Our next stop was supposed to be the Biodome. It was a short bus ride (or rather, motor coach journey according to Tim and Sid) from Mont Royal, so I did not have to address the problem that two ghosts had now taken up residence in the seats across the aisle from my soul mate, who had safely, if not dryly, made his way to the bus.
“Look,” Jac was saying, waving the display screen of her digital camera around in front of me. “Look! Are you looking?”
“I can’t look if you keep moving it around, Jac,” I responded, shifting in my seat. Next time Jac really ought to give me the window seat. Ben had a window seat. At least then I would have the same view he had.
“Give it,” I commanded, taking the camera from her and examining the image on the screen.
It was actually a really nice picture of both of us. Ben’s eyes do this amazing thing when he smiles—it’s like some kind of light is projecting out of them. If that wasn’t enough, his dark eyebrows angled slightly down on the outside, making him look very compassionate, like he was ready to listen to all your problems.
He wore his black hair in a short brush cut, which had remained unaffected by the stiff breeze up at Chateau Mont-Royal. His olive green windbreaker was zipped up most of the way, giving him a sweetly sporty look and complementing his almond complexion. I could have stared at his picture for a very long time. If the appropriate technology existed, I’d have had the photo tattooed on the inside of both my eyelids.
I have to say I didn’t look so bad myself. Jac had snapped the picture just as Ben’s shoulder had brushed mine, and there was a happy glow on my face. My smile looked real, probably because it was. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but I thought we looked really nice together. He wasn’t too tall—only about three inches taller than me. Even the deep purple of my thick fleece seemed to go nicely, without being matchy-matchy, with Ben’s jacket.
The whole picture was so glorious I could almost, but not quite, ignore the small sphere of light that appeared slightly behind and over our heads. Most people would dismiss it as a smudge of dust on the lens, perhaps lit by a stray ray of sunlight. But I knew better. The round light object was a spirit orb—the manifestation on film of a ghost.
Britches, I presumed.
“So you have to go show it to him!” Jac said, nudging me enthusiastically.
“I so do not!” I replied, in my best I-mean-it voice. “That would be really lame, Jac.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I’ll just send it to his phone.”
She got up on her knees and leaned over the back of the seat.
“Ben. Hey, Ben!” she called to him where he sat in his usual seat, three rows back, as I repeatedly hissed the word no. “What’s your cell number? I want to send this picture to your phone.”
I heard Ben’s voice, and numbers. Why why why? I thought. It seemed like Jac could never leave anything that related to Ben Greenblott and me alone.
But giving it a little more thought, it was a good picture. Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to let Ben see that we sort of looked cute together. I let the outraged expression stay on my face, but inwardly I was a little happy. Very a little happy.
“Sent it,” Jac said, plopping down next to me. “And now we have his number.”
“You have his number,” I said. Jac reached into my fleece pocket and pulled my phone out.
“Stop,” I said quietly and unconvincingly. She held her phone next to mine and pushed some buttons.
“Now you have his number, too,” she said with satisfaction.
I put my head on her shoulder.
“Oh, Jac,” I said. “After all this, if it turns out he doesn’t like me I’m going to lose my mind.”
“He likes you,” Jac said. “I can feel it. You saw how he was smiling in that picture.”
True.
“But if he doesn’t,” I pressed. “Or worse, if he ends up liking someone else, I’ll die.”
“Then you can haunt him,” she said cheerfully.
“Helpful,” I responded.
A commotion, comprised entirely of female voices, erupted in the rear of the bus.
“What’s going on?” Jac asked. “Can you see? Is the bathroom overflowing?”
Jac’s suspicion of the on-bus facilities was obviously going to be an ongoing theme of our trip.
I stuck my head around my seat and peered down the aisle.
Shoshanna Longbarrow was standing at the very back of the bus, flanked by Stacy and Shelby, who were trying to stand up in their seats like a couple of royal guards. Phil was snapping photographs of them on his cell phone, while two of the Random Boys tossed an inflatable ball back and forth over his head. Shoshanna had a scowl on her face that said very clearly that some unfortunate soul had displeased her. Intrigued, I leaned farther into the aisle and strained to hear what was going on. Suddenly, a figure leaned out and blocked my view, waving to get my attention. It was Britches.
“Hochelaga?”
I shook my head and gestured at him to go away. After a moment, he withdrew into his seat.
“But I don’t see why,” I heard a familiar voice whine.
“Because. I. Said. So. Brook, I don’t know what is up with you recently, but you are really getting on my nerves,” Shoshanna declared.
Now I could see Brooklyn. From the way her enormous purse was partially wedged behind Shelby’s purse I guessed there was some sort of seating dispute going on. It might sound silly, but when you’re a Satellite Girl, who sits where is of crucial importance. Periodically emotional violence erupted as people angled for a better position in the pecking order. It was like watching a documentary on Animal Planet about the only watering hole in the desert.
“But Shelby was—”
Shoshanna raised one hand, traffic cop–style.
“Just move,” she said. Then without another word she sat down in her back-row seat, removed Lacy Fowler’s iPod from Lacy’s own hand, stuck in the earbuds, and began pumping her foot to a fast beat. Brooklyn hesitated, then grabbed her bag from Shelby’s seat and turned around. Our eyes locked.
And I shouldn’t have done it; I know I shouldn’t have done it.
But I smiled, and not in the kind of way that’s meant to be nice.