The Starving Children Want Ice Cream

Jeaus

Bus drivers do not appreciate latecomers, it seems. I'm stared down as I barely catch the closing doors, a breathless apology passing my lips as I flash my student ID, pick my way through the aisle. This is why I need a car. Three more months. I can wait that long, can't I? The complete lack of free seats screams my answer. You'd think there'd be less people on a public bus at 4 in the morning.

I sigh. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Don't count your breaths. That helps no one. I quickly entertain the idea of sitting on the floor before I see her: Meg...or something.

She sits with her face to the window, a plastic bag in her lap, something with sharp corners stretching the material thin. I walk up slowly, gripping the surrounding seats in terror as the bus jolts to life, hacking exhaust like a fat smoker. She doesn't see me.
"Hey," I mutter. "Do you mind--?"
"Math Class!" She turns before I can finish, a broad smile across her face. "Need a seat?" She pats the place beside her, scooting closer to the side.
"Thanks." It's quieter than I intended. I sit.

"So, Math Class, how's things? Did you do the homework? Actually, don't answer that: I know you didn't. I'll give you the answers when I get home. Phone, please." She retrieves her own with one hand, the other offered to me, palm up. After a few seconds she looks up, an eyebrow raised. Oh. Oh. I take it from my pocket, unlock it, put it in her hand. She's immediately typing, tap tap tap. "Here." She gives me her phone without looking up. "Put yours in."
"Put my...put my what in?"
"Give me your number, stupid."
"Right."

Her wallpaper's a picture of some guy. He's smirking. A pale brunette with dimples, he raises a hand to cover his face. Definite Meg material.

She doesn't have a lock on her phone. I type my number in tentatively, try to ignore a sudden slew of incoming messages. But...Who's Q? Wait, why do I care? I don't care. Stop caring.

"Um." I offer her phone back and she takes it with a smile, handing mine over as her eyes fall back to her screen. I sit back, perfectly prepared to be ignored for the rest of the ride. In. Out. Don't count breaths.

My mind quickly wanders to what awaits me back at home: my mom'll be awake for sure. She doesn't sleep much anymore, we have that in common. Dad'll be...somewhere. Probably in his office. He's an illustrator, submits cartoons to magazines and newspapers. Nothing high-profile, though. The only thing I've ever seen of his outside his wood-paneled walls is a tiny ad for 3/$5 tuna fish in the Stop N' Save penny saver. It was a pirate--eyepatch, peg leg, spotted scarf and gold teeth--with a little speech bubble that said, "Shiver your timbers over these fantastically fishy deals!" He, uh, wasn't asked to contribute to that again.

Contrary to Mom and I, my father's sleeplessness is entirely voluntary. He's one of those people that, if he wasn't my dad, I'd surely hate; late to bed, early to rise, entirely too cheery for the ass crack of dawn. Maybe it was his Peruvian-ness. Latin blood was like speed. I pass a palm over my face, work the heels of my hands into my eyes as I yawn. I guess I'm a little too French.

I hadn't slept since the night before; too restless. A mostly recent problem, it was far too often that I found myself awake at an ungodly hour, a direct rebellion of the heavy exhaustion that fogged my thinking and weighted my eyelids. Sometimes I gave it the old college try: laid in bed for hours, eyes at half-mast as my head swirled with persistent thoughts of nothing and everything and what happens next?

But I just wasn't in the mood last night, so I did what I always did. I left. You'd be surprised how far a car-less 15 year old could get at 3 in the morning if he was desperate enough.

Tonight I only got halfway across town, though, too tired to go farther than the library. I didn't do much reading; I mostly just sat. And watched. And pretended to read when I stared for too long. And sat some more. And waited. For what, I don't know.