Winona

02

AS SOON as the blaring of his alarm disrupts the otherwise sleepy atmosphere, Finn's eyes snap open with the speed of a cheetah and his hand automatically goes to turn it off. The quiet stillness is broken by the flurry of movement involving Finn literally rolling out of his blankets, throwing on an outfit predetermined from last night, and his mad dash out the bedroom door and into the kitchen.

Finn is in the midst of putting on one shoe when Michael arises from his sleeping position on the couch to groggily squint at his son, suffering from a late night at the office and an unfortunate lack of caffeine. The older Carter male rubs at his eyes, hoping to rub the bleariness away and focus in on the bizarre scene in front of him.

His son is bouncing one foot, balancing two textbooks underneath his arm while simultaneously tying a ratty old sneaker upon the olive walls. The dirt from years of use rubs off on the soothing green color, turning the walls into an earthy brown instead. In Finn's mouth is a bruised apple, held only in place by his teeth sinking deep into the fruity flesh.

"Fi," Michael starts, clearing his throat to rid it of the excess sleep, "I mean this in a loving, fatherly way, but what the hell?"

Finn mutters something in response but it is muffled behind the fruit in his mouth. With a huff, he finishes tying his shoes, grabs his backpack and hurries towards the door. All the while, his eyes are trained on his cellular device, staring intently at the numbers holding his fate.

"Finn?" Michael says.

"Can't talk," his son doesn't spare his father a glance. He takes a bite of his apple and opens the heavy door. "It's six fifty nine."

And without another word, Finn Carter is out the door.

--------

At the bus stop, Finn leans against the cold metal of the stop sign and finally releases a heavy sigh he hadn't realized he was holding. He shoves his gloved hands deep into his pockets and closes his eyes for a second, aware that if he fell back into his slumber he would surely miss the yellow bus and quite possibly have another run in with Winona. That's what this whole morning was about after all.

He didn't want another confrontation.

There are two other kids waiting in the frigid air alongside him -- Jenny from across the street, a stout, freckled girl whose fashion tastes would someday dominate the world's magazines, and Milton from two blocks down, a small boy two years Finn's junior who loses himself in his cello every afternoon until the sun sets and reminds him that he can do it all over again the next day.

He gives them their daily nod. "Jenny."

"Finn."

"Milton."

"Jenny."

"Milton."

"Finn."

The bus arrives soon after, just like it always does, and the three clamber on without another word.

As Finn takes his usual seat at the back of the bus -- the graffitied, grey bench hidden behind tales of gossip and perfume -- he leans his head against the window and stares out. And as the bus begins to pull away, he can hear the distant roar of a motorcycle engine, as if to tell him he never really shook off the lavender-haired girl after all.

----

The yellow limousine pulls up the curb, trailing behind several other buses waiting to deliver their share of students. Finn is always the last to leave; he collects his things and stumbles behind the line, waiting to get off. For some reason, the line moves quicker and sooner than later the doors are closing behind him and he's standing in front of the entrance to Belvidere's only high school. He takes a final bite of his apple and tosses it into a passing garbage can before sauntering inside.