Bus

Junior high is when you get hormones.

That’s when you first try to figure out what they are and why they’re there. It’s a mess trying to figure it out when you’re thirteen. There’s other stuff to do – watch the latest episode of New Jersey Beach (or whatever the hell it’s called), jam out to that Aaron Carter wannabe, read books about vampires. It’s tough being that age. I know ‘cause I was there once.

Now, high school is when you grow up a little bit and actually start to control those hormones. You’re a bit more mature and level-headed. It’s easier since, chances are, you’ve got some background knowledge on the subject and aren’t as stupid. Most of the time, anyway.

Just ‘cause I was there once, though, that doesn’t mean I was any good at it. I was an awkward little lad. I had a crush on DJ Tanner from Full House, but other than that, I didn’t have any kind of love life (not that I do nowadays). I witnessed my peers get caught up in romance, slobbering all over each others’ faces while I was just trying to survive school.

So I think I kinda got some knowledge on the matter, maybe. Never said I was an expert.

One day, my obvious plethora of experience comes in handy.

It’s raining cats and dogs outside as we chug along to Yuma Middle. My windshield wipers are whipping along at a hundred miles an hour, desperately trying to keep up with the immense amount of rain that is colliding with the window. It’s hard to see outside from all the water, so I drive slowly to avoid hydroplaning and crashing into a ditch, thus killing every one of us and sending me to Hell earlier than I planned.

Everybody has the windows pulled up so that nobody gets soaked. Of all the things they argue and fight about, one thing they all agree on is that rain was bad. So really, it’s a relatively quiet bus ride to school that day. I can actually sort of hear myself think, and the radio is actually audible.

But if I learned anything from being a bus driver for four years, it’s that nothing this peaceful lasts for more than ten minutes.

And it doesn’t.

Suddenly, a girl’s voice screams out, “You’re such a douche!” and I hear the sound of skin slapping against navy blue leather. Everybody else shuts the hell up as that sound transforms into the noise of a hand colliding with a face, and even I have to stop to glance out the rear view mirror.

Cadence is lying down in the middle of the aisle (which breaks about seven rules, for the record) on his back, staring fearfully up at Amy. She looks pissed off to Hell and back, with her tiny hands curled into threatening fists. He struggles, climbing the seats to lift himself up, but she just pushes him back down again.

You’d think everyone else would be chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” or something like that, as tweens would, but they’re dead silent. It’s scary, actually – just ‘cause it’s so out of the ordinary.

I grab the microphone and put in my two cents. “Hey! What’s going on back there?!”

Cadence tries once more to get out of the aisle, and just barely succeeds, leaping into an empty seat next to a grossly nice football player who doesn’t even acknowledge the incident.

“She freakin’ attacked me!” Cadence cries, terror flashing across his face. “I don’t even know why, man!”

Amy slaps the back of his head. “You know exactly why, whore!”

“Hey hey hey, chill out,” I usher, raising a hand. The light in front of us turns red and I slow down to a stop, thankful. “Now seriously. Tell me what’s up before I write you two up for fighting.”

“We’re not even fighting!” Cadence shouts. “I can’t hurt a girl.”

“You sure hurt me this morning,” Amy hisses under her breath. However, because of the quietness of the environment, everybody hears it.

Oh, sweet Jesus. Not this. Anything but this.

I sigh loudly, rubbing my eyes. “Okay, let me guess…just a wild little speculation here…love issues?”

Neither of them says a word. Shit…

Amy flips her hair back, her face red and puffy. She shoots a mega shitty look over at Cadence, who’s busy looking out the window. All eyes are on them.

I realize what I just said and it dawns on me that it was kinda stupid. Who’d wanna yell an answer to that over the heads of their peers?

As the light turns green, I pick the microphone back up and assure them, “Okay, you don’t have to say. Still, when we get to school, Amy, you’re staying behind when everyone else gets off. I wanna talk to you.”

Now, people start talking again. This time it’s just a collective, “Oooooh…”

Everyone’s eager to know what the fight was about. They’re all talking amongst themselves and to Cadence and Amy about it, but no answers arise. Even I’m starting to get a little curious. I guess this kind of stuff is contagious.

Before I know it, we’ve pulled into the bus loop and we’re at school. Like normal, everybody files off the bus to go to their first period as the first bell rings. I keep an eye out for Amy, knowing she’s probably gonna make a quick escape to get away from me. Not this time. I got a feeling this isn’t the kind of thing that she can just talk out with a guidance councilor or principal.

Within seconds, the bus is empty. Under average circumstances I’d follow the other buses out of the loop and go back to the county parking lot, but not today. I look in the rear view mirror and unbuckle myself.

Amy’s sitting in the very back seat, on the little half-chair that’s right next to the emergency exit. With hair in her face, she doesn’t make any sound. I stand at the front of the bus.

“Hey,” I say to catch her attention. She doesn’t respond or move. My first instinct is that she’s dead, but then I realize that someone would’ve told me if she just spontaneously died on the bus.

Then, she shuffles. She wipes her eyes.

Inwardly groaning and rolling my eyes, I make my way back there, squeezing between the gaps in the seats. (There’s a reason why fat kids sit in the front.) I haven’t really been in the back of a school bus since the refresher training class we always gotta take back in July; when they make us sweep the buses every day, I usually skate by on just sweeping the front sections.

She looks up from her depressed fest, her face covered in blotches of red. Tears are smeared across her cheeks, accompanied by streaks of mascara. I’m pretty sure she’s an eighth grader, but right now she looks so much younger than that.

Sucking in my gut to make it to the seat in front of her, I sit down. Amy flinches. I don’t blame her – when I was her age, I never saw my bus driver from the waist down. I lean forward and fold my hands.

She sobs involuntarily. Then another tear falls from her eye.

“What’s up with you and Cadence?” I state bluntly.

“Nothing,” she mutters, crossing her arms and barely pronouncing the word right.

I knew this would happen. “Then why’d you hit him this morning?”

Amy doesn’t answer. She only goes out of her way to avoid eye contact with me, receding further into the seat.

“You know, if you just told me straight-up what happened, I won’t write you up. Maybe,” I promise. Sort of. It depends. If she was trying to slaughter him, then that may amount to discipline.

She brushes hair out of her eyes, breathing in deeply before spitting out a choice insult. “’Cause he’s a fucking jerk, that’s why.”

I decide not to dwell on her foul language. Small change. “And why is he a jerk?”

For once, she makes eye contact with me, but it’s not on good terms. If looks could kill, man. “What do you care?”

“It’s my job.”

“Your job is to drive us to and from school,” she chokes, barely able to say anything without crying.

“Look,” I explain, closing my eyes, “I’m trying to help you out here. From what I hear about the guidance councilor all of you talk about, you’d probably rather talk to me than her. Now don’t act stupid. I know something happened with you and him, and you’re pissed about it. What I wanna know is why you had to hit the kid and…um, distract me in rain.”

She’s quiet for a good thirty seconds, and then she unfolds her arms and stares at her hands, twiddling her thumbs in her lap. Rain pours down from outside, thudding against the walls of the bus loudly. “He…well…we were texting last night.”

Oh, joy. Texting. The root of most all teenage problems as far as I know. I brace myself.

Amy blinks a few times, obviously trying to keep herself from crying, but it doesn’t really work. “I finally told him I liked him. And then he started flirting with me some more and then when I went to bed, everything was fine.”

“See, you can’t get tangled in this romance crap too early…” I trail off quietly, not wanting to set anything else off.

“But when we were at the bus stop this morning, he totally blew me off,” she goes on, losing her voice with the last few words. She pauses and wipes her eyes some more. “He’s just…he’s a liar. Oh my God, not even kidding.”

A million words are all blinking in my head. None of them are really positive or would help her out, though, so I shut myself up before I say something stupid.

She’s full-on crying by now, sobbing and coughing and everything, complete with whimpers and shit that’s making me feel incredibly awkward. I’m not gonna go over there and hug her or anything (I’m fairly certain I’d get arrested for that), but I’m not about to just ignore her.

“Maybe he’s…I dunno, not ready?” I say quietly.

“He’s had fif-fteen girlfriend-ends. I th-think he knows a thing or two ab-bout it,” she states, trying to sound blunt. However, it loses its effect from the stuttering.

“Okay, listen.” I prepare my thoughts. “I know you’ve probably heard this before, but you don’t wanna get mixed up in this crap when you’re in, what, eighth grade? It’s just stupid. Don’t do it. You’re probably thinkin’ you love him and everything, but you don’t. Trust me.”

Silence falls. Even the rain starts to let up around us, even though it’s still overcast and cloudy outside.

Amy whimpers, “But I’ve had a crush on him since kindergarten.”

I shrug. “That doesn’t mean it’s love or anything.”

“But you always hear about those old couples who meet in, like, first grade and then they get married and live together forever!” she reasons, stringing together a coherent sentence, finally.

“First of all, don’t talk to me about that. That’s the kind of shit that makes my stomach turn, frankly.” I hold a finger up. “And secondly, just because it happens doesn’t mean it’s always true.”

She tilts her head in questioning. “What do you mean?”

Story time. Time to use your screwed up family as an example, Doug. You’re going to Hell anyway, so why not make the most of it? “For starters, I had an aunt like that. She chased after this guy when they were in junior high and they got married when they were sixteen. Then she had a baby who ended up getting hit by a car when it was two, and after that he dumped her for another guy. Then she had a heart attack when she was thirty-three and kicked the bucket.”

Amy’s eyes are glazed over with confusion. “…What?”

“It’s not always a fairytale ending, kid.”

“Is that even true?”

“Why the hell would I lie about something like that? I’m a loser, not a liar,” I tell her.

“That’s just one instance, though,” she defies.

I shake my head, gearing myself up for another family example. “Nope, my sister kinda did the same thing. She got married to her college sweetheart and he ended up cheating on her. She’s still alive, though.”

“Oh.” Amy bites her lip. “Well…that’s cool.”

“Don’t assume that Cadence kid is the only dude you’re gonna come into contact with. There’s gonna be more guys, unfortunately. You can’t just hang up on him ‘cause you’ve known him for a long time.”

She sighs heavily, staring out the back window wistfully at all the kids rushing to their classes. “You talk like you been through this firsthand. And I totally know you haven’t.”

“I’ve seen it happen. That counts.”

“So, did, like, all your family end up in crappy relationships because of that?” she smirks. For once it was actually kind of genuine.

“No.”

“I’d so laugh if you were the reason for it,” she adds. “I bet your mom probably found out she was pregnant with you and started fighting with your dad over it.”

“Hey! My mom’s dead,” I grunt.

“Then your dad -”

“My dad’s dead too. So just shut up right now before I write you up on a referral anyway,” I kinda smile crookedly, surprising myself with the gesture.

“Jesus Christ,” Amy gushes. “Is your whole freakin’ family dead or something?”

“Pretty much everyone except me and my sister. And her kid.” I glance out of the window; the crowds of middle schoolers are dying down, letting me know she’s probably late. “Now get off this bus and get to class.”

Amy stares at me for a second with a mix of pity and bewilderment on her face, but she stands up and throws her backpack on. Before she leaves, she turns back at me and smiles. And I swear to God it’s the first time anybody who rode this damn bus ever truly smiled at me.