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In the furthest corner is the familiar black fabric.
I hoist the backpack onto my shoulder, wavering under the weight. A sharp pain shoots through my back as I try to find a comfortable way to carry it. I’d almost forgotten the ridiculous amount of books I’m expected to carry. Carrying it around all day should count as a P.E. class in itself, but so far that logic hasn’t given me any additional school credits.
“Becca, it’s 6:50 already,” Mom says, walking into my room unannounced.
“What?” I pull out my phone to double check.
She’s right.
I’m going to be late.
My shoes line the bottom of my closet in a lifeless heap, their laces sticking up in every direction like ramen noodles. I grab my beat up sneakers and shove my feet into them. “You should drive me. You haven’t left for work yet,” I say.
“I’m about to, and it’s in the opposite direction. You know that.” She gives me a side hug and leans in to kiss me on the cheek—as if that’ll make up for her deserting me.
“Yeah, I know.” My spine stiffens. I wipe off her kiss with the sleeve of my jacket, transferring a pink smear onto the fabric.
“Just try to have fun. I’m sure your friends miss you,” she says.
My stomach twists in on itself, and my palms calm up. What are people going to do and say when they see me? Will people gossip about me, or worse? Will they avoid me out of pity?
I run out of my room in a flurry, steering full speed ahead.
Mom follows me out, but I’m already halfway down the stairs by the time she closes my bedroom door behind her. “I love you. Have a great day,” she calls after me.
“You too,” I mumble. My words are so faint I doubt she heard them, but I don’t bother to say them again. They were forced enough the first time—said more out of habit than anything genuine.
Outside, the air is frigid, grazing my cheeks. With every breath, a cloud forms in front of my face. Our grass is frosted over and crunches under each step I take across our yard.
In the distance, the brakes from the bus groan. It’s been years since I last rode on it, but the sound is unmistakable, etched into my memory. It’s getting closer. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s just down the hill. That’s not good because I’m still a few hundred feet away from the bus stop.
I start sprinting to try and make up the distance. My backpack flies up and crashes down against my spine with every stride. The road curves up, and my legs become lead. My lungs burn, and my side cramps. I reach the end of the road panting like a dog as the bus rolls to a stop.
My reflection on the dirty bus door welcomes me. As if I didn’t already look wild enough, now I have a bright pink nose. My cheeks aren’t that much better. Someone might as well have taped giant red roses to either side of my face and topped it off with a clown nose.
I inhale deeply to calm myself, resting my hand on the bus while waiting for the door to open. When it finally does, the door hisses, crying out for some overdue TLC. The sound is like needles over my skin.
I stagger up the metal steps and pause at the top, taking in the handful of freshmen and sophomores who scatter across the gray, fake leather benches. Most of them are half asleep and couldn’t care less about my entrance.
“Find a seat,” the bus driver says. Her grouchy tone is amplified by her icy blue eyes. She doesn’t wait for me to sit before the bus begins to roll forward.
I grip the seats on either side of me to avoid falling into the aisle and slide into the first empty spot I come to. The seat is cold and freezes my backside, sending a shiver through me. I shake it off and set my backpack down beside me, blocking the spot to ensure a solo ride to school. Then, I rest my head back and make the foggy window my center of attention, watching the houses and trees pass.
The bus turns and the familiar buildings blur together, speeding past us. It’s been so long since I rode the bus that I’d forgotten the route. With each passing house, my anxiety spikes. We are heading directly for Lincoln St.
I squirm, and my hands start to sweat.
It’s been three months.
This shouldn’t bother me, but it does. It’s the spot where it all happened.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to avoid it, but that just makes it worse. Instead of watching the street come closer, my mind is filled with agonizing images I’ve tried so hard to forget. The front of his car smashed with pieces of the headlights sprinkled on the ground. His head leaning against the seat . . . and blood. There’s a lot of blood. I’m shaking him, trying to get him to talk to me. I’m finding his weak pulse.
My eyelids jerk back open.
The bus is getting smaller. The gray seats are pushing me in all directions, suffocating me.
My pulse is skyrocketing.
