The entire convoluted series of events began the first Saturday of Spring Break on Harris County ISD's Bus 5. Out of all of the school buses in the district, number five is the saddest, most pathetic clunker in the fleet of decrepit rustbuckets.

The exterior paint is chipped and peeling, and the inside of the bus smells like some lethal concoction of gym socks, puke, and ineffective cleaning supplies. All the seats are torn, the ground is always sticky, and most of the windows don't close all the way, so when it rains outside, it also rains on the bus.

However, as you probably already know, Coach Byron is a bit old and a touch senile. So that morning, we found out he hadn't requested a bus for the annual out-of-state softball tournament until the morning of (because to do otherwise would be merely absurd!), and Bus 5 was the only one raring to go.

But, at least the windows stayed ajar. I kept my cheek pressed against the glass, enjoying the fresh breeze and the soft sprinkle of rain. We'd been on the road for nearly seven hours, and I felt like someone was trying to tear my stomach open from the inside. I had to keep reminding myself of how happy I was to be there.

You probably don't know this, Ms. Renaldi, and you would never guess, but I, humble (awkward) Sophomore Gwyndolyn Dare, am an elite member of the Harris County High School's Lady Tigers Varsity Softball team. Well, at least until Haylee Renfrow recovers from her ACL surgery. I was over the moon to be chosen despite my lack of coordination. It was a dream come true. It was amazing. It was awesome.

But it was also way past lunchtime.

"I'm so hungry," I mumbled bitterly, watching the suburban landscape whip by.

"Coach said we would stop at noon," Elise reminded me in an attempt to stop my complaining. She wanted nothing more than to finish her book—Art of War by Sun Tzu.

"It's 1:13!" I exclaimed softly to avoid being heard by Coach Byron. Although he is older than dirt, his hearing is still sharp, and he gets very irritable if you wake him from his naps. "He's been asleep for more than an hour, and we've passed two IHOP's!"

"Which means that he will probably wake up any minute now. Come on, Gwyn," Elise sighed, not taking her eyes off of the pages. "Do you honestly think IHOP is the best place for lunch?"

"One word, Elise: tradition," I said emphatically, spreading my hands through the air like I was creating an imaginary banner. "The team always stops at a breakfast joint on their way to the out-of-state tournament. Besides, everybody loves an all-day breakfast."

"Well, not Colel," Elise reminded me pointedly. Colel has a problem with breakfast foods that I will never understand. She doesn't like the concept of sugary food for a meal, and apparently, she hates the smell of bacon.

"Yes, but Colel is only one naysayer. There are plenty of people who love pancakes."

To prove Elise's earlier point, we heard a shuddering cough in the seat in front of ours. Coach Byron grumbled and coughed several times more, pulling himself upright. "I hate rain," he muttered darkly, cursing at the sound of his back popping and his joints creaking. "Cuevas, how we doing?" He called up to the senior girl sitting (illegally) behind the wheel of the bus.

"Good, sir. We seem to be makin' decent time."

"Very nice. Looks like we are fixing to come into Greensboro." He turned, letting Mara focus once more on driving, and Elise was still wrapped up in her book. "Deighton, what's the time?" He barked.

"13:14, sir," Elise replied with the same crisp voice. She always keeps her wits about her, even as she transverses literary worlds.

"Where are we, Dare?"

"Greensboro, North Carolina, sir," I replied.

"Alright," he cleared his throat again, braced himself against the seat, and stood. We had passed the test. "Ladies, y' all ready to grab grub?"

As the music cut off, a raucous succession of excitement took up in its place. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who was desperately hungry.

"Then where do ya'll wanna stop?" Coach asked when the noise died down.

"IHOP?" I called out, but my words came out quieter than anticipated, and only Elise seemed to hear me. My cheeks grew hot, but Elise rolled her eyes and turned around in her chair.

"How about stopping at IHOP? There's one only two miles ahead," she offered in a clear and compelling voice.

A wave of eager yes's rippled through the bus to ease my embarrassment. I beamed smugly at Elise. She couldn't appreciate the power of fantastic breakfast food with those warm pancakes and that delicious syrup and...

"Wait, what about barbecue?" Someone called from the back of the bus. No, not someone. Colel. "I know the team tradition is breakfast for lunch, but I found this great barbecue restaurant just a mile and a half ahead."

My supporters fell silent. I watched Colel smile sweetly and caught as many eyes as possible. "I love the tradition, but aren't y'all tired of eating generic breakfast items from chain restaurants that are within spitting distance of Hamilton County? Wouldn't it be better to eat at a barbecue place that is local to the area instead of a joint chain we can eat anywhere? Trust me; I have a good feeling about this place." She fell silent, allowing affirmative voices to bolster her argument for her.

Like a tide of mutiny, heads started bobbing. Finally, when she saw that things were in her favor, she called: "All in favor of barbecue?"

Hand after hand rose until even Elise's hand was high in the air. I felt a sharp pinch between my eyebrows like a headache was building. It was a betrayal-induced headache.

"That's the majority," Coach Byron said. "What's the name of the place, Pakal?" Although Pakal came out more like Pack-ul.

She lifted her voice to convey her words clearly from across the bus. "Bumsnort Barbecue."

"Bumsnort Barbecue," I repeated for Elise's benefit as the team flocked towards the front entrance of the building. "And, look, there's a nice statue." I pointed to the metal statue of a buck sitting on a toilet, newspaper in its hooves. After all, what better object to put right next to the entrance of a barbecue restaurant?

"Voicing your displeasure will garner no sympathy from me," Elise commented. I passed a perturbed glare in her direction but nothing more.

I had already fallen silent as the group of girls began to press tighter to get through the doorway. I felt the intensity of my headache mount with each moment of close contact as we squished through the door, but the inside of the restaurant offered no reprieve to my pain.

The poorly named bar was bustling with boisterous groups who were laughing and talking at unacceptable decibels.

"Oh my gosh, Colel," I heard one girl—Gwen Torres—squeal beside me. "This place looks so cool!"

I had to resist the urge to scoff. The restaurant was no different from the millions of other dimly lit hole-in-the-wall places you can find in the South.

The dark cedar walls were covered with dead creatures and Civil War memorabilia while the floor was a haphazard maze of old wooden tables and edged by well-worn booths. A disproportionate number of hairy men were shouting across the room at their comrades and clanking pitchers of alcohol together. It was 1:00 pm on a Saturday. My skin crawled as I imagined what the restaurant scene would become when the sun went down.

We found several tables to divide our group between, and I slide into the maroon booth first so I could lean against the wall.

Unfortunately, sharp blades and rusted rifles covered the wall so thoroughly that I was forced to let my forehead fall onto the tabletop.

Elise slid in beside me. "Why do you always get so upset when Colel gets her way? You know it has nothing to do with you."

I pulled myself back up. "Trust me, I know. I just really wanted to go to IHOP."

More laughing, more headache.

"And I understand that, but it's one hour post-meridian. The majority of folks didn't want to go eat breakfast items." Elise pulled out her book.

I saved my retort as the waitress arrived with a bright, cheery grin plastered on her face.

"Hello! My name's Reese, and I will be your server today!" She exclaimed, beaming as she divvied out menus. She was way too happy to be a waitress. In fact, I was pretty confident she was too happy to be a human. When she handed me my menu, I couldn't wholly withhold my perfume-induced cough. What combination of lethal chemicals had she bathed in?

"Is this your first day?" Elise inquired while I tried not to react to the artificial smell.

The waitress beamed brighter. "No. My second!"

I managed to move as far as I could from her fake fruity fumes, but, great green goblins, my head hurt. The pain only built as Miss Enthusiasm took everyone's orders, moving her cloud of synthetic sunshine.

"What's your name?" She asked, staring at me with wide blue eyes that reminded me of a cartoon animal.

"Gwyndolyn," I supplied mindlessly. My temples continued to pound rhythmically.

"Gwendolyn? With an e and a y?" She asked, looking down at her notepad.

"No, two y's." Elise corrected although it really didn't matter. It was just one of those silly little details that Elise focuses on.

Yet, Elise's correction made the preppy waitress drop her pen. "Gwyndolyn—with two y's..." she muttered to herself. She reached over the table and poked my forearm, drawing it back as if she had been burned.

Then her eyes widened like large saucers. She opened her mouth as if to say something but snapped it shut just as quickly. "Right, I have to go place all these orders or..." A broad, uncontrollable smile broke over her face. "Right; bye!" She darted back to the kitchen without another word.

"That was odd. Did the waitress ever take your order?" Elise asked, scribbling a note in the margin of her book.

"It doesn't matter; I'm not hungry." My headache had successfully spoiled my appetite.

Elise offered nothing more than a harrumph directed into her book.

The barrage of noise attacked me from either direction as the restaurant's customers continued to become more and more boisterous. I heard Colel's laugh rally the rest of the girls in a similar cacophony of noise. My head felt like it was splintering in two.

"That's it," I hissed to Elise, excusing myself. I wove through the tables in search of solace. Finally, I reached the lady's room to find it blissfully empty. When the heavy door came to a close, the noise and barbecue smells died away, overtaken by the faint trace of bleach. Although it wasn't exactly heaven on earth, it was so much better than the chaos of teenage girls.

I took stock of myself in the mirror, noting the dreary dullness in my eyes. I like being on the varsity team; I really do. But, if I am being candid, the team environment gives me a headache. Maybe it's just the combination of individuals or my reticence towards crowds in general, but I can hardly make it through a social event without an awful between-the-eyes pain that makes me long for Ibuprofen.

Seven hours in I was already at my wit's end. The next six seemed even more daunting.

Stop it. I reminded myself. Don't be an antisocial loser. This isn't about bonding; it's about softball. You love softball. This is just an awful conflict to move along the plot. I repeated encouraging words over and over to myself like a rallying cry, hoping they would take effect.

I heard the laughter just before the door flew open and several girls came parading in. It was two of the starting seniors and Colel.

"Hey, Gwyn," Colel offered when her giggles died away. "You been hiding out in here?"

I offered a customary smile to the older girls. "Perhaps."

Colel nodded. "I understand. It's so loud and noisy out there. It's giving me a headache."

It was a silly lie. Colel knew it, and I knew it, but I nodded anyway. "If you want reprieve, the front of the bus is usually much calmer," I offered sincerely. The back of the bus is always loud with laughter and Gwen Torres's giant speaker.

Colel smiled for a heartbeat before shaking her head and turning back to the older girls. "I promised I would show everyone the Alt artist I found. You know that one I had you listen to last week? Thanks, though."

I nodded. Colel was—is—complicated. Yes, I consider her my dear friend, but not always in public. She enjoys the attention her charisma provides her a bit too much.

I left the older girls' company and was heading back towards the table when I stumbled to a stop at the sound of my own name.

"—Gwyndolyn! Yes, Gwyndolyn Dare!" She whispered like an excited five-year-old (basically yelling quietly). Without a shadow of a doubt, I knew it had to be the hyperactive waitress, Reese. I leaned closer to the kitchen door, trying to hear over the noisy restaurant. "Gwyndolyn Dare! Can you believe it?! My first week on the job, and I find Gwyndolyn Dare!"

How does she know my last name? I pondered with interest. I listened for a response but heard only silence. Perhaps she was listening to someone who grasped the concept of whispering more firmly. Or perhaps she was talking to herself.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. She has her mother's eyes."

My novel curiosity turned into icy alarm. My mother? How did she—could she—know I had my mother's eyes? My mother had been dead for fourteen years.