Stranger

Chapter One: Flight One-Oh-One

"Mr. Slavic?" I called through the crowded bus, in which was packed with not only students from Rockhurst High School, but also people from the city, just lounging around, not taking a care in the world.

"Yes, Rose?" The man up front, beard growing out, moustache filling in, hair slightly balding states and turned around in his disgusting bus seat. I wonder if he's taking the hair from his head and putting it in his beard or moustache? Just kidding. With a job like Halphren Slavic's, you had to be on your game all day, and I don't(!) mean after the students, or you'd go crazy. Many teachers were balding earlier than they were supposed to, from too much stress I reckon.

"When are we going to arrive at the airport?" His face immediately switched to harmlessly joking around.

"Not with the 'are we there, yet?' shenanigans!" Students laughed as Mr. Slavic dramatically flung his arms across his face, shielding his big brown eyes away from any 'terrifying' creature of the art described as curiosity at its finest. He chuckled and uncrossed his arms, looking directly at me. "We'll be there in fifteen minutes." I thanked him and sank back into my uncomfortable seat, the seat belts useless for the short ride to the Columbia Airport.

My mood was soured, any source of happiness left in me would be hard to reach from my terrible expression; grumpy wasn't the best look on me. With my grumpy expression and arms crossed, I looked out the window, the bus jumped excitedly as potholes at the side reached from the 'stable' ground and up to the tires that ran around the axis of stability for the vehicle. I hope nothing bad happens.

Speeding up the roadways of Missouri, the time passed through the wind as my hair whirled around into my partners face.

"Do you mind?" She stated, rather snooty like. "I'd rather not have someone's unkept hair blowing in my face," Christian stated as she smoothed her own curly, frizzy hair back. Look who's talking.

Without saying anything back to her snotty mouth, I pulled my straight, bland brown hair (with blonde shooting up the tips and stopping near my roots), up into a pony tail, the longer strands of follicles tangling in the hair tie as my once thought out pony tail turned into a half bun. I don't really care much, anything to make Miss Everything over there be quiet, which worked if I had to say, I'd do.

Glancing out the pretentious window, out into the nonchalant scenery, I thought of my parents at home: waiting for the two weeks to spend by and for my 17 year old self to come home, Mom ready to shower me in kisses and Dad waiting to hear the new language I was so anxious to learn, part of me saying it's a piece of cake. Rolling my eyes, I thought of the land I'd see: maybe it'd be prettier than I originally thought? I seriously doubt it. Destruction in the world wars never really was replaced as times changed, new people governing the space that was once almost half of Asia. Anyways, I don't think the northern part of the eastern hemisphere is really all that fancy.

Slipping out my phone and headphones, I plugged one into another and shoved the rubbery end of the earphones into my, what others might think, clean ears. Man, if people on this bus knew what I listened to, and they most likely already did. I didn't really have to tell them for those jerks of peers to guess I liked heavy metal music, my taste in clothing would have pointed it out to you, I guess. I mean: ripped dark blue skinny jeans (with a boot cut at the leg), band tee shirt, and low grey converse; I'm guessing it's not entirely 'gothic', but, man, do they think it is? Entirely.

Blasting music was one of my passions, other than reading dirty fanfics on social media sites. That's number two on the list of 'Always Do In Your Free Time Or You Suck'. Yes, I keep a mental log of it. Don't judge. I know you do it too. It's not even the thought of me doing these things to look cool, I just do it to kind of piss off my dad. Being the corporate CEO of a major company in the USA, he has to have a perfect image, something he's trying to corrupt my wonderful mind with. If he thinks he's getting through to me with the stupid Russia idea, then he'd better try harder. For all I know, this could be a trap to set me straight: oh wait, it is. Oops, I forgot. Not.