The bus was filling up. I hurried across the parking lot with my slush. We’d stopped in an area where, much like my last home, the trees far outnumbered the people. As the deciduous maples and oaks faded away, tall evergreens stood in their place. According to the map I’d drawn on the postcard I’d written to Carly, we were just fifty miles from my destination, Blackthorn Ridge. I’d decided to start at the beginning, at the first moment when my dad and my life had taken a completely wrong turn.

I climbed on board. The girl with the grape slush was already patting the empty seat next to her. She held up her drink. “This is the row where the people with purple teeth sit.”

I readily joined her. I’d had to endure more than one annoying seat neighbor on my eighteen hour bus journey, including a man who’d smelled strongly of an aftershave that burned my eyes. For two hours, I got to hear how much money he made and how fancy his car and house were. I pretended to be impressed and had to hold back questioning why he was on the bus instead of in his ultra-expensive car. Yet, he was still better than the woman who kept blowing her nose. At one point, I was sure her red face would explode from it.

I sat down.

“I’m Everly, by the way. So?” She motioned to the drink in my hand. “Was I right or was I right?”

“I bow to your slush expertise.” I reached across to shake her hand. “My name is Tashlyn, but friends call me Tash.”

She stuck out her scarred hand, and I shook it. It felt smaller and harder, almost like plastic in my grasp. I let her hand go, and she sat back with a sigh. “I knew you wouldn’t shrink away. I could tell you were cool from the start. It’s really rotten of me, but I sometimes use this as a test.” She held up her hand. “Some people pull back in horror. Some just pull their lips real tight and take my hand, not wanting to hurt my feelings.” She rolled her eyes. “As if. I mean, I went through my junior high years with this warped skin, and, as I’m sure you know, junior high is the place where bullying and uninhibited cruelty reign supreme. Am I right?” She took a long sip of slush as she looked at me. “Although, you look like one of those lucky girls who basically came out of the womb ready for your modeling portfolio. I’ll bet you’ve never had an ugly day in your life.”

I laughed. “I assure you that is definitely not the case.”

She waved off my statement. “You’re just saying that. Jeez, just look at you. You’ve got that whole blonde-haired, blue-eyed perfection thing happening. Love your little crocheted top, by the way. You look like you just came out of the sixties.” She sat forward and nearly upended her drink. “Who was that curvy blonde with the long bangs and long black lashes? Oh my gosh, she was a big ole deal back in the sixties.” She snapped her fingers, but the scars absorbed the sound. “Bridget Bardot, that’s who you look like. But without the heavy eyeliner and teased hair.”

I smiled. “She was white blonde but mine is more, to use the less poetic term, dirty blonde. I think it’s just the shirt.” I felt my cheeks warm, something that happened easily. “And the boobs, I guess. The people I lived with were sort of left back in a flower child time warp. Don’t get me wrong, I love them all, but whenever I step out into the twenty-first century, I feel really awkward. I don’t even have a cell phone.” I pulled my empty, stamped postcards out of my backpack. “I have to write letters to my aunt to tell her about my trip because she doesn’t have a phone and the internet connection out at The Grog is sketchy, at best.” I chuckled. “We even bake our own bread.”

“The Grog?”

“Don’t ask me how they came up with that name. But, it fits the place.”

“Uh oh.” She reached forward and took hold of the empty gold link on my necklace. Holding a tiny object in fingers that were thick with scars took some effort but she managed. “I hate to tell you this, but whatever charm you had on this necklace has broken off.”

“No, it’s been lost for awhile.” I started to explain to her but stopped. “It’s kind of complicated.” She accepted that explanation. I’d been wearing the chain forever, and the empty link meant something. It was part of that lost time. I’d kept the necklace hoping it would help jar my memory. I couldn’t remember what had been there, but I knew it had had some significance.

The bus driver clamped shut the doors. The motor rumbled, vibrating the windows and the floor beneath our feet. The rest of the travelers settled into their conversations or naps or whatever suited them.

Everly rested back with a thoughtful expression. “I can see you growing up in a place like that.” She swirled her hand in a circle in front of me. “You’ve got that whole inner peace thing going on—at least on the outside. Which, of course, sounds like a total contradiction. But I can tell inside you’re a whole, big gobbly mess.”

I looked down at the intricately crocheted pattern on my shirt. It had been made by a woman named Lacy, who spent most of her day feeding the birds in her garden and crocheting clothes for the people in The Grog. It was my favorite shirt. “You are extremely perceptive, Everly.”

She placed her hand on my arm. The scars somehow felt softer, more like skin this time, as if now that I was getting to know how special Everly was, the scars were fading. “Call me Ever, since we’re friends and all.”

I nodded.

She sat back against the seat. “I would totally love that lifestyle. I could see living like a beatnik or bohemian or whatever, but I do need my technology. Not that I use my phone much except to call my mom and to find out my work schedule. God, that sounds so pathetic now that I’m saying it out loud.” She grew quiet and glanced out the window for a second. “Some of my friends”—she paused—“well, it was too hard for them to get used to my new look.” She shrugged as if it didn’t matter but it was obvious she’d suffered. “Ironically enough, I got the scars trying to save my best friend from a fire. She’d been really upset about something and I’d gone to see her. She died and I lived. My uncle pulled me from her burning mobile home. It was one of those weird things. He was in his house three miles away, and he was sure he heard me screaming. Guess it was like one of those superhuman moments when the mom lifts the car off her kid. He glanced out the window, saw smoke and raced to the mobile home. He managed to get me out, but some of the flames followed.” The last few drops rumbled in her cup as she sucked hard on the straw. There was never any self-pity in her tone. “So, where are you headed?”

“I’m heading toward a town called Blackthorn Ridge.”

“Get out of here,” she said excitedly. “That’s my hometown. I was visiting my mom back in the last town. She lives in a group home for recovering alcoholics.” She covered her mouth and laughed. Then dropped her hand. “Holy crap, can I lay out any more of my dirty laundry? You must think I’m a real basket case.”

“Nope, and it takes one to know one. I’m at the top of the basket case heap. I would lay out my dirty laundry, only I can’t find it.”

She spun sideways on her seat and leaned against the side panel of the bus. “O.K. now you have my complete and undivided attention. Tell me what the heck that means and why the heck you are heading to Blackthorn Ridge, the most uninviting, unimaginative and any other adjective that starts with un town in the western hemisphere. We’ve got at least an hour, so don’t rush. I want every gritty detail.”

I’d grown tired of the slush, and it was now just an icy, wet perch for my fingers. I stuck it in the cup holder. “That’s the problem. I don’t have any details, gritty or not. And, I’ll be getting off the bus at a place called Trumble’s Bridge.”

She had dimples that deepened when she twisted her mouth in question. “Why the heck would you get off there? It’s like the dirty, ugly stepsister of Blackthorn. And trust me, Blackthorn is no Cinderella.”