“There you are,” he says. “I’ve been looking for you, Hatts.”
“Here I am. Sit with me!”
Jeff unzips his jacket, pops it into the overhead space, and settles in next to me. It feels like protection, like a Saint Bernard sat down in my row.
“I probably could have convinced Lucia to come if she knew you were gonna be here. Why didn’t you tell us?”
I’m not really sure why. After our last conversation about Mason, I’ve been steering a little clear of the whole group. I guess I’m afraid he’ll come up again, which makes it hard to hold the secret that, for some reason, I’m the only one who gets to keep talking to him. Or maybe I was trying to keep the whole Richard situation out of their awareness because on some cellular level I knew how ill-advised it was. “It was very last-minute,” I finally say.
This seems to satisfy him. Jeff is not the kind of guy to look for subtext. He takes people at face value.
“So, how’d the snow treat you? I didn’t even know you skied.”
“I don’t,” I say.
Just then we hear a high-pitched whistle from the front of the bus, and the shouting subsides. I get up on my knees to see over the seat backs in front of me. It’s our chaperone, Mr. Williams, standing next to the driver.
“Attention, minions.” That’s what he always calls students, like he’s an evil mastermind or something. Mr. Williams phrases everything in a weird way, and it’s impossible to know whether he’s doing it on purpose or not. The awkward contours of teachers’ senses of humor never stop fascinating me.
“So it has come to our attention that there was some unauthorized substance use of the green leafy variety among our illustrious group last night, which is not at all what I expected from ambassadors of our Crimson Tigers. And as you of course realize, this is a blatant violation of the Code of Conduct that you all signed in order to participate in any school extracurriculars.”
Jeff and I look at each other, and his eyebrows are raised in surprise. He clearly has no notion of what Mr. Williams is referring to, the lucky duck.
“Anyway, I am not going to execute any discipline myself. I am merely the messenger, and will be letting the administration know. But I wanted you all to have something to mull over with your consciences on the long ride home.” He leans in and says something to the driver, and she pulls the bus door closed.
“I hope you enjoyed your testing of a zero-tolerance policy. I think you will find that it is not, in fact, just a formality.” And with that, he disappears, lowering himself into the front seat. I slide down off my knees, too. I’m just trying to get comfortable in my seat despite all the uncomfortable thoughts in my head when I hear Mr. Williams again.
“Hattie! Come to the front, please.”
What?!Why? Has Mr. Williams chosen me for human sacrifice to make a point? I climb over Jeff and drag my feet, which now feel extremely clumsy, down the aisle. Every pair of eyes on the bus is turned up to my face, some with sympathy, others with sheer curiosity. Every pair of eyes, that is, except Richard’s. I can’t help noticing that he’s looking out the window instead of in my direction.
“What’s up?” I say when I get to the front, like everything’s normal. Mr. Williams doesn’t respond, just jerks his thumb toward the door and goes back to his book. I look down the stairwell as the bus driver slides the door back open to see a very appealing five o’clock shadow on a handsome jawline. It’s my waiter!
“What are you doing here?” I ask, taken aback by how delighted I sound.
“I thought I’d come home with you. Meet your folks.”
That quote fromAlice in Wonderlandsuddenly runs through my head, when things get “curiouser and curiouser.” “Really?” I squeak out, like the definition of gullible.
He chuckles. “Would be nice, but can’t. This place would fall apart without me,” he says, sweeping his hand toward the resort building behind him. Then he digs into his pocket and pulls out a familiar purple puffball. “You forgot your hat.” He holds it up the stairs toward me.
“Oh, wow. Thanks.” Usually, I hate it that my bad eyesight causes me to constantly leave things behind, but in this particular case, it’s worked out in my favor. “You really didn’t have to do that.” I come down two steps and take the hat from him, then pull it back on my head. I’m still a step up from the ground so our faces are about even. I grin and bite my bottom lip.
“Well, I figured you’d want it. It looks good on you,” he says. He stuffs his hands back into his pockets, and I notice that he doesn’t have a jacket on. He must be freezing. I resist the urge to hug him.
“Let’s get to moving,” Mr. Williams says now. The rest of the bus, which I had temporarily forgotten existed, is waiting on me. I blush.
“Okay, well, thanks again. I appreciate it,” I say as he starts back toward the café.
“No problem. Glad to see that hat back where it belongs,” he calls. It’s clear to me that this boy has never been embarrassed in his whole life, which is one hell of an awesome superpower.
The door slides closed in front of my face. I turn, mumble “Sorry, Mr. Williams,” out of the corner of my mouth, and move back to my seat. By now, even Richard is looking at me. Feeling emboldened by the receipt of a recent hat compliment from a cutie, I return his gaze. I even smirk a little bit, like I’ve got a juicy secret, challenging him to say something. Instead, he exhales through his nose and shakes his head a little, like he’s disappointed in me. I keep my head up, but my smile fades. Somehow it seems like he won that round, too.
As we finally get on the road, the bus is silent. The quiet combined with the rocking motion of the drive works like a sedative, and soon I’m pretty sure everyone but me is asleep. For a while I rerun the conversation with the waiter on a loop in my mind, trying to hold on to the glow I felt when he looked at me, but the torturous energy of Richard’s presence four rows in front of me overwhelms anything yummy. I wince whenever I peek over the seat back to see the top of his head still there, unmoving. Is he asleep, too? Or is he aware of my eyes on him? Is he sitting there silently mocking me? Thinking about what an inconvenience I was/am? If I’m being honest with myself, he’s probably not thinking about me at all. The pinch of that truth makes me squeeze down lower in my seat. I will myself not to think about Richard the rest of the way home. It’s about as effective as saying, “Don’t think about elephants.”
When my mom picks me up, I avoid all her questions by pleading exhaustion. This is a fact, I am exhausted, but I can talk until sunrise at a sleepover, so I still feel a little guilty. Especially since she looks like she’s starving, and any piece of information from me is a big juicy hamburger with extra pickles.
“You could tell me whether you had a good time or a bad time, at least,” she says.
