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The bus is an unpleasant shade of yellow. Old and pale, the bus has aged just as well as a childhood memory--faded but never fleeting. In fact, it is the same bus that picked you up on your first day of kindergarten almost eight years ago, when you stood no more than three feet tall. And now, despite it's hazy windows and rusting hubcaps, you love that old bus, and always feel an overwhelming sense of joy as it pulls up to the curb.
With a quick kiss goodbye, you leap off your rickety porch into the overnight snow. A mere two inches, the powder hardly succumbs the heel of your boot. You walk with earnest down the path to the street, the keychains on your backpack swinging back and forth. Today is the first day back from Winter Break, and no matter how much your friends complained about it, you are excited to get out of the house again.
Halfway down, you gaze up at the sky, almost forgetting.
Pink, cotton candy clouds stretch across the sky this morning as the sun begins to crest over the earth, casting a nebulous glow that only happens before the sun fully rose. The rooster has yet to crow, perhaps confused by the sky's peachy hues. For an early January morning, the whole world seems just a bit warmer.
You smile to yourself. A pink sky means an adventurous day.
The wheels on the bus let out a high-pitched hello as it squees to a stop in front of you and the doors open out like a welcoming embrace.
In the driver's seat is Mrs. Mille--Helen Mille--who is on her third, and hopefully, last marriage. A slender, sharp-witted woman with copper hair, her muted red lipstick does nothing to smother her fiery personality.
"G'morning, my dear!" she says in a voice all too enthusiastic for the hour.
The midnight snow transfers from your boots to the steep steps, melting slowly against the cold metal. No matter how hard the old heater ran, the inside of the bus is always only slightly warmer than the outside.
"Good morning Helen, how was the wedding?"
"Like they say, third times a charm!" She lets out a laugh. Helen's bracelets, including the one you made her back in the fourth grade, jangle as she pulls the doors closed, using a strong arm to persuade the resisting lever. "How was your holiday, sweetheart."
"It was good! I got some new paints and brushes."
"Oh that's wonderful!"
Before you can make your way to the seats, Helen suddenly touches your arm and stops you.
"Hey," she says, this time in a modest whisper, while bringing you closer with the crooning of her emerald-painted finger nail. You can suddenly smell her signature perfume, a rosy scent, the one she claims she wore when she met each of her husbands.
"There's a new kid today," she whispers and points with a thumb. You look up from her over-blushed cheeks inquisitively to find a boy sitting near the very back. "Seemed kinda upset when he came in. Maybe you could try and cheer him up? I know you're good at that type of thing."
You nod, still observing the boy. He's looking out the window, slightly slumped, his chin tucked into the high collar of his jacket. Silky tufts of black hair curl out under his red beanie, revealing a boyish element behind his grumpy facade.
The presence of another student on the bus before you is an unusual sight; living in the countryside meant you were always the first to be picked up and the last to be dropped off. He must not live that far away from you, you muse, knowing that your home is at the limits on the bus's route.
You walk down the aisle, apprehension bubbling in your stomach. You aren't a social butterfly, that's for sure, but you like meeting new people.
"Hi," you say, approaching the seat, "I'm (Y/n)."
When he finally turns a couple moments later the cold January morning seemingly gets warmer. The golden light of the rising sun finally emerges through the frosty window, giving his mint blue eyes a soft vibrancy that you have never seen before. There is depth in his eyes that you could swim in, and like the peachy clouds, they luminesce from the inside out. You realize then that there is another boy hiding beneath them, a soul that's not as closed off as you first saw.
You stick a gloved hand out for him to shake while the other grips the pleather--most likely germ-infested-- backrest. You watch as his entrancing seafoam eyes shoot down to your gesture before coming back up to look you straight. His irises move quickly around your face, eyebrows knit in a confused and skeptical expression, then falling over your 13 year-old figure. It is as if this has never happened to him before, or as if he's determining if you're worthy enough to talk to you. In truth, it makes you a bit queasy; you have never felt so studied before, or worse, scrutinized.
"'m Jason," he replies in a mellow voice as his eyes return to yours. His voice has a natural morning rasp, and it reminds you of a character from a book you've once read. It's lava in the cold air, melting it with each syllable.
You hand retreats to the shoulder strap of your bag, getting the memo that he isn't going to shake your hand.
"Is today your first day?"
He nods, his movement so subtle you could miss it with a blink.
"Well...it's ok since you didn't know, but usually David Marks sits there."
He grumbles something of an 'I don't care' while shifting in his seat to claim it more as his own. David Marks is the biggest, loudest, and most crude character you ever met, who thinks he's king because he voice deepened first. He also just happens to be your cousin, which means that after years of birthdays and other family events, you're pardoned from his bullying.
You look back towards the front of the bus, peering into the rear-view mirror for some encouragement from Helen, before letting out a sigh and plopping down next to him.
☁
Stop by stop, the chatter of students eventually fill up the silence on the bus. Soon enough, paper airplanes and spitballs fly through the air. Two girls sitting on the other side of the aisle giggle loudly like piglets, while Mrs. Mille warned two certain boys to "stop goofing off" every now and then. Your friends didn't take the bus to school, as they lived in the city more, so every morning you passed the time by reading a novel.
You take off your gloves and place them in your coat pocket before you pluck a book from your backpack. Animal Farm by George Orwell isn't a book you usually read. Romances and Thrillers mostly crowd your bookshelf, but Mrs. Graham recommended the novel at the library last weekend, and you are never one to turn down a recommendation.
The scene has just gotten suspenseful, your finger waiting eagerly behind the top corner of the caramel-colored page. Your eyes race through the lines, absorbing every detail and action that built to the climax, when suddenly you are very aware of another pair of eyes on you.
You look up at Jason, who upon being caught, snaps his head back towards the window. The secret interests makes you smile.
"Sorry," he mutters, wriggling with embarrassment. "I was just wondering what you were reading."
You flip the book back to the cover, tracing the retro art with your eyes as your finger saved your place.
"Animal Farm. George Orwell... Do you like to read?" You are getting excited now, wondering if you had just found a new reading buddy. He peers down and fiddles with the plush hem of his coat. His hands are red from the cold's bite, pronouncing the blue veins that crawled up past the cuffs of his sleeves.
"Sometimes. I-I don't have very many books at home."
"Well, what kind of books do you read?"
His head whips towards you, and he forces his hands back into his pockets.
"You ask a lot of questions, you know. What are you, a-a detective?" His eyebrows knit together again funnily as he spoke in an annoyed tone. Over and over again, the shadows of the city buildings fell over his face before shining again in the sun. You want to laugh--or at least let out a tiny chuckle--but instead open your hand-me-down book once again and return to your saved place.
"Mystery, then," you deduce. The urge to laugh manifests through a gentle smile tugging at the corner of your lip.
Just then, the bus tips over slightly. You look up to see none other than David Marks hopping up the steps boisterously.
The inevitable has arrived.
His pink, plumped face turned confused, then menacing, at the sight of you, then the boy in his seat. Soon the paper airplanes and spitballs cease, lest one accidentally hits him. His puffy coat adds to his frame so much that barely fit through the isle, and the scarf wrapped around his neck makes him look all the more ready to burst.
It isn't until he reaches your-- his --seat that you realize the entire bus is looking at you, even Helen from the rearview mirror.
"He's new," you say, trying not to stammer. Though you aren't afraid of him, his large, mountainous figure peering over you makes you shiver with apprehension. "He didn't know. I promise you he won't be here tomorrow."
David stares daggers into Jason, hoping he will turn around, hoping he can intimidate him. But Jason never indulges him.
"He better not be," he finally says, before taking the very back seat. You let out a sigh of relief as the bus jolts forward again. A thank you from Jason would've been nice, you muse. After all, you had saved him from something countless other unlucky students, new or not, endure. But you don't expect such a phrase from someone like him--someone so confidential and unwilling.
"I have some cool mystery books at home if you wanna read them. I can bring them tomorrow."
"...Okay."
You turn the page, feeling the grainy paper beneath your fingertips. You unsure when, but you are confident that one of these mornings you would crack him open just like walnut. This is only the beginning.
"Oh, and I usually sit in the second seat on the right."
"Okay."