It's funny how you find yourself noticing things about your mother when you're wracked with guilt because you dreamed about blowing her up.
She throws a pair of no-longer frozen waffles on a plate, slops a kiss on the side of my face. Typical post-Cold War working-woman-mother rush. I glance at the style section of the paper, check my email, and then walk down to the bus. Alison isn't there; she probably got a ride from someone.
Alison is sort of short, with lots of dark brown hair and blue eyes that never stop moving, even when you're talking to her. Her skin tans well, and she has rag doll limbs. She weighs so little; it used to be a joke that Tim could just walk around with her perched on his shoulders. Maybe we should have been worried then--hell, maybe we should be worried now, but it's not like she doesn't eat. She's just small.
The bus isn't empty today, and it's a thousand times worse. Bunches of freshman are screaming, trying to see who can make the most irritating noise. I slip in my headphones and try to drown them out, but even the most punk-ish of my music isn't enough. The bus driver is still emaciated, and his shoes are still dirty, and he still reeks of cigars, but (if such a thing is possible), he seems more disoriented than ever. He almost drove past our stop*this kid Jason had to chase down the bus.
Jason is a junior who lives a little ways down the road. He just moved, with his two brothers. One of them, Carl, drives and the other is in middle school, I think. They all have dark hair and these amazing eyes in a weird shade of blue*almost turquoise, with long dark lashes. Other than those, though, they're all pretty average looking.
I think Carl's in my law class. He doesn't say much.
We get off the bus, and the driver is quick to pull away--some freshman's barely off the step before he lurches out of the parking lot. It is unseasonably cold; I start my autumn stubbornness.
Autumn Stubbornness is what my mom calls that period of late October to mid-November in which I refuse to wear any jacket heavier than a sweatshirt or my unlined corduroy one from Urban Outfitters. Yes, it gets cold, but I prefer a slight case of the sniffles to having to wear a disgusting down-filled poof to school.
It�s a pride thing, I guess. I am part Viking, or so says my mother, so I try to pretend that I don�t feel cold. It�s kind of silly, but I can�t very well go back on it now. Sometimes, though, I go home and take six blankets and just sit in my big squishy armchair. I pretend to be a bear.