My Beautiful Mind

8.

I swear I can still feel the stinging sensation of Emy's knuckles as claws tore through her pale skin. I rub my own absentmindedly as my vision returns to the view of the window. In the time I've been gone, the bus has long left the Pioneer Valley and nothing but asphalt and billboards could be seen for miles on end. I lean back in my seat with the ghost of a predatory smirk lingering on my lips. I turn my wrist to glance at my watch and sigh in disappointment. It's only been just over an hour in this four and half hour bus ride. I'm at a loss at how I'm going to spend the next few hours until an idea comes to mind. I rummage through my backpack for a scrap of paper, a pencil, and a book. Once I place a blank envelope–the only blank white space I have–on a hardcover copy of Shakespeare's King Lear, I begin to capture, to the best of my amateur artistic ability, Emy in her wolf form.

It takes about three trials of sketching and erasing until I'm even remotely satisfied with her sleek and muscular physique. Then comes the hard part. My eyebrows furrow in utmost concentration as I outline her delicately pointed ears, but a bump in the road causes my pencil to slide across the envelope. I huff in annoyance and go to erase the line as best as possible. Another hour and a whole lot of bumpy road mess-ups later, I hold up the wrinkled, pencil smudged envelope to the window for better lighting. Emy the wolf is frozen mid-run through a 'forest,' a rudimentary sketch of three pine trees. I run my finger over the curve of her spine, the proud point of her muzzle, the sleek flow of her fuzzy tail. To be able to shift into a dangerous predator like that, I'd get people to leave me alone real quickly, to think twice before sending me brochures for health services.

I'm wrenched from my thoughts when the bus runs over another stretch of bumpy, uneven asphalt and I bang my elbow hard against the window. I sigh and return King Lear and the pencil back into their respective places in my backpack and lean back in my seat, my eyes drooping at the lack of sleep I had the night before much too anxious for the ride home. My phone vibrates and pull it out to look at the caller ID with a sinking feeling in my chest: Jamie Holland. He's right on schedule, calling me every Tuesday morning since the funeral. As much as I want to answer, terribly missing his thoughtful, kind, solemn gray eyes, I can't bring myself to accept the call terrified he'll run away the second he hears and sees the husk of a person I've become. I shakily put my phone on silent and let the call go to voicemail.

For the remaining two hours of the bus ride, I clutch the drawing in my hands so tightly, I'm afraid I'll rip the cream-colored paper. I lose myself in Emy's ancient-looking, wise eyes until the bus finally comes to a shuddering stop. I'm startled by the sound of the doors below the bus opening for passengers to get their luggage. I pull my arms over my head to stretch my stiff limbs before slinging my backpack over my shoulder. I shakily walk down the aisle as my legs get used to moving again and grab my nondescript black suitcase from the driver. As I step into the station, I spot Dad almost immediately. To be honest, his signature short sleeve button up with musical notes all over them wasn't hard to find in a sea of plain, neutral colors. When he catches sight of me, his warm dark brown eyes brighten and he rushes over to envelop me in a fierce embrace.

"Sunshine," he murmurs in my ear as he continues to hold me as if I might vanish into thin air. Tears sting in my eyes as I hug him back with the same amount of force. Eventually he pulls away and closely examines my face. His smile falters when he registers the purplish bruising under my eyes and my slightly shrunken in cheeks. "Tough semester?" he manages to ask. "You could say that," I reply, not ready to elaborate further. Dad nods and grabs my suitcase from me. "The three of us can go to that sushi place for dinner tonight if you're up for it," Dad says as we leave Port Authority and find the car parked on the side of the road. "Sushi will be a nice treat after eating bland college food for three months," I say. He chuckles and ruffles my hair affectionately, a gesture he's done since I was two. Thankfully, the drive out of Manhattan and back to Queens doesn't take too long, but we stop to grab soup dumplings to go for lunch.