This isn’t what I signed up for,
but that seems to be a common thread in my life these
days. So, sure, universe, you do you. Pile something else
on top of the mess.
I can’t see
straight, for starters. I’m on a bus from hell, and everything’s a blur,
and I don’t know what’s worse—keeping my eyes open to watch the
world zip by, or squeezing them shut and letting my stupid, stupid imagination do the
work. When I close them, every bump in the road feels
like I’m being launched into space, so maybe for now I’ll keep them
open. But both options are awful. Both are making me sick.
I’ve been
on the verge of puking all morning, and nothing seems to help. Especially not
this driver. Some tragic car accident blocked the route we normally
take, so we had to go on a long detour. And now that we’re running behind, the
driver’s been speeding and turning corners like this is a rollercoaster and not
a school bus.
Oh god, do
not think about rollercoasters right now, Henry.
No, this is
just a bus. A bus. Sure, we’re going well above the speed limit, but at least
not, like, a thousand miles an hour.
Okay, calm
down. What are the facts? Think of what’s around you. The bus
is almost at full capacity today, with only one person missing:
Judith, who’s been home from school. So, if she’s not here,
that means there are eighty-eight people around you.
God, that’s
so many.
No, that’s
not so many. That’s a normal amount, Henry!
Okay, eighty-eight
people, plus me, is eighty-nine. Double that,
and we get—take your time, Hen; use your fingers if you
have to—a hundred seventy-eight. There should be a hundred and
seventy-eight eyeballs on this bus…except we know there are five patched kids
on our route this year—six if we count…well, no, she’s not here. A
hundred and seventy-eight, minus five stolen eyes, equals a hundred and
seventy-three.
Wait, what
about the driver? Is that why he’s driving so crazy, because
he’s an eye short?
I glance
up to the mirror above him to double check—only I can’t tell because
he’s wearing sunglasses. Even at six-thirty a.m., the California sun is
blinding. But that’s all right; I don’t need to know.
A
hundred and seventy-three. That’s how many eyes are on this bus.
One.
Seven.
Three.
Slowly, the
breaths come. My lungs expand, and the nausea begins to fade. It
helps, knowing a simple statistic like that. But it’s weird, and if people
knew I counted eyeballs in my head, I would die. Actually curl
up and die.
Or maybe
everyone does that in secret. Maybe everyone is a secret freak like me.
A loud
screech. My head plows into the seat in front of me. Ow!
The driver slammed on
his brakes! As soon as I realize what’s
happened, anger builds in my chest. What in the
actual fuck is this fucking driver doing? He’s trying to
kill us! I want to scream my head off, scream until the windows
shatter. Until this guy’s ears
explode, because screw him!
But
I won’t. I never scream when I want to. Not
anymore. Instead, I sit on my hands and start
to count eyes again, while Ilet the world shift back
into place.
All around
me, people are moaning and groaning.
“Dude, what
the hell?” someone shouts.
I look
over, and the girl across the aisle is rubbing her neck, her eyes
closed and mouth downturned in obvious pain. The girl next to her has
her head between her legs. At first, I think she must be as sick as I
was feeling, but she starts searching around for something on the
floor and finally retrieves her phone. When the screen lights
up, there’s a giant spiderweb of cracks across it.
Slowly, the
bus lurches forward, and I no longer feel like screaming. The
anger is abating, and I feel it morph into something closer
to pity as I remember for the hundredth time what today
is: Drill Day. If the driver doesn’t get us to
school on time, he’ll be accused of trying to help us escape. He’ll
get his eye taken out.
I can’t be
mad at him for saving his own ass, even if it
means ushering me to what very well might be my own demise.
Oh
god. I feel a gurgle deep in my stomach. And so it begins. Again.
I’d be
lying if I said I didn’t feel at least somewhat nauseated on most Drill
Days. I definitely was last time. I could have puked when
Judith’s name was called. I’m surprised I didn’t.
The memory
of her walking up to that stage and standing up
there, crying, is burned into my brain—only parts of it are fading.
The most important parts, like what exactly her face used
to look like with two eyes. I remember they were beautiful.
I remember the color. But I can’t picture exactly what she
looked like. It’s only been a week, and it’s like she’s been eyeless
our entire lives. A better brother would remember. A better
brother wouldn’t have let it get taken out in the first
place.
At the very
least, a better brother would have listened to her this morning when she
said she had something important to tell me. I was too preoccupied
with other thoughts, already fighting the nausea well before I got on
the bus.
“Yeah, I
know,” I yawned. “Drill Day.”
“Obviously,
I don’t mean Drill Day,” she sighed. “I mean, yes, it’s Drill Day-adjacent,
but—”
“Jude,
I’m gonna be late. You can regale me later, okay? ”And like the
asshole that I am, I opened the door and left.
My own twin
sister, recovering from surgery, was trying to tell
me something important. Yet I couldn’t give her the time of
day.
Classic Henry.
Ugh, I
really do think I’m about to barf—and it’s my own fault. My own
stupidity. It’s not Drill Day or the bad driving,
really. Those are just exacerbating it. When it comes down
to it, I’m the source of all my misery—and one of these days, I’ll learn
that lesson.
But not
today. After school—assuming I don’t get my eye taken out—I’ll be reading
a poem, out loud, in Ink Stain, the creative writing club at
school. But it’s not just the public speaking—which I do get nervous about.
Mostly, it’s because the poem I have planned isn’t just any old poem.
It’s the single piece of work that will determine the trajectory of the rest of
my life.
Judith would
call that turn of phrase a little…dramatic. But she’s not here right now, and I
can confidently say that it will determine the rest of my
life. That’s why I couldn’t listen to her this morning, I was
too busy trying not to freak out—which is going really great
for me currently.
It’s not
just any old poem. It’s intended for one of my best
friends, Sam, who’s also in Ink Stain. Over the last few months, something
has changed, and I started getting feelings for him. Awful, huge feelings I’ve
literally never experienced before, that make me imagine a wedding and
kids? Disgusting.
Maybe a
rational person would tell him in private or even just keep it to themselves.
Wait until those feelings go away. But not me! Apparently, I have a death wish.
Either that, or I’ve convinced myself big romantic gestures, like reading
somebody a poem in front of all your friends, works in the movies, and so it
has got to work for me.
I’ve never
done anything so brave or grand in my life. I have always, always taken the
easy way out of things, like any cowardly lion. It’s just more comfortable to
sit quietly in the shadows.
But here’s
the thing: I don’t want to be a coward my entire life, and I think if I do
something big and grandiose like this, then maybe the universe will throw me a
bone and give me something good for once. And I want my first something good to
be really, really good.
And Sam
would be amazing.
Could it
backfire, and I’d lose one of my best friends in the world? Obviously. Which is
why I’m currently fighting with my entire being to not puke on this bus right
now as we take yet another turn at the speed of light. It’s probably my
imagination but we practically tip over and swipe into a car before
we straighten out.
Someone
nearby starts to laugh and shouts, “Sick, bro!”
The rest of
us groan.
A few
minutes later, we pull into the parking lot, and I realize I’ve managed not to
spew this entire ride. I take a deep breath, proud of my small
accomplishment. I could have puked, like, twenty times, but I haven’t!
But wait, we’re barely
slowing down. Apparently, just because we’ve reached our destination
doesn’t mean this ride from hell is over.
We hit
something—a speed bump, I realize—and boom, liquid sloshes the
back of my mouth, the strong taste of bile percolating across my tongue. It
burns as I swallow it back down. And this is just the first of three bumps.
I get that
it’s Drill Day, and I get that we need to be at school on time, but
this is outrageous. Moronic, actually. There’s no need to risk
our lives anymore; we’re literally on school property now.
Judith is
the opposite of me—much braver, much more direct—and while
I stew in shock and indignation again, she would have
gone up to the driver by now and had a word with him. Shut this down the
first time he took a fast turn.
But she’s
not here,
and we’re
about to hit the next bump. I jump to my feet so the impact on my stomach is
lessened, holding my breath and bracing for impact. It helps, I think. I don’t
feel as bad as I did the first time.
When we’re
over it, I’m suddenly very aware of myself and how I must look, having jumped
up like this. I’m in one of the middle rows, and I can feel everyone’s eyes on
the back of my head. Since Judith isn’t here, I have the seat to myself, which
is a small blessing. But now I almost wish I had her here making fun of me
because this is worse, feeling like the entire bus is pointing
at me.
I hate
attention. I hate causing a scene. I hate being noticed. And I’m
very, very aware that, right now, that is exactly what’s happening. I’m also
noticing how sweaty I am. My face is either ghost white or bile green. Or beet
red. All three?
A part of
me knows they can’t be looking at me any worse than they usually do, though.
Poor Henry with his one-eyed sister. Poor Henry with his drunk of a dad. Poor
Henry with his convict of a mother.
I think
about reaching down to my thigh to catapult me out of this moment, the tangle
of cuts and scars I could squeeze and knead like dough so
the jolt of hurt would replace this ache of embarrassment.
But I can’t. Not here.
We take the
third speed bump slower than the last two, but I still feel touch-and-go. At
this point, the best option is to just get out of here as fast as I can. Since
I’m already standing when we pull into the parking spot, I don’t wait for all
the people in front of me to get off first. I march right on up to the front
like I own this bus. And you know what? For right now, I do, fuckers.
“You in a
hurry or something?” asks the driver. He removes his shades to reveal two very
intact and very brown eyes. His fist is wrapped around the lever to open the
door, but he’s not opening it.
I wasn’t
expecting this, and with each second, my blood feels thicker and
thicker, like sludge. I mumble something about a test I have to study for.
“One day
you’ll realize life’s about more than school,” he says, believing, I’m sure,
that he’s being very profound at six-thirty.
I just nod
and smile, hoping my face doesn’t betray my anguish.
He smirks
and finally pulls the lever, and the door squeaks and sighs as it
opens. I jump down the stairs, and I must go a little too fast
because there’s no way I can hold it in anymore. I’ve got to puke, and
I’ve got to puke now.
I race
around to the front of the bus, shielded on all sides by other buses that I
really hope are empty, and let it go.
It’s so
painful coming up, like someone is stabbing me. My eyes flutter open
and closed as it comes pouring out, and it’s like
I’m watching myself in stop motion. It forms puddles around
my feet. Some of it gets on my shoes.
It’s hot
and gross, and some of it sprays up into my nose, which might make me
puke more. I try to be quiet so nobody will hear me, but the bus engine is so
loud that it probably doesn’t matter. Or maybe that’s delirious
thinking. Maybe the driver is watching from his window right now. But
if anybody does come over to see, they don’t wait around long
enough to say anything.
A minute
later, when I’m sure it’s all out of me, I feel light, free. Empty. I think
this might be the best I’ve ever felt in my life. Maybe I can read
this poem today. Maybe Sam will respond the way I want. I
should puke more often.
Everything
in me goes still and quiet. It’s almost like I’m
floating through fog as I wind my way through the maze of buses
all parked in a cluster. I’m so light, it feels like a dream. Like I’m not
real. Is this what it’s like to get high?
As soon as
I round the last bus, I come down.
If getting
sick was a dream, reality is not worth waking up
for. The nightmare of my life is as bleak as it’s
ever been.
Ah, yes,
here we are. Drill Day.
Across the
parking lot, a few hundred feet away, is the entire student
body—two thousand of my peers. They’ve been rounded up like
cattle in front of school, their incessant chatter like primal, god-fearing cries for
help before being led to slaughter. And just like real cattle, they
know there’s no escape.
But at
least the cows get to die before their mutilation
