Cobalt

0:1

Cobalt

0:1

—

        The school bus has always been my favorite mode of transportation. Well, riding in the hideous yellow vehicle isn't too thrilling, what with its cracking cushions and peeling paint, but driving down a street which contains so many good (and bad) memories is.

            As the bus pulls to a stop, I gaze out the window. Beside me is the park that my family and I frequently visited every weekend back when I was in my pre-teens. On the other side of the road is an unassuming Dairy Queen, where I got my first kiss with Declan Green. I shake my head softly with a smile. That was a terrible decision on my part—I had chapped lips and he had bad breath.            We were the perfectly imperfect couple.

            Until I broke his heart.

          "What are you staring at?" My neighbor, Lance asks.

          Annoyed, I glance away from the window.

            "I always do this, what are you talking about?" I say defensively, locking eyes with the short-haired sixteen year old.

            The bus retracts its stop sign and our somewhat chubby blonde bus driver, Mrs Henry steps on the gas. I look in Lance's general direction for a few more seconds and turn back to the window, the view outside smudged with fingerprints.

            Swiftly, the bus turns the corner and pulls to a stop. Lance's fenced in posh manor is practically peering over my modernized Victorian house. This makes my home look like a starter house, but quite frankly, if it grows any larger, I'll lose everything I own in it.

          The children in the front of the bus scream and shout, their whiny little voices asking if it's their turn to get off of the bus.

            Lance stands up in the aisle as I get up from my back seat and follow him. His pace is atrociously slow, so I stomp my left foot behind him, waiting for him to kick into high gear.  

        "You're coming over, right, Brooke?" he asks me while walking down the aisle.

          I knit my eyebrows together, wondering what Lance could possibly mean by that. The last time Lance and I have hung out was a few weeks ago, so I don't see the change of attitude all of a sudden.

          "For what exactly?" I reply, confused.

          "Tutoring?" he reminds me in a somewhat know-it-all voice, but that's expected Lance.  

        Oh, right. Tutoring. What joy comes to mind when I think of the art of teaching others. I try my best to think of excuses to get my way out of it, but nothing ever come to mind. We step off the bus together and make our way to the front gate of Lance's house.

          The swinging gates protecting the home are made of shiny black stone. The elegant mansion is made of polished white rock that gleams blindingly, even in the dull afternoon light.

            He pushes open the well-oiled gate without a sound. As we walk along the driveway I can't help but to gawk at the marble statues standing tall and mighty by the entrance. I just can't seem to peel my eyes from the brilliant details on them. I fix my gaze on one statue of a woman, with the white marble imitating gossamer fabric spilling over her perfect face. It's remarkable, how artists manage to render life into cold blocks of marble.

            I force myself to look away, however, as we walk up the steps to the manor.

          Lance mutters profanities under his breath as he fumbles through his school bag looking for something. His keys, I presume.