when she was bored and, actually, it was a lot of fun to listen to her voice on the computer and use all the editing tools to make it sound professional. She had made the demo CDs before realizing she had no one to give them to. Ever since then they’d stayed at the bottom of her backpack, as useless, Lyssa thought, as her own voice
She picked at the rubber band that bound the CDs together, then shoved them to the very bottom of her backpack so they wouldn’t poke her. As she started to fall asleep, she drowsily thought she saw shooting stars dancing inside her eyelids. But then the stars got closer and closer and Lyssa realized they weren’t stars at all—they were headlights.
The Texas Talent Show van tore past her and…if she squinted…she thought she could see her mom staring out at her from its back window, sticking out her tongue
CHAPTER SEVEN
Twenty–Seven Times You Called Me
W hen Lyssa woke up the next morning, the sun was already high in the sky. Light zigzagged off the waves, shining into her eyes bright as a flashlight. Her neck was sore and her hair was coming out of its braids.
The boy with the curly hair was asleep in the armchair next to Lyssa’s. He was curled up in a little ball and all his blankets had been kicked to the floor. Every few minutes he let out a hiccup-like snore and started muttering in his sleep. Whoever was in the chair on the other side of him was completely buried under blankets, but Lyssa thought she saw a few spiky tufts of Regina’s hair against the pillow. No one had bothered getting up to go to the cots in the back.
The remote-controlled toys were lined up in front of one of the television towers (which weren’t turned off—only muted), and Demo was nowhere to be seen. Lyssa slid to the edge of her chair, lowering her feet to the cold, rocky floor and nearly tripping on the pink sneakers she kicked off in her sleep. She wiggled her toes, trying to shake the pins and needles out of her legs
Lyssa glanced up at the sun again, shielding her eyes from its glare. Her mom had taught her to tell time by examining the sun’s position in the sky. Lyssa judged it to be at least nine-thirty or ten o’clock. Dread crept into her throat. Uh-oh.
As quietly as possible, Lyssa started looking for the rest of her things. Her polka-dot socks were wedged under the armchair. She pulled them on, then her sneakers, without bothering to untie the laces. She unzipped her backpack, digging around until she found her cell phone so she could find out for sure what time it was
As soon as Lyssa pushed the button to un-silence her phone, the ring tone began blaring: it was a snippet of an Athena song that Lyssa had downloaded
“Twenty-seven times you called me. Twenty-seven times you told me you were sorry…”
Lyssa frantically searched for a way to control the volume. She hadn’t had the phone for very long—her mom had alwayshated them. Michael made her carry it around for emergencies, but she’d mostly been using it just to send texts to Penn
The curly-haired boy thrashed around in his patched-up chair
“Just five more minutes, Mom,” he said groggily, the armchair creaking beneath him as he shifted in his sleep
Desperately, Lyssa started pushing buttons at random. She accidentally pulled up her missed calls log—oh, no
There were nineteen missed calls from Michael. Lyssa checked the time of the last missed call: nine o’clock that morning. A hard, hollow feeling formed in Lyssa’s stomach as she pushed another button—this one taking her back to the home page where she could check the time. For a second she could only gape at the numbers on the screen
10:34. It was 10:34. Lyssa was over three-and–a-half hours late getting to the bus depot, and Michael knew she was missing
The phone beeped one more time and Lyssa automatically looked down at the screen: another message from
She picked at the rubber band that bound the CDs together, then shoved them to the very bottom of her backpack so they wouldn’t poke her. As she started to fall asleep, she drowsily thought she saw shooting stars dancing inside her eyelids. But then the stars got closer and closer and Lyssa realized they weren’t stars at all—they were headlights.
The Texas Talent Show van tore past her and…if she squinted…she thought she could see her mom staring out at her from its back window, sticking out her tongue
CHAPTER SEVEN
Twenty–Seven Times You Called Me
W hen Lyssa woke up the next morning, the sun was already high in the sky. Light zigzagged off the waves, shining into her eyes bright as a flashlight. Her neck was sore and her hair was coming out of its braids.
The boy with the curly hair was asleep in the armchair next to Lyssa’s. He was curled up in a little ball and all his blankets had been kicked to the floor. Every few minutes he let out a hiccup-like snore and started muttering in his sleep. Whoever was in the chair on the other side of him was completely buried under blankets, but Lyssa thought she saw a few spiky tufts of Regina’s hair against the pillow. No one had bothered getting up to go to the cots in the back.
The remote-controlled toys were lined up in front of one of the television towers (which weren’t turned off—only muted), and Demo was nowhere to be seen. Lyssa slid to the edge of her chair, lowering her feet to the cold, rocky floor and nearly tripping on the pink sneakers she kicked off in her sleep. She wiggled her toes, trying to shake the pins and needles out of her legs
Lyssa glanced up at the sun again, shielding her eyes from its glare. Her mom had taught her to tell time by examining the sun’s position in the sky. Lyssa judged it to be at least nine-thirty or ten o’clock. Dread crept into her throat. Uh-oh.
As quietly as possible, Lyssa started looking for the rest of her things. Her polka-dot socks were wedged under the armchair. She pulled them on, then her sneakers, without bothering to untie the laces. She unzipped her backpack, digging around until she found her cell phone so she could find out for sure what time it was
As soon as Lyssa pushed the button to un-silence her phone, the ring tone began blaring: it was a snippet of an Athena song that Lyssa had downloaded
“Twenty-seven times you called me. Twenty-seven times you told me you were sorry…”
Lyssa frantically searched for a way to control the volume. She hadn’t had the phone for very long—her mom had alwayshated them. Michael made her carry it around for emergencies, but she’d mostly been using it just to send texts to Penn
The curly-haired boy thrashed around in his patched-up chair
“Just five more minutes, Mom,” he said groggily, the armchair creaking beneath him as he shifted in his sleep
Desperately, Lyssa started pushing buttons at random. She accidentally pulled up her missed calls log—oh, no
There were nineteen missed calls from Michael. Lyssa checked the time of the last missed call: nine o’clock that morning. A hard, hollow feeling formed in Lyssa’s stomach as she pushed another button—this one taking her back to the home page where she could check the time. For a second she could only gape at the numbers on the screen
10:34. It was 10:34. Lyssa was over three-and–a-half hours late getting to the bus depot, and Michael knew she was missing
The phone beeped one more time and Lyssa automatically looked down at the screen: another message from
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