Arthur Barclay Columbus.

Chapter 5: new number who dis

The bus shook heavily as it flew over yet another speedbump.
"Excuse me, sir," I said, tapping the driver on his shoulder, "I think you're severely underestimating the weight of this bus and perhaps forgetting that you are indeed driving a bus, not a bike."
"Excuse you? Excuse me! Are ya tryna start a fight, boy?"
"No- No, not at all, sir-"
"Take yer goddamn seat!"
A giggle sounded from the far back and I shot a glance at them as I returned to my seat, catching a glimpse of long hair and pretty eyes.

I fumbled with my phone as I speculated about what to reply. I'd seen several possibilities in movies, but 'sup' seemed so rude and 'I thought you'd never ask' seemed a bit desperate. I had already typed in 'new number who dis' as that seemed the most popular response, when the bus abruptly stopped, causing the phone to fall out of my hands and into my lap. A dial tone sounded.

Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god. I had called whoever this was. I was calling them right there. Oh god.
Whoever it was had picked up.

I quickly placed it against my ear, and spoke with a strangely deep voice: "Yes, this is Arth-em. Arthem."
A silence. A very long, an excruciatingly long, an agonizingly long silence. Then, a confident voice spewing out words at a rate higher than the building I really wanted to jump off right now. "Hello, Arthem. My name's Miles. You met me recently, I think, in your house. 'Get me out of here', remember? Ya, that was me, the biggest woop ever, right? Anyway, you're cute, I'm cute, I think we'd be a match. Meet me at the Royal Restaurant in Nevada, kay? Cool! Ciaowzers."
She hung up, leaving my jaw slack and my brows furrowed.

This was amazing. She just told me her location and her name and her everything! This was the easiest hunt ever! I wouldn't have to do research and spend a thousand hours in the archives – nope, none of that. Just a sixteen hour drive and a sixteen hour drive back, too, and I would be safe and sound back home. Oh man, this was great. And she thought I was cute. It was weird though, because back in the house she seemed way more serious and not at all this... sparkly. Oh well, must've been the torture.

I could barely stop myself from skipping as I exited the bus near the airport after apologizing profusely to the driver. He wouldn't quite have it and I was pretty much forced to skip as he pushed me out of the bus. But very little could ruin my mood today. I was on this. I was going to do this. This girl was no match against my utter brilliance. She must've thought I was only a dumb, oblivious boy who was in no way involved in all the torture. I found my way to the car rental, where I, surprise, rented a car.

Now you must think, 'he's at an airport? Why doesn't he just fly to Atlanta?' Well, I was terrified of heights and airplanes, and parachutes and hot-air balloons --- the whole shablam, basically. I had a small trauma when I was six and I was forced to jump out of a plane with Carl, my former bodyguard. It was quite terrifying. My parachute failed but overall, it was a nice experience. Coincidentally, just before I plummeted to my death I had finished my first driving lesson.

I stuffed the last bite of a sandwich down my throat before starting the engine and exiting the garage. I didn't stop until I reached my destination. Atlanta, the Royal Restaurant.
It was a posh restaurant. I was greeted by what had to be a French waiter, dressed in black shirt and trousers and a white apron, which looked absolutely hideous. My tired eyes scanned the white tables, looking for the girl who had invited me here.
"Are you looking for zomeone?" The waiter asked and I dismissed him, but he wouldn't go. "Are you zure? I could 'elp you. In fact," he sounded a whole lot less French all of a sudden, "why don't you give me your wallet and your driver's license and perhaps a bit of hair, so we can get this all over with?"

There French but not French waiter didn't move when I used my intimidating glare on him. He just stood there, arms crossed and an even more intimidating glare aimed at me. "I thought you were French."
"I thought you were taller – but life's disappointing. C'mon. Your wallet." Several people started to notice my situation but didn't care enough to interfere.
"You don't even know me. That was a poor response."
The waiter sighed, then leaned over to my ear, his hot breath uncomfortably tickling my neck and whispered: "I'm your shapeshifter."