Smoke

27: Planning

I stepped onto the bus, eyes skimming past the bus driver, feeling anxious. I slid into the seat, feeling my body relax into the hard cushion, loosening my grip on the books in my hand.

Elinora hadn't said anything about me bringing the books home, except to just bring them back. I kept them by my bag during math, hoping no one would look over, or if they did, they would think they're just books I'm reading for fun.

A few minutes later, Oliver sat down next to me, and a few moments after that, the bus rumbled and huffed and started moving.

I stared out the window, trying to keep my nervousness away, trying to relax until I got home and could just sit alone in peace.
I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the back of the seat, remembering how Oliver was supposed to come over today. I exhaled, my nervousness now understandable.

I thought over it, planning how it would go, how long it would take, until it was almost his stop. Turning to Oliver, I opened my mouth. "My house after school?"

He looked back at me, nodding. "Yep. Are those your books?" He looked down at the multiple novels in my hands.

"Yeah." I glanced at them, leaning the books towards him quickly then away.

"Cool. It probably won't take too long to go through everything." He nodded, smiling slightly. I smiled back.

"Alright. You have my house number and everything, right?" I asked, meeting his blue eyes.

"Got it." He shook his phone slightly, waving it gently at me to show I had texted it to him.

"Thanks for helping me." I said as the bus slowed, creaked, and stopped.

"No problem." He smiled, getting up, slinging his backpack onto his shoulder. "See you."

"Yeah." I said quickly, nodding, watching him walk off the bus. I turned back towards the window, watching as the streets pulled away, passing by quickly as the bus started again and sped up.

I looked down at the books I was holding, paging through multiple fiction books, some short leaflets on smoking. Some were new and had clean covers and white pages, sharp ink used to write crisp words across their many pages. Others were not well-taken care of, with ripped pages or yellow paper and faded ink, or broken, cracked, and delicate spines.

At the bottom of the stack was a short book, small compared to the others, its pages torn and crumpled and soft and worn. It was about fire breathing, I saw. My stomach dropped slightly, and I reorganized the books, putting it out of my sight.
I'd rather not look at it yet, I decided.