Page 10 of The Way the Heart Breaks: Jade’s Story

“I like my seat.” I take the one I always do, left side, three rows back, close enough to the front that I don’t have to yell to get the driver’s attention if I need to, and far enough that the engine doesn’t drown out any conversation that may happen. My bag goes on the seat next to me, so no one takes it.

It doesn’t stay empty long.

Three stops later, and I hear, “Jade, right?” I look up at two girls a few grades above me. Faces I know without names I didn’t care enough to remember, hovering like they’re waiting for something.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Can we sit?”

I shrug like it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t, except it kind of does. I wanted the seat free in case Becca Brooks —Ryan's sister—wanted to sit with me. They slide in, one past me to get to the window, one in the aisle, my bag pushed to the floor.

“You going to the game Thursday?” The window girl asks, already turned toward me like we’ve been talking all summer.

“Yeah,” I say.

“You should sit with us,” the aisle girl says. “We always sit on the left side. You can see better.”

Someone from the seat behind leans forward, arm hooked over the top. “Jason’s your brother, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And Jasper?” another voice asks.

Obviously, I think, but say, “Yeah.”

“Are they starting?” the window girl asks. “My cousin said they might start.”

“I don’t know.” It is the safest answer, because you never know who might get injured at practice.

The bus jolts forward. The driver hits the corner too fast, like he always does, and everyone leans the same way, like we’re on the Flying Bobs at the town fair, not a bus full of kids.

A girl from across the aisle switches seats mid-roll, squeezing in next to us without asking.

“We should all sit together at the game,” she says, like it’s already decided. “My mom brings brownies.”

“Not for the team,” someone behind us says, laughing.

“For us,” she shoots back.

They all look at me again. I nod but have zero intention. I always sit with my family… always will.

At the next stop, the girl by the window moves, and I slide in, because I don’t want anyone else to take the spot. The bus lurches forward.

Out the window, houses slide past. Lawns, mailboxes, and the same dog that always barks when the bus goes by. Everything looks the same as last year.

It doesn’t feel the same, though.

The bus slows before it even fully stops, gravel popping under the tires as we pull up to the Brooks place. If I fell asleep and woke up, I would know it was theirs by the stretch of fence, the pasture that rolls out wider than anything else on the route, the barn set back just enough to feel important.

I lean just a little toward the window, not enough for anyone to call it out, but enough to see them.

Becca’s already boarding, one foot on the step, half turned like she’s waiting for someone behind her. She looks the same as always, her brown hair French-braided perfectly, clothes pressed, like her mom probably checked them twice before she walked out the door, just like mine.

Ryan comes up behind her, hand on the younger kid’s shoulder, guiding him forward so he doesn’t trip on the step. Another one right behind that, smaller, backpack too big, and then⁠—

Her.

I don’t know her, which means she’s new. You just know when someone doesn’t belong to the route, yet in a small town. She’s about his and Becca’s age, maybe a year older, almost white, blonde hair in spiral curls, loose in a way that looks effortless. Pretty. The kind of pretty that makes people look twice without meaning to.