Reality Check (7 page)

Sully made something like a snorting noise, then moved past her. Charly noticed his shoulders trembling with silent laughter, and didn't see what was so funny. Then she noticed he had a leather travel bag in his hand. A big one, she noted, watching him walk toward the back, then lift the oversized case and place it on what she assumed was one of the bunks. “Do you want top or bottom?” he asked, loud enough for her to hear.

“Excuse me?” she asked, finally setting Marlow on the floor and watching her race around in small circles. Charly turned her attention back to Sully. “Aren't you on the other bus, the
boys'
bus?”

He pulled back the curtain a bit, enough for her to see his face. “Yes, Charly. I am.” He forced a smile, then purposely cringed. “I'm not sure if you know it or not, but
this
is the other bus.”

Charly didn't understand. She was sure that males traveled separate from females, and had been assured by Mr. Day that she and Annison would be together. “You sure? I'm almost certain that costars bus with costars. So that means me and Annison and you and . . . Liam?”

“Yes, Liam,” Sully said, approaching her. “It's okay to say his name. I see how you look at him,” he teased. “But yes, that's my costar—no, I take that back. I'm
his
costar.
Costar
is supposed to mean we're equal, but he's like huge in England—like
Idol
huge, bigger than me and my teen Nick show. Anyway, that's who we're waiting on. I'm sure I would text him to hurry—okay, actually I wouldn't. I don't talk to him unless I'm forced to—but even if I was willing, my cell only makes and accepts calls. It doesn't text or go online. I don't believe in all this technology—it's an interruption of life.” He looked at his watch. “I think English Pretty Boy Floyd's helping Annison and her crew on
the main
bus. The real limo of the highways.”

Charly shook her head. Nothing made sense. She took her phone from her pocket to see that her battery was almost dead.

Sully continued. “Really? I guess you don't know the real deal about this series. Annison and Liam are the costars; we're their sidekicks. They can dress it up and call us costars if they want; it isn't true though. She gets her own bus, and only she and her assistants ride in her motor limo. We, on the other hand, get to ride in our motor coach.”

Now Charly was confused. “I thought you said they—Annison and Liam—are the stars. What bus does he ride in?”

Sully laughed. “He doesn't. He flies everywhere in a jet. Period.”

“Miss? Sir? Can I get either one of you anything? Perhaps something for the puppy?” a raspy voice interrupted.

Charly turned around just as she'd reached the bunks—the tiny bunks that couldn't have been more than three feet wide and six feet long—and laid eyes on a tall, burly boy whose hair was missing. All of it. From where she stood, she didn't see hair or eyebrows, and she assumed his eyelashes weren't there either. She spotted an outlet next to the bunks and plugged in her phone.

Sully laughed. “Good one,” he said to the guy. “Perhaps! Ha!” He was amused. “You sound just like you're from across the pond.”

“Right?” the guy said to Sully. “Anyways, we're here!” He turned his attention to Charly. “I'm Eight,” he said, then lifted his hands, showing off a blur of red fuzz. “Oh, and how could I forget the most important person on this bus, Annison's Doll?” He sneered. “She's all yours, Charly.”

Charly drew her brows together. What on earth was this guy talking about? “Sorry?”

He laughed. “My name's Eight. Really. And don't laugh because it's not funny. Before you ask, let me run the math for you. I was born August eighth at eight-oh-eight in nineteen eighty-eight. And Doll's all yours.”

Charly nodded, taking in his answer. It was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard, but all the eights made sense, so if his mother wanted to name him after numbers, what business was it of hers?

Sully walked up to her and put his hand on her back, then walked to the sitting area. “He's telling the truth, Charly. Eight's a good guy. He's with me. Long story.”

“Oh, and by the way, I also serve as chaperone. You didn't expect the studio to let a bus full of teens travel without supervision,” Eight said.

Charly's smile faded behind Eight's back. She didn't like being babysat, but knew there had to be some sort of rules or laws against a bus full of teenagers traveling across country without an adult overseeing them. She reared back her head in surprise, wondering what else she didn't know about. “Where do you sleep?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Eight smiled and pointed to the back. “There's a foldout, kinda like an old-school Murphy bed. It's out of your way, so no need to worry about that. But you do need to worry about Doll. She's all yours,” he said again, then looked down at Marlow, who ran in quick circles on the floor at Eight's feet, looking anxious for him to put Doll down. Sully, now sitting in one of the leather chairs, crossed his leg over his knee like Charly's dad would while reading a magazine, and laughed.

Charly's eyes bulged. She pointed to her chest. “Me? Whadda ya mean, she's all mine?”

Eight put Doll down, then made his way back to her. “Per Annison, Doll is supposed to be with you and Marlow.”

Charly put her index finger to her lips. “Well, let me think about that for a second,” she said, pausing. “Nope! That's not going to happen. I'm just going to take Doll back to her owner.”

“Ready? Let's hit the road, kids!” the bus driver said, suddenly in his seat. He closed the doors, revved the engine, and pulled off before Charly could get in another word.

C
harly turned a fraction of an inch, then moved again, thinking the expression
tossing and turning
couldn't have come from someone who'd ridden a tour bus, at least not the one she was on. She punched her pillow to soften it, then folded her midsection until it curved in. Doll and Marlow had made themselves comfortable next to her navel and were now slumbering like infants against her stomach. Charly rolled her eyes. It was a shame that two little dogs, sleeping so soundly, could prevent her from doing so. Because she couldn't straighten out, she couldn't rest. She exhaled long and loud, releasing her frustration.

“Charly, you good down there?” Sully asked, his deep voice coming from the top bunk across from hers.

Charly reached out and pulled back the curtain that sealed off her bunk from the others. “Yes. It's just hard to sleep with these two crowding me, and because of the newness of it all.”

“Yo, meet me in the back to grab a quick bite,” Sully half spoke, half whispered, his voice too deep to fully whisper. “I'm starving.”

She heard Sully moving around on his bunk, then his feet thumped on the floor. With a lot of effort, she managed to worm her way around Marlow and Doll without waking them, careful not to bang her head on the top bunk, which was barely three feet above hers. She slid open the curtain, but not all the way. She didn't want the light to hit the pups and wake them. Her feet connected with the cold floor, and the coolness traveled from her soles to her head. “Great,” she mumbled, walking the few feet to the kitchen area to meet Sully. “Now I'm cold too,” she complained, then reminded herself that she wanted all this. She desired fame, so she had to take everything that went with achieving it.

She'd taken only seven steps when she bumped into Sully's rear. “Sorry,” she apologized, squinting her eyes in the barely lit area.

“No problem. You can run into me anytime. Any time at all,” he teased. He was bent over with his head in the refrigerator. “Here,” he said, passing back pita bread, a huge bag of potatoes, and a container of hummus.

Trying to balance the pita bread and hummus, the bag of potatoes started to slip from her grasp. “No . . .” she sang loudly, trying to catch it before it hit the floor or her bare foot. The last thing she needed was ten pounds of spuds hurting her before the show had even started.

“Ssh,” Sully whispered, then stood, pointing to a small area off the tiny kitchen. “Eight's knocked out.” He reached for the potatoes. “We're not having these, Charly. I just needed you to hold them until I got the turkey from behind the hummus. They were in the way.”

Charly followed his finger and, sure enough, Eight was asleep on a bed that unfolded from the wall and couldn't have been any larger than her own. Half of it was exposed, and the other part was hidden behind the sink area. Charly guessed Eight had to climb in to lie down, but obviously wasn't uncomfortable. His mouth was hanging open, and he was snoring ever so slightly.

Suddenly things changed. Bright light assaulted her eyes. People, at least two, appeared out of nowhere. A camera was stuck in her face. A microphone on a long pole was over her head. Gobs of wires seemed to be everywhere.

“Oh. What the—?” Sully shouted.

“Duck!” Charly said.

Sully, with two plates and jar of mayo in his hands, ducked and banged his head on the counter. “Ow. That's gonna leave a knot on my forehead.”

Charly grimaced. “I didn't literally mean duck, Sully. I was saying to
say
duck. Duck, you know, so you don't use the
f
word. Say duck instead of cursing. Got it?”

The cameraman rolled his finger in a circle, urging them to keep going. “We're filming,” he mouthed.

“Duh, like we couldn't tell,” Sully said sarcastically, standing and pressing a canister to his head. “The pressure should help stop it from knotting up so big,” he explained, looking at Charly, then he turned his attention to the men. “When did you guys get on this bus?” he asked, not looking half as surprised as Charly.

Charly looked from Sully to the cameraman to the guy holding the boom mic over their heads.

The cameraman shook his head. Microphone-man leaned the mic against the wall, took out a notepad from his back pocket, then began to scribble on it.

He flipped the page and began scribbling again.

Charly nodded. So now she was supposed to pretend the extra passengers weren't on the bus, grab a bite with Sully, and be natural? Sure. She could do that, she told herself. She had to. Never mind that she was dog-tired and tired because of the dogs. Who cared that she probably looked something like a raccoon from lack of sleep and was wearing her pajamas. “So . . . ,” she began. “What are we eating?” she asked Sully, trying to be as natural as she could. “Hummus or turkey?”

The bus jerked, followed by a loud mechanical yawn. Charly's body flew to the side, bumping the wall, then bounced, hitting Sully. The camera shifted on the man's shoulder before falling. In one quick swoop, he dove to the floor and caught the camera before it hit. The bus yawned again, then the motor died. The lights flickered off, then on, then off again.

“Serious?” Charly yelled. “Somebody tell me this is a joke.”

Noises rattled from the front of the bus. Eight stirred from his recess in the wall. A
tha-thump
could be heard from the bunk area, followed by Eight hissing a few curses about banging his head. Marlow and Doll started to whine.

“No, I can't lie to you,” Sully said. “This is not a joke.”

Charly turned in the dimness, barely able to see the cameraman. The light filtering in from outside allowed her to see his silhouette. “Does that thing have battery power at all?”

He nodded.

“Don't nod. Talk! We're not taping, so what's the big deal?” Charly's hands were on her hips.

“Of course it has batteries,” Sully answered for the cameraman.

“So please turn on the light. The camera has a light—you just blinded us with it, so I know it's there,” Charly urged.

With only one click, Charly was almost blind again from all the wattage. “Good,” she said. “Follow me.” Barefoot, she pivoted, walking toward the front of the bus, then stopped at her bunk. “I just need to get Marlow and Doll to make sure they're okay. Plus, by now I know they have to go potty. No sense in allowing them to make unnecessary doggy deposits on my bunk.” She drew back the curtain, took out Marlow and set her on the floor, then Doll. “Mr. Driver! Mr. Driver! Please show me where the motor is,” she said, making her way to the front door. “I didn't come all this way to fail. There's a girl in Chicago who needs us, and we're going to help her. Period!”

 

Charly learned two important things about the driver. First, his name was Driver. “Just Driver,” he'd informed her after she introduced herself and then asked for a flashlight so she could tinker with the motor. Second, Driver didn't let anyone touch his bus. “Period. Not a soul touches the soul of this here bus—and the engine is the soul. Sorry, Charly.” He'd been final with his words.

Charly stood on the side of the road, piecing it all together. This was a show—a series on a major network—so there had to be a backup plan. There were, after all, other buses. Annison had one, and she was sure there was another for equipment and other things necessary for filming.

Sully stomped off the bus, cursing. He wrapped his fingers around his dreadlocks and tied them into a knot. He yawned and stretched, then slipped on his sneakers. “So when does the cavalry arrive?” He directed his question to Eight, who was now leaning against the bus.

Eight shrugged, then held his phone in the air. “No reception.”

Charly's head almost fell off. “Whaddya mean, no reception? There has to be a way to communicate. You mean the bus's walkie-talkie-whatchamajig doesn't work out here? There's no generator?”

Eight shook his head. “Not without power. And there's no power. Driver said the outlets stopped working, which means those of us who had our phones plugged in to charge . . . well, guess what?”

Charly smirked. “They weren't charging. So there's nothing?” She was exasperated. She'd suffered enough of the blues while traveling from Illinois to New York to know that the feeling in her gut was never wrong. And her instinct and intuition told her she'd have to make a way out of no way again: this time from wherever they were now, to Illinois.

“Let me check with the crew,” Sully said, sidestepping the cameraman, whose camera was still lighting the way for Charly. “Okay, let me check with the boom guy.” He disappeared back onto the bus.

Charly walked over to Driver. “Do you know where we are?”

Driver smiled, nodding. “Sure I do. We're in the middle of nowhere, about two hours from lost.” He laughed quietly, embarrassed. “Just joking, Charly. Really, I can't tell you without the right map, and I'm afraid I left it at home. I was using the GPS on my phone to bypass the interstate, which I hate traveling. I was trying to get us there faster, but please don't tell anyone. I'll lose my job.”

“Don't tell anyone? We're lost! And you don't want me to tell—”

Driver held up his hand. “Please, Charly. You're young. You wouldn't understand if I told you.”

Charly crossed her arms. “You better make me understand, Driver. Either that or I'm tinkering with the engine.”

Driver stiffened. “Not the engine.” He leaned toward her. “My wife . . .”

Charly rolled her eyes, preparing for Driver's pitiful story of his wife dying or leaving him, some fictionalized story she was sure he'd use on her to persuade her not to tell.

“Yes, that Bridgette, she's always gambling. Now she done went and gambled the mortgage. I was so mad, I took this job to get me out of there. I usually drive locally, I don't normally drive long distance, unless I have to.”

The mention of Bridgette and her gambling snatched away Charly's anger with Driver for not having the proper map. Her mother's name was Brigette, probably spelled different than Driver's wife, but that was enough to make Charly sympathize. Her mother was a gambler too, and had gambled away Charly's hard-earned money, which had fueled Charly's decision to go to New York to pursue her dream. She shook her head. Now because of the Brigettes she was stuck again.

“I think we're somewhere in Ohio,” Driver said. “The sign said so a ways back.”

Charly exhaled, then began to pace. She had to think of something to do. There had to be a way to get to Chicago.

“Boom-guy says no generator, and no generator means no power,” Sully said, stepping off the bus. “Now ain't this some . . . ?”

“I have some,” Eight said, his voice booming from inside the bus. “I have an extra battery—it has some juice in it, but not much. And my Wi-Fi isn't working. We can't go online,” he said, running out and tripping. Muffled curses came from his mouth. “And no one's answering at the studio. Does anyone have Mr. Day's direct number or the number of someone on Annison's bus?” he asked, finally stepping onto the ground.

Everyone looked around at everyone else. A bunch of
not mes
filled the air.

“The only numbers I know off top are my parents,” Sully said, then shrugged. “But they're in India or China by now. They're on vacation. Then again, they may be in Texas or California and just not answering. It wouldn't be a first.” He spat on the ground, shaking his head.

He clearly had issues with his parents, at least his father, Charly thought, then scratched her head. “I can call my sister. I can't forget her number—we're only one digit off from each other.”

Before Charly knew it, she had Stormy and Lola on the line. She was walking and pacing, easing farther away from the bus to keep the phone's signal strong. Sully was on her heels, listening and watching over her. He needed to be sure she was okay, he'd said.

“You need to find out where you are so I can tell you where to go,” Lola said.

Charly rolled her eyes. “Lola, that's the problem. That's why I'm calling. We're lost!” she snapped.

“Charly. Charly, calm down,” Stormy advised. “Lola, you know they're lost. We established that as soon as we got on the phone. My sister barely has any light besides the stars in the sky, so how's she supposed to see down the street?” Stormy offered, explaining for her sister.

“Yes!” Lola screamed through the line. “That's it. Hold on one sec, I'm calling Smax.”

“Smax? I don't need Smax. I need a tow truck!” Charly yelled.

“Okay. So I can call a towing service. But where should I tell them to go if you don't know where you are?” Lola pointed out.

“Good point,” Stormy said.

“Okay. Smax it is!” Lola said, then clicked over.

Charly crinkled her brows. Why on earth was Lola calling Charly's old boss and Lola's rumored biological father, Smax? Smax wasn't a driver or well traveled. He didn't even know how to use a computer. He was old-school, and right now Charly missed him and his wife, Bathsheba, like crazy. She would've loved to have been with them in the safety of their rib spot, rather than out here in the middle of nowhere.

Lola clicked back in. “One sec. I'm calling Doc,” she said, then clicked off again.