Better Nate Than Ever Read Free Page A

as little as me—as little looking as me—walks up to your Greyhound ticket counter, a counter you’re doing one heck of a job manning, to request a ticket out of here.” I’m losing him. I’m losing him. “It’s downright ludicrous, I’ll admit as much, but on the topic of my mom: She’s just in the bathroom. And I’m sure she’ll be out in just a moment, but she’s going through a bit of a stomach ailment and asked that I please take care of my ticket, alone, before she gets out. Because it could take quite a while.”
    Libby and I had rehearsed this speech, and perhaps even over-rehearsed it.
    “You know stomach ailments, sir,” I say, attempting an off-the-cuff improv.
    “You need to be fifteen years old to purchase your own ticket,” the man says, looking above at a TV monitor of the local news. Somebody was juststabbed three blocks from here, which comes as a strange comfort: Perhaps New York will be safer than Pittsburgh.
    I pull Anthony’s ID from my wallet, swallow hard, and slide it across the counter. If this man takes an even vaguely close look at this picture—the headshot of an international model, a brother who could be anything in the world he wants (though he’s lying about his height; he is not five foot ten)—I’m dead.
    Thank goodness the coverage on the local stabbing is so dynamic—a lot of graphics and eyewitnesses, and one woman is crying and holding a baseball bat, getting great screen time—that the man is riveted, not looking away, taking Mom’s ATM card from my hand and going to swipe it when I stop him.
    “Wait!” I say, pulling the card away. “I need to pay this in cash.”
    Just what I’d need: a credit card statement arriving for Mom that says ILLEGAL PURCHASE OF NEW YORK CITY GREYHOUND TICKET BY YOUR UNDERAGE SON.
    Luckily, I caught him in time.
    Luckily, Libby and I prepared for this.
    We worked out every covert detail of my trip, yesterday, when she showed up at my house after school. Picture it: I was pretending to rake leaves in the backyard, in actuality smack-dab in the middle of mysignature, chore-avoiding Singin’ in the Rain routine (it was pouring out). Libby arrived, panting, breaking the news about the audition in the first place. I get all my headlines from Libby; we still have a dial-up modem at home, and thus all Facebook monitoring is done at her house.
    And news she had: “Jordan Rylance”—the lucky twerp across town who goes to the Performing Arts School—“announced a very special trip he’s taking to New York City, Nate,” Libby said, grinning like a Lotto winner. “To audition for a Broadway musical version of E.T. , called E.T.: The Broadway Musical Version .” (At that point, I grabbed on to Feather’s tail, for balance.) “And they’re looking for a young boy to play Elliott. And there’s an open call in Manhattan, this weekend.”
    And Libby squatted and shielded her face, knowing how I always react to world-shaking news. Knowing I would launch anything on my physical person—coins; old friendship bracelets; the rake—thirty feet in every direction, like a supernova star explosion.
    Knowing this was my one-shot ticket out of Jankburg, Pennsylvania.
    And now, almost using my mom’s ATM card only twenty minutes into the adventure, I wonder how I could have managed the nerve to think I might pull this off.
    I step away from the counter and fish through dollars from my plastic bag full of money, and when I return to pay, the sleepy man has been replaced by a woman who has the same non-look on her face as he did, but with more makeup.
    “Can I help you?” She is eating potato chips and they look delicious, by the way.
    “Oh, the gentleman before you was helping me, was all set to let the transaction go through.” Cool down, Nate. “But—uh—I figured you might do that, figured this might be the first thing you bring up when somebody as little as me—as little looking as me—walks up to your Greyhound ticket counter, a