WE HADN’T CONSIDERED our collective laziness and fatigue before we left the 7-Eleven for the bus station. Maybe it’s only a couple of miles away, but it might as well be on an island sitting in the middle of some far off planet I’ve never imagined.
Dominic’s step has lost its bounce. Bronwyn’s lumbering has devolved to full-on foot dragging, every step grinding road gravel between her shoes and blacktop.
I look down at my own stupid shoes that I dug from a box in a detox closet earlier and think about my shitty boots, lying on the floor of the twins’ basement. Maybe the screeching bird woman has calmed down enough to spot them there, the puta’s cheap pieces of imitation suede and hard plastic. Maybe she’s already carried them out to the green poly cart in front of their house where they’ll remain until trash pickup.
“What the fuck is that?” Dom’s pointing at an old, rusted out bus. Someone—or a few someones— has spray painted various religious and sexual sentiments all over the bus’s exterior. One artist wants us to be aware that Jesus will be back any minute, now. Another proudly announces, “If it smells like pee, it’s good enough for me!”.
“Some shitty old bus,” I say.
“Well, maybe we can go crash in it for a little while.”
Bronwyn, looking very much like a Theresa right now, is looking at the bus like it’s the place where the monster that lived under her bed is currently shacking up. “I dunno, you guys. Maybe there’s crazy hobos or some shit living in there. Or rats. Or spiders. Probably spiders for sure.”
“Okay,” Dom says. “I’ll go peek in the windows first.”
We stand there watching while Dom walks over to the bus and steps up on the rear bumper. He puts his face up to the glass and curves his hands around his eyes. He steps down, shaking his head. “It’s cool. Let’s just lay low in there. At least until the buses get going again.”
“If the door opens,” I say.
“The door’ll open. Probably.”
Inside the bus, I expect it to smell like hobo shit and vomit, but instead, it smells like dust and rotted fabric. Most of the seats have been removed, so we lay our sweatshirts and the flannel shirt baby out on the floor and lay down shoulder-to-shoulder with Dom sandwiched in the middle.
“Hey, Dom.” Bronwyn, she even sounds like a Theresa right now.
“Yeah?”
“You gonna call that Sparrow chick?”
“Yeah. I think so. I’ll probably try tomorrow. Maybe she won’t be home yet, but she can’t stay in detox for more than a few days at a time.”
“Right on.”
The way Bronwyn says this makes me think that nothing is right on for her inside, but I don’t know if she’s jealous of Sparrow, wishing she was in a bed somewhere instead of in the middle of another one of our shit-brained adventures, or preoccupied with thoughts of how to get her lipstick just right, the way that little Sparrow does.
I begin to drowse off wondering about Bronwyn, realizing that I kind of miss the days when she was just plain old Theresa. Then Dominic, who must be drowse-wondering too, snaps me awake when he starts wondering out-loud.
“Now that we’ve finally finished high school, don’t you think about the version of you that exists like, ten years from now? Don’t you wonder what they do and what they’re like and stuff?”
“Nope.” Bronwyn yawns. “I know what future me is doing. She’s living in a cool studio apartment in Manhattan. She’s got a man who’s tall and buff who wears suits, looking all fucking sharp and shit. A Samoan dude with nice facial hair. Or a black businessman dude. I’m gonna have an office in some classy high-rise. Wall-to-wall windows and a nice view of the city. No Theresa. No small town bullshit. Fuck yeah.”
I try to imagine future Bronwyn and wonder what her name will be. Whose face she’ll have. I see her in my mind’s eye, staring back at her reflection in her high-rise window, but it’s all just blurry city lights twinkling where a face should be.
“What about you?” She asks Dom.
“Ah, I dunno. Something real basic, ya know? Like something where I work hard all day. A mechanic, or city worker… or like those construction guys. I come home and I gotta wash my hands first thing, 'cause they’re all grubby from working all day and my wife wants me to clean up to eat dinner. Then we hang out. We laugh and pay bills. We tuck in the kids and maybe sometimes one of them has a nightmare, or gets in a fight at school, so we both sit there on the side of his bed and talk to him, being really cool parents, teaching him stuff.”
I laugh. “So, you wanna be that show Roseanne when you grow up.”
“Yeah, I guess. But you know, with a nice wife, not a loud one who’s always yelling at everybody.”
Bronwyn bursts out laughing so abruptly that at first, I think she’s choking.
Dom laughs, too. “Aw, fuck you guys.”
After the giggling dies down, Bronwyn nails me. “What about you, Ivy?”
I consider for a moment. I try to find something appealing about each of their scenarios, but I can’t. I search to come up with one of my own, but come up with nothing. All I can think about is my lost shoes and the lost hamster scratching from inside the bathroom wall.
“I dunno. I never really thought much about it. Is that kind of fucked up?”
Dom turns his head and looks me in the eye. “Never? Not even once?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Well, I don’t know if it’s fucked up, but you’re gonna have to start thinking about it sooner or later. The future catches up with you. You don’t want to be standing there like a chump with nothing to do when it shows up. Not saying you have to plan out college and every little detail, but you know… maybe think about stuff you want. Stuff you dream about that you can’t have now.”
“I guess I’ve been busy dreaming about stuff that already happened instead of stuff that might happen, or that I want to happen.”
“That’s the cool thing about the past,” Bronwyn says, “It’s temporary. If you don’t like the one you have, you can just keep making new ones until you find one that’s a good fit.”
I don’t know how to find the future, or where to start looking for it. I close my eyes and wish I could be as strong as Bronwyn; strong enough to look at the prototype of me and shove her down in a hole where no one can see her anymore.