Veeeeeery sneaky.
We left campus and, at first, the conversation felt awkward. But it was nice having someone to talk to other than my parents.
A city bus pulls up to the curb in front of me. Silver with blue stripes.
We walked past my turnoff, but I didnât say anything. I didnât want to stop our conversation, but I also didnât want to invite her over because we really didnât know each other yet. So we continued walking until we reached downtown. I found out later that she did the same thing, walked past the street where she lived in order to keep talking with me.
So where did we go? E-7 on your map. Monetâs Garden Café & Coffeehouse.
The bus door wheezes open.
Neither of us were coffee drinkers, but it seemed like a nice place to chat.
Through the foggy windows I see that almost all the seats are empty.
We both got hot chocolate. She ordered it thinking it would be funny. But me? I always order hot chocolate.
Iâve never ridden a city bus. Never had a reason to. But itâs getting darker and colder every minute.
It doesnât cost anything to ride the bus at night, so I hop on. I move right by the driver without either of us saying a word to each other. She doesnât even look at me.
I make my way down the center aisle, buttoning my jacket against the cold, giving each button more attention than required. Any excuse to avert my eyes from the other passengers. I know how I must look to them. Confused. Guilty. In the process of being crushed.
I choose a bench that, as long as no one else boards, is situated between three or four empty seats all around. The blue vinyl cushion is ripped down the middle, with the yellow stuffing inside about to burst out. I slide over to the window.
The glass is cold, but resting my head against it helps relax me.
I honestly donât remember much of what we said that afternoon. Do you, Jessica? Because when I close my eyes, everything happens in a kind of montage. Laughing. Trying hard not to spill our drinks. Waving our hands while we talk.
I close my eyes. The glass cools one side of my overheated face. I donât care where this bus is going. Iâll ride it for hours if Iâm allowed to. Iâll just sit here and listen to the tapes. And maybe, without trying, Iâll fall asleep.
Then, at one point, you lean across the table. âI think that guyâs checking you out,â you whispered.
I knew exactly who you were talking about because Iâd been watching him, as well. But he wasnât checking me out.
âHeâs checking you out,â I said.
In a contest of whoâs-got-the-biggest-balls, all of you listening should know that Jessica wins.
âExcuse me,â she said to Alex, in case you havenât figured out the name of the mystery man, âbut which one of us are you checking out?â
And a few months later, after Hannah and Justin Foley break up, after the rumors begin, Alex writes a list. Whoâs hot. Whoâs not. But there, at Monetâs, no one knew where that meeting would lead.
I want to push Stop on the Walkman and rewind their whole conversation. To rewind into the past and warn them. Or prevent them from even meeting.
But I canât. You canât rewrite the past.
Alex blushed. Iâm talking an all-the-blood-in-his-body-rushing-up-to-his-face kind of blushed. And when he opened his mouth to deny it, Jessica cut him off.
âDonât lie. Which one of us were you checking out?â
Through the frosty glass, downtownâs streetlamps and neon lights slide by. Most of the shops are closed for the night. But the restaurants and bars remain open.
At that moment I would have paid dearly for Jessicaâs friendship. She was the most outgoing, honest, tell-it-like-it-is girl Iâd ever met.
Silently, I thanked Ms. Antilly for introducing us.
Alex stuttered and Jessica leaned over, letting her fingers fall gracefully onto his table.
âLook, we
We left campus and, at first, the conversation felt awkward. But it was nice having someone to talk to other than my parents.
A city bus pulls up to the curb in front of me. Silver with blue stripes.
We walked past my turnoff, but I didnât say anything. I didnât want to stop our conversation, but I also didnât want to invite her over because we really didnât know each other yet. So we continued walking until we reached downtown. I found out later that she did the same thing, walked past the street where she lived in order to keep talking with me.
So where did we go? E-7 on your map. Monetâs Garden Café & Coffeehouse.
The bus door wheezes open.
Neither of us were coffee drinkers, but it seemed like a nice place to chat.
Through the foggy windows I see that almost all the seats are empty.
We both got hot chocolate. She ordered it thinking it would be funny. But me? I always order hot chocolate.
Iâve never ridden a city bus. Never had a reason to. But itâs getting darker and colder every minute.
It doesnât cost anything to ride the bus at night, so I hop on. I move right by the driver without either of us saying a word to each other. She doesnât even look at me.
I make my way down the center aisle, buttoning my jacket against the cold, giving each button more attention than required. Any excuse to avert my eyes from the other passengers. I know how I must look to them. Confused. Guilty. In the process of being crushed.
I choose a bench that, as long as no one else boards, is situated between three or four empty seats all around. The blue vinyl cushion is ripped down the middle, with the yellow stuffing inside about to burst out. I slide over to the window.
The glass is cold, but resting my head against it helps relax me.
I honestly donât remember much of what we said that afternoon. Do you, Jessica? Because when I close my eyes, everything happens in a kind of montage. Laughing. Trying hard not to spill our drinks. Waving our hands while we talk.
I close my eyes. The glass cools one side of my overheated face. I donât care where this bus is going. Iâll ride it for hours if Iâm allowed to. Iâll just sit here and listen to the tapes. And maybe, without trying, Iâll fall asleep.
Then, at one point, you lean across the table. âI think that guyâs checking you out,â you whispered.
I knew exactly who you were talking about because Iâd been watching him, as well. But he wasnât checking me out.
âHeâs checking you out,â I said.
In a contest of whoâs-got-the-biggest-balls, all of you listening should know that Jessica wins.
âExcuse me,â she said to Alex, in case you havenât figured out the name of the mystery man, âbut which one of us are you checking out?â
And a few months later, after Hannah and Justin Foley break up, after the rumors begin, Alex writes a list. Whoâs hot. Whoâs not. But there, at Monetâs, no one knew where that meeting would lead.
I want to push Stop on the Walkman and rewind their whole conversation. To rewind into the past and warn them. Or prevent them from even meeting.
But I canât. You canât rewrite the past.
Alex blushed. Iâm talking an all-the-blood-in-his-body-rushing-up-to-his-face kind of blushed. And when he opened his mouth to deny it, Jessica cut him off.
âDonât lie. Which one of us were you checking out?â
Through the frosty glass, downtownâs streetlamps and neon lights slide by. Most of the shops are closed for the night. But the restaurants and bars remain open.
At that moment I would have paid dearly for Jessicaâs friendship. She was the most outgoing, honest, tell-it-like-it-is girl Iâd ever met.
Silently, I thanked Ms. Antilly for introducing us.
Alex stuttered and Jessica leaned over, letting her fingers fall gracefully onto his table.
âLook, we
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