bus 209
Freshman year, a suggestion of sunlight lit weekday mornings in a haze of Pacific fog, evergreen canopy and shadow studded with pine needles. Under the street sign my fingers went numb in my sweatshirt pockets, rain veiling the end of the road in a shroud of grey.
Hear the school bus first: the crunch of wheels on pitted asphalt, loud splashes from the muddy puddles that have eroded the road over time into ponds. Dark dirt flecks scatter across the bright yellow paint.
Weed and diesel hang viscous in the air. This kid wears the same tattered Metallica hoodie every morning with the drawstrings pulled tight under his chin, dark eyes, twin black voids, punctuating his face. The bus driver asks him about his day. He’ll tell her about the cakes he will make in his baking class, which is the only class he’s currently passing, how he doesn’t even need a diploma to take over his mom’s store, and how he doesn’t have the GPA to make graduating worth it. He talks about culinary school, sometimes, while he smudges his eyeliner with the back of his hand. On the days he doesn’t show up at the bus stop, the morning ride to school is quiet.
The girl who waits with me in the rain wears purple glasses and has dyed blonde hair, streaks of pink and blue fading into orange and green. She wears a fluffy fox tail that swings from her belt as she walks. She tells me about the mouse she found in the kitchen last night, how it was really cute, how her stepmom killed it, and how she watches Undertale playthroughs on her laptop every day after school, and how her parents turn on Dr. Pimple Popper during dinner, and how she’s working on a new cosplay for the Rose City Comic Con. Under that flickering lamp post with the candy and condom wrappers strewn about it, she tells me lore about My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic characters as if I am already acquainted, detailing a complex web of interactions and relationships between all the ponies. Her tennis shoes are separating at the toes and the pooling rain reflects from the open seams. Our raincoat hoods frame our faces, water dripping steadily off the brim.
In the bus lane after school, we stand on the curb, people I don’t know but see every day swarming around me. Oil slicks bleed watercolor rainbows into the asphalt. Two freshmen make out in between the parked buses, hands awkward and hungry, and as she heads up the bus stairs her sister leans across the aisle and grabs her shoulder and squeals, “Oh my god, your first kiss?” and she’s blushing and we’re all smiling and even the back rows are cheering and the bus smells like a mix of teenage body odor and Garnier Fructis.
The weird kid that multiple people on our bus have a restraining order against sits next to me one day. The bus is packed; there aren’t many seating options. I learned early on that the front of the bus is for the kids who don't want any trouble or don't belong anywhere else. He has a foxtail, too, attached with a chain to his camo cargo pants, a wintry grey that matches the deep set of his clear eyes. He rambles about the bad teachers at school, and he talks about everything and anything like I know him already. The collar around his neck is studded with rhinestones. He says it makes him feel pretty.
Undertale girl sits next to me again the next day, and she tells me about the kid with the clear grey eyes, who is her friend, and she tells me about how he has to take care of his siblings because his alcoholic mom and game-addict dad don't do shit around the house, and how she wishes she could make him feel better somehow. He’s a good person, she says, helplessly.
Two-thirds of a throuple sit a couple rows ahead of me, wrapping their arms around each other as if it will keep out the world. They laugh about the prank their girlfriend pulled on them and plan her anniversary surprise out loud together. I learn the jawbreakers their girlfriend likes, her favorite Marvel movie, that she loves fuzzy socks. The pretty junior from my Spanish 2 class sits by me one afternoon and we share Takis while she tells me about her recent pregnancy scare, and the creepy uncle that lives in her guest bedroom. She teaches me what kind of boys to avoid and that prom isn’t about the dance but what happens after. The goth girl a row ahead rants about how stupid her mom is when finding new places to rent that are outside of what they can afford. She explains the Rocky Horror Picture Show in detail to the guy across the alley and I know the plot points and all her favorite costumes by the end of the trip. As long as I’m on this bus I am not lonely.
Sophomore year, I move into a different neighborhood. At the end of the first day of school, the kid who wants to go to culinary school passes by me. Bus 209 is over there, he tells me. I don't take that bus anymore, I say. We stare at each other for a long time. Then we finally break eye contact and walk away—him to bus 209, me to 168.