Starchela in LA

Chapter Four: THE BLUE BUS IS CALLING US

Chapter Four – THE BLUE BUS IS CALLING US

I don't know if I can ever go back. Don't know how real a threat Rashad is and how angry Natalie is with me. Fine mess on my first night in LA.

I desperately need coffee. As soon as I get on campus, will look for a cafeteria or machine. I need to wake up if I am to face the jury this morning. And I am. I've Skyped with these professors and they were pretty cool, but this is face to face – they will know I didn't write that play. What if they gave us a writing exercise? The truth will shine for all to see.

The only bright light on this sunny morning is Shane. At the party last night, he talked to me for a long time. Past comfort. That was not just to piss off Natalie. Yeah, life's not so bad. LA's fine. When I left home yesterday the leaves were raining off the trees, now check out the eternal summer around me!

"What's the appropriate wait time before contacting Shane? Or will he beat me to it?" I Tweet. And then it hits me: I never gave him my number. And I didn't get his. I'll have to get it from Natalie. Or maybe he'll beat me to it.

Thinking those thoughts I've ventured into Westwood Village. There's the Blue Bus stop. OMG there's a bag lady on the bench, waiting for my bus. Prepare to be suffocated by stinky fumes. Crude.

I squeeze my school bag, take a deep breath, and approach with caution. She's preoccupied with her issues, hunched over her Ralphs store cart, mumbling something to herself. I sit on the other bench, as far as possible. Don't know if the poor lady is homeless or demented or all of the above, but contact I will not attempt. Let's keep our separate worlds.

When I think "demented" I remember this Russian tennis player whose name is Dementieva. What a cool name. And it's her own given name, it's not a fake like The Rock or Lady Gaga, although I must admit that those are very appropriate monikers. I picked Starchela as a stage name in junior high. By now everyone calls me that, even my mom. Mom, what about her? It's this aroma that reminds me of her, Dove soap. Her skin can't tolerate any other soap, it's too sensitive in some peculiar way, so Dove is her scent. It's coming from the bag lady on the next bench.

I look over. The lady is hunched over her cart, digging through her stuff: bottles and boxes and mysterious packets wrapped in LA Weekly. She keeps mumbling to herself and it sounds like, "... twin sister... younger... far away... twins away..." She smells like my mom.

That's it! That's what I forgot – to call my mom. She must be so worried. I take out my handheld. No new messages, no missed calls from her. Maybe she's not up yet – I keep forgetting which of us is a couple of hours ahead. Should I text her, in case she's still sleeping? "Survived night 1, will call U after class," I text.

"I had a twin sister, an hour younger. But she got sent away, far away," the bag lady says. I look up. She's talking to me.

I'm speechless. She looks like my mom. Her skin's baked to leather, sure, but her bright blue eyes, her sharp nose, her lips – she looks like my mom. She must be the same age, too.

Am I creeped out? Don't know. Freaking out? Can't tell. Am definitely frozen, though. Can't run away. Don't know if I want to. Those words she's saying, I've heard them somewhere before.

"What... what did you say?"

"Lines," she says and her voice sounds nothing like my mom's. This one is husky like Mrs. Gondry in tenth grade. "I'm learning my lines."

"Your lines?"

"I had a twin sister, an hour younger. But she got sent away, far away."

"Are you an actress?"