pan. Did he grab Howard tight with his other hand so he couldnât get away?
Crack.
How many times did he do it? Did he stop when his arm got tired? A burst of loathing exploded inside her.
They walked down the ramp toward the line of buses. At school sheâd noticed bruises on Howardâs legs, but she hadnât asked about them. He was so skinny and pale, sheâd thought he might have something wrong with him that he didnât want to talk about. âThat one is ours,â Howard said, pointing at one of the big ones. âWe get off at stop six.â
Ruth nodded.
âYou donât have to put up with being hit, you know,â she blurted out when they reached the bus and joined the throng of passengers waiting to get on. âThere are people you can tell. They can get him for hitting you.â She wasnât even sure if this was true but â¦
surely it was.
Howardâs expression remained completely blank, as though she hadnât said anything, and it made her immediately sorry sheâd spoken.
It felt good to be getting onto that bus, as if they were in a movie. No one knew them. They didnât have to explain to anyone what they were doing. They filed in behind a dozen or so others and found themselves a seat about halfway down the bus. Ruth took off her coat and stuffed it in her backpack, then put it on the rack above them.
âCan I have the window seat again?â Howard asked.
âYeah.â
âYou can have it on the way home.â
âWhatever.â Ruth shrugged, watching more people get on.
Howard turned away to stare out the window.
By the time the bus pulled out from the curb it was three-quarters full, mostly with old ladies and a few morose-looking couples dressed in overcoats and gloves, rubbing their hands together and commenting on the cold. There was one girl a little older than Ruth sitting across the aisle with someone who looked like she might be her mother. Ruth had felt her checking Howard and her over when she was settling into her seat. But when the girlâs mother also looked over with a curious, friendly glance, Ruth avoided meeting their eyes. Let them wonder why she was traveling alone with the strange skinny kid. She didnât want to talk to anyone.
The driver was the last one to take his seat.
âGood morning, folks,â he called cheerfully. âWeâll be off in less than a minute.â
No one answered him or even smiled. Ruth thought it was a bit rude, but she didnât want to be the only one to reply. She watched him throw himself down into his seat and switch on the radio. Pop music blared out as he turned the key and the engine fired into life.
Outside, clouds hung low overhead and light rain drizzled down the large windows. Ruth looked out at flooded gutters swirling with small currents of brown water and thought of the rain the night before. That steady, soft beat on the tin roof, like someone trying to get in. She had lain there thinking of the world outside and what might be going on out there, half wishing she was there and at the same time glad she wasnât. When the bus pulled out, a rush of excitement filled her. At least she wasnât watching the cycling!
Marcus doesnât do quiet!
her mother was always joking.
He likes an audience.
As though it were funny and somehow lovable to be someone who never even
tried
to do anything unless at least fifty people were watching! She thought of Marcus that morning, doing his exercises in the kitchen.
What about her?
heâd said, pointing at Ruth as if she was some functionary who was there only to help him become a star.
And yet it hadnât always been like that. Prickles of guilt poked through her thoughts like little thorns. It hurt having to admit it. She and Marcus used to get on.
Youâre the one who declared war,
he had said to her in exasperation just the other day, and it was true.
The morning after sheâd lost Rodney,
Crack.
How many times did he do it? Did he stop when his arm got tired? A burst of loathing exploded inside her.
They walked down the ramp toward the line of buses. At school sheâd noticed bruises on Howardâs legs, but she hadnât asked about them. He was so skinny and pale, sheâd thought he might have something wrong with him that he didnât want to talk about. âThat one is ours,â Howard said, pointing at one of the big ones. âWe get off at stop six.â
Ruth nodded.
âYou donât have to put up with being hit, you know,â she blurted out when they reached the bus and joined the throng of passengers waiting to get on. âThere are people you can tell. They can get him for hitting you.â She wasnât even sure if this was true but â¦
surely it was.
Howardâs expression remained completely blank, as though she hadnât said anything, and it made her immediately sorry sheâd spoken.
It felt good to be getting onto that bus, as if they were in a movie. No one knew them. They didnât have to explain to anyone what they were doing. They filed in behind a dozen or so others and found themselves a seat about halfway down the bus. Ruth took off her coat and stuffed it in her backpack, then put it on the rack above them.
âCan I have the window seat again?â Howard asked.
âYeah.â
âYou can have it on the way home.â
âWhatever.â Ruth shrugged, watching more people get on.
Howard turned away to stare out the window.
By the time the bus pulled out from the curb it was three-quarters full, mostly with old ladies and a few morose-looking couples dressed in overcoats and gloves, rubbing their hands together and commenting on the cold. There was one girl a little older than Ruth sitting across the aisle with someone who looked like she might be her mother. Ruth had felt her checking Howard and her over when she was settling into her seat. But when the girlâs mother also looked over with a curious, friendly glance, Ruth avoided meeting their eyes. Let them wonder why she was traveling alone with the strange skinny kid. She didnât want to talk to anyone.
The driver was the last one to take his seat.
âGood morning, folks,â he called cheerfully. âWeâll be off in less than a minute.â
No one answered him or even smiled. Ruth thought it was a bit rude, but she didnât want to be the only one to reply. She watched him throw himself down into his seat and switch on the radio. Pop music blared out as he turned the key and the engine fired into life.
Outside, clouds hung low overhead and light rain drizzled down the large windows. Ruth looked out at flooded gutters swirling with small currents of brown water and thought of the rain the night before. That steady, soft beat on the tin roof, like someone trying to get in. She had lain there thinking of the world outside and what might be going on out there, half wishing she was there and at the same time glad she wasnât. When the bus pulled out, a rush of excitement filled her. At least she wasnât watching the cycling!
Marcus doesnât do quiet!
her mother was always joking.
He likes an audience.
As though it were funny and somehow lovable to be someone who never even
tried
to do anything unless at least fifty people were watching! She thought of Marcus that morning, doing his exercises in the kitchen.
What about her?
heâd said, pointing at Ruth as if she was some functionary who was there only to help him become a star.
And yet it hadnât always been like that. Prickles of guilt poked through her thoughts like little thorns. It hurt having to admit it. She and Marcus used to get on.
Youâre the one who declared war,
he had said to her in exasperation just the other day, and it was true.
The morning after sheâd lost Rodney,
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