Page 57 of Leaving the Station

After another minute, I convince her to get back onto the train and not jump in the river (she threatened it a second time).

It’s now nearly lights-out, which the conductor reminds us by shouting over the intercom.

“So, I have bunk beds,” Oakley says when the conductor’s done. “And you could sleep in the top bunk. If you didn’t want to stay in coach.”

“Yeah,” I say, trying not to look surprised or scared or a combination of the two. “I mean, sure. That sounds good. But what if one of the conductors sees?”

“Does it matter?” Oakley asks. “If they say anything about you being in the wrong section, I’ll fight them.”

“You’re ready to fight anyone on this train, though.”

“Correct,” she says. “I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“Like with Guy Fieri.”

She looks confused. “Who?”

“Guy Fieri, the creepy man.”

“No, Guy Fieri’s amazing. He’s officiated hundreds of queer weddings.”

I shake my head. “First of all, how do you know—Actually, don’t answer that. Second of all, not therealGuy Fieri. I mean the man from Chicago who kind of looked like him.”

She gets a serious look on her face then. “Well, he was being weird to you. Obviously, I was going to step in.”

It’s the wordobviouslythat gets me. If Alden had said that, I would’ve felt uncomfortable. But coming from Oakley, I feel warm, protected.

“So, are you going to stay in my room or not? The top bunk is all yours.”

“Um, yeah.” I nod. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

Ten

Tuesday, 12:00 a.m., Somewhere in MN

“Nope, nope, nope. I’m not sleeping up there.” I’m staring at the newly unfolded beds in Oakley’s sleeper room. The attendant came by to set them up, and I tried to look like I wasn’t going to spend the night, though all that did was make me seem guiltier. “That top bunk’s a coffin.”

“Why do you think I offered it to you?”

I give her what I hope is my most withering look, and she smiles in return.

The distance between the mattress and the ceiling can’t be more than a couple of feet. I would barely be able to prop myself on my elbow, let alone sit up.

“You get what you get and you don’t get upset,” Oakley says, smug. “Do you want it or not?”

I pretend to consider the offer. My alternative is going back to my rightful place in coach, bundling my jacket behind my neck in a futile attempt to find a comfortable sleeping position. Or I could go to the observation car and practice my T-spins.

“I want it,” I grumble.

We take turns getting changed in the cramped bathroom—nothing falls into the toilet—and when I’m done, I climb into the top bunk.

“If I suffocate here it’s your fault,” I tell her. “And if I get a concussion from slamming my head on the ceiling, you’re paying my medical bills.”

“Sounds good,” she says, crawling into the safety of the bottom bunk.

Then, it’s silent, save for the sounds of the train making its way out west.