There is a tiny hole
and if you unbend a paper clip
and insert it into the hole,
the world resets.
It becomes a walk
to the bus station in
the middle of the night
when even the bush man
is sleeping.
It becomes a safe place for
people
like
you
are getting
required
amounts of rest
for testing day.
I try not to run. I try to maintain control. Guts on the inside, me on the outside.
I am new.
I didn’t leave a note for anyone, not even my sisters. I’ll miss them, but now they can have Mom’s attention and they won’t have to share a room.
I text Shane and he says that he’s sleeping at a friend’s house in New York City and that I should call him when I get there. First bus leaves at 3:45 a.m. and arrives at six. I text back that I will be there at six. I write, “If you want to meet me at Port Authority, that would be cool.” But I guess he turned his phone off because he doesn’t reply.
The streetlights are a funny color. I never really noticed it before. They are a mix of amber and rose, and I feel like I’m walking through a field in the future. Maybe that’s what will happen to our orderly suburban development. Maybe it will regenerate, like a liver. Maybe it will eat us up and swallow us and make us feel the acid as it breaks us back down into molecules.
Stanzi would know if that’s possible.
I regret not leaving her a note. If she ever comes back, I want her to know I’m okay. She’s smart and will probably know where I went.
I’m concentrating hard on staying right side out. With every step it becomes easier. I want to try talking out loud and look forward to getting to the station and purchasing my ticket so I can say “Good morning” to the cashier, so I can say “Hello” to my fellow travelers.
When I arrive at the station, a businessman walks in front of me when I’m clearly in view. I think he’s going to open the door for me, but instead, he walks in himself and lets the door close behind him. I reach down and touch my forearm to make sure I’m here. It would be a shame to be invisible.
He’s paying for his ticket at the counter when I walk in behind him.
I say, “Good morning!” and he and the cashier look at me as if I have said something dirty.
I don’t swallow myself. Instead, I try, “Hello!”
The cashier looks at me and smiles the smile of a cashier at 3:35 in the morning. I might have just made his day a little better. I make a mental note about how this feels. It feels good to make a person’s day a little better by saying something simple. I make a mental note to write a poem on the bus called “Things That Make Me Feel Good,” but then it feels selfish to want to feel good.
As I buy my ticket, I wonder if the cashier feels guilty about whatever makes him feel good. As I go to the bathroom in the tiny bus station, I wonder if my mother feels guilty about her basement of pain, if my little sisters feel guilty about eating ice cream or cookies or whatever makes them feel good.
The bus arrives and as I hand my ticket to the driver he says, “Are you sure you’re not supposed to be in school today?”
“I’m sure,” I say.
He laughs like he wasn’t serious. I laugh, too, and my mouth has trouble forming the shape of laughter.
I realize I haven’t laughed in ages.
I think of Tamaqua de la Cortez and wonder why she can laugh. I think back to all of the ex-weathergirls. If Gustav was here he could graph the data. If Stanzi was here, she could give me the physiological reasons for laughter and the lack of laughter. If Lansdale was here, she would make me cookies and they would taste delicious.
“Are you getting on or not?” the businessman behind me asks. He even shoves a little, as if the bus will leave without him even though the driver is still outside closing the luggage doors on the side.
I stop cold and turn to him. “Did you just shove me?”
When we lock eyes, he seems genuinely sorry. When I was just the back of a girl, I deserved shoving. Now that I’m the front of a girl, I might be human, I guess.
He almost makes an apology. I can see it right behind his eyes. It’s a banner like on those airplanes that fly above the beach in summertime. I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry.… Instead, he just makes the move-it motion with his hand.
I squeeze to one side of the completely empty bus aisle and let him go past me. Then, when he sits down and settles and the bus driver gets on and I look at the sixty other seats in the bus, I walk right up to him and point to the seat next to him.
“May I sit here?” I ask. I’m fully right side out now. It feels good.
“What?”
“May I sit here?”
“Can’t you sit anywhere else?” he asks. “The bus is empty!”
I sit in the seat directly across from him. I retract the armrest between the seats and I put my back against the cool window, extend my legs, and stare at him.
Ten minutes later, he gathers his things and moves to another seat.
Five minutes after he settles, I move to the seat directly across from him and stare at him again.
This dance continues all the way to New York City. The businessman grows more and more annoyed. I stop staring long enough to write the poem.
Looking at a stranger and seeing
everything about him
because he is
easier to read
than the instructions
to prepare a packaged pizza.
Knowing that when
they slice him into
even pieces,
a banner that reads
I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry.
I look up to see the businessman staring at me this time.
I say, “It looks like it will be a lovely day!”
He says, “It’s supposed to rain in the afternoon.”
I say, “Isn’t it always?”