The Bus

The bus comes to a screeching halt in front of the faded blue bench. A hiss of air escapes, and the doors slide open.

I shuffle my feet into my flats, which had begun to slide off when I leaned against the concrete wall. I swipe my bus pass with ease, smiling at the man with boorish features who always drives this route. His eyes flicker upwards, and his usual scowl disappears. Men always seem to relax around me. I think it’s because I’m young and pretty.

Well, youngish. And less pretty and more bursting with sex appeal. It has its advantages for now, even though I often feel that my beauty is sliding through my hands like wet putty.

I usually grab the first seat I can see. It helps to avoid making eye contact with the assortment of crazy. That’s what my older sister used to say when we would ride the city bus across town to First Baptist Gathering, the church that held the only activities our mother would let us leave the house for. She would grab my arm and drag me to our seat, where she’d lean into my ear and say, “It’s like chocolate, Celeste. They may look different, but really they all taste the same.”

Nowadays, that would be considered a bit insensitive. But to her, it was the only way she could think to get me to stop staring.

I pull my bag into my lap when I sit down. It gives me something to grab onto when the bus inevitably jerks forward, causing everyone to slide a little too close to the person next to them. After looking at my phone, and then the floor, and then my phone again, I decide I should probably just stick to looking out the window.

Unfortunately, I’m seated facing another person. I didn’t realize at first, but now that I’m here, it would be rude to move. I can tell that something is a little off with the woman in front of me. Well, more than a little off. Firstly, no one is seated anywhere near her. That’s never a good sign, especially since there are more people on this bus than there are seats.

Secondly, her clothes, hair, and face are all hard to differentiate since they’re covered in dirt, sick, and other indistinguishable things. The only thing that stands out are her eyes. They stare at me or right through me, I can’t tell. The bright green irises with flecks of blue are not beautiful. They are terrifying.

I try to look down, but I can still feel them burning through me as I stare at the linoleum.

Bile begins to rise in my throat, and I can’t tell if it’s from the lurching of the bus or the smell seeping from the woman. I search through the bag in my hands, wrapping my fingers around a pack of mint gum. I watch myself pull open the plastic around the pack. My fingernails are perfectly manicured, but my spindly fingers are unpleasant to look at. I’ve always thought there was something creepy about my fingers and toes, like they were long, ugly bones that seemed to stretch forever.

A sudden thought occurs to me, and I glance at the woman’s hands. Her fingers are long too, but not nearly as off-putting as mine. That sends a laugh up into my mouth, but I catch it quickly and close my lips.

My phone rings, pulling me out of my contemplation of odd insecurities. I try to answer quickly, fearing the judgment the other bus-goers might hold for me due to the loud interruption.

“Hello,” I say in barely a whisper.

“We need juice,” my brother says. I almost scold him, both for the lack of a hello and the use of need instead of want.

“I’ll pick some up. I’m almost home,” I say, thinking about how quickly I can get in and out of the corner store before making the short trek through my neighbor’s backyard to my front door.

I say goodbye quickly. The feeling of the woman’s stare makes me want to stop speaking. I suddenly feel as though she’s been listening to every word I’ve said.

I glance up at her then, unable to keep the curiosity at bay. I seem to be fighting a mental battle between judgment and fear every time I look at her. Then guilt, of course, after I think about the things that might have led her to this place.

She opens her mouth, and I brace myself for what she is going to say. I think about putting my hands to my ears and closing them, but that would be both childish and rude. Both things I try to stray as far away from being as possible.

Instead, I feel my mouth pull itself into a tight smile, and I maintain the most eye contact I can manage.

“Do I know you?” she says.

It comes out low and hoarse, but I can hear a tinge of fear hidden behind it. It’s not what I’m expecting, so I suddenly find myself without an answer.

I think back, very far back, to the first time I walked home from the local library. I remember the look in my sister’s eyes as we crossed the street, the grip I had on my baby brother’s body, even the smell of the wet grass all around.

What’s wrong with her? I remember asking.

I’m not sure how much time passed before Katie answered. “She’s just like that. I dunno, crazy”.

Oh, I responded. Then I angled my eyes down, making sure not to trip or drop the chunky sleeping baby, and kept walking.

Again, I’m brought back to the present when the woman repeats herself.

“Do I know you?” she says again. It’s a bit more agitated now, like she senses something is wrong but doesn’t understand what.

I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes. I blow out a breath of hot air and sigh. When I open my eyes, I meet hers again. Slowly, I open my mouth and speak.

“Yes, Mom,” I say. “You do know me.”