Girl Trouble

There was a sudden queue: all moaning desperation to get on the coach, all stomping sneakers in the slush, all saying, ‘We’re freezing here.’ Most looked alone and in their twenties or thirties – old. There was also a dog running about, snapping at snowflakes. I watched him for a while and briefly forgot everything but, in particular, my need for photo ID … and the broken girl.

And, as my grandad used to say, it was colder than the hinges of hell.

‘If you’ve got a luggage receipt, your luggage is going in. If you don’t, you need one and not from me. Understand, yo?’ said the driver. In return came shouting and barking. ‘And somebody needs to shut that mutt up.’

The queue shrank as the bus filled, but there was a growing stack of bags piled on the sidewalk like a local luggage shop had exploded.

The driver’s mouth blew tiny clouds as he spoke, reminding me of the cold.

‘Ticket and ID, please.’ I handed over my ticket and passport. ‘Is this your bag?’ he said, nodding towards the Princess but not looking up from my documents.

‘I’ve a baggage receipt,’ I said and he nodded, focusing on the passport page with my photo, my name and my date of birth.

‘Thank you.’

Would he have noticed my age if the dog, which had spent the last fifteen minutes barking, hadn’t cocked its leg against the luggage? I don’t know.

‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Whose dog is that? John! John! Give me a hand, John! There’s a dog dirtying the baggage again, man.’

The driver shoved my ticket and passport into my chest and went for the dog.

Standing at the very front of the coach, I couldn’t see any spare seats. Everybody had their heads bowed, immersed in phones. I walked the line. The forest of heads thinned out. I could see a free window seat. And I could also see who I’d be sitting next to.

I mean … there were literally no other free seats. It didn’t matter. So I ignored the fluttering in my chest. Because it wasn’t like I was choosing to sit next to her.

Her arms rested on top of that same parcel that had gone tumbling in the waiting room. She cradled her right wrist, the fingers of her left gently kneading its skin. (Guilt klaxon.) Her neck was sharply angled and she stared out of the window. She bit into her bottom lip. This was the same girl who’d stormed into the waiting area but with all the worry turned up.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, voice as steady as jelly, like I’d never talked to a girl before, which I had. ‘Sorry, but is this seat free?’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ she said.

After I’d managed to cram my coat into an overhead locker, she’d swung her legs to the side, expending the minimum effort required to let me pass. I’d excused myself and sat down so very quietly.

‘I think you’ve broken my wrist, by the way,’ she said, sending waves of resentment from her eyes to my face. ‘Like for real. I’m crippled for life.’

‘Do you want me to ask the driver if there’s any wrist medicine?’

This was a fair request, even if it made me sound like a primary-school kid.

‘Do you want me to ask the driver if there’s any wrist medicine?’ she repeated, putting on the lamest British accent you could imagine. ‘What’s wrist medicine?’

She also relaxed all the muscles in her face and rolled her eyes into their sockets, making like she thought I was an idiot, which I’m not.

I turned to look at the snow. It was, like, at least five times warmer than my neighbour.

Was it snowing back in England? Was it snowing outside my bedroom window? On to next door’s black Citroën? Had Mum and Dad got back from work? Was Amy getting told off for having her earphones in? It was like knowing a film you loved was playing without you in a distant cinema. Life went on back home, in those familiar patterns, because that’s what life does. I guess, in that way, being on holiday was like being dead. Everyone makes a fuss about it but ultimately it’s boring.

‘Are you for real?’ she asked. ‘I’m not joking. Are you? For real?’

‘Yes,’ I said, not meeting her eyes but also not wanting to be hassled for the whole journey. ‘I am for real. One hundred per cent real, that’s me.’

‘That accent! I mean.’

I nodded, even though it wasn’t me with an accent – it was her.

She’d tripped over my bag – okay – but if she refused to get her wrist looked at, that wasn’t my fault. And, anyway, it wasn’t as if there was bone breaking skin or blood pumping out.

(If only she could regenerate – that’s got to be the best superpower; you’d be invincible. Any wound: instantly healed. People talk about choosing between flying and invisibility but, for me, being able to heal wounds is up there. Check out Wolverine and Deadpool.)

As soon as the bus chugged out of Chicago’s suburbs there wasn’t much to look at. There were USB ports for phones between the two seats in front of us and that was something, at least. Although … my cable was buried in the Princess and I didn’t get the feeling that the driver would be too keen to go rooting through the luggage compartment.

There was one weird moment, which made sense later, and it happened at a traffic light. The bus had pulled up to a red. Alongside us a black pick-up truck rolled to a stop. There was no snow on the vehicle at all, like its metal was sending out heatwaves that melted flakes before they could settle.

The driver’s window descended and a man with an enormous white moustache looked up – not at the bus, but at me. He locked my eyes in a stare that was only broken when the lights changed and the bus started forward. For some reason I shuddered.

Americans sure are weird, I thought.

At some point I must have dozed off. Because, later, I definitely woke up and when I did there were three massive shocks:

1. The bus wasn’t moving.
2. Two police officers stood at the front. One had a microphone and the other held an iPad, its screen facing forward.
3. The girl’s head rested against my shoulder. Still wearing that baseball cap, bright blue with an orange C above the brim.

I didn’t move. Not a muscle of a muscle. A bit because of the police but mainly: the girl. What would she say if I woke her? Had I ever had one fall asleep on me before? A girl?

I didn’t know. But what I did know were all the feelings sparked off by the experience. Mad and confusing. Like a talking horse. My mind was a muddled soup of fear and longing. It could only be straightened out through getting back to sleep. Which was kind of a problem in the current situation.

Her head was warm. I could feel it through my top. And even though she was sleeping, she still gripped that box. It must contain something pretty valuable like … silver coins, for instance, or a really expensive puppy (cryogenically frozen).

‘Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen. We won’t hold you for long. We’re stopping all buses going through the Champaign region on account of reports of a dangerous runaway minor. My colleague is holding an iPad with a recent image of the suspect. We would ask that you study this as we walk the aisle. Please raise your hand if you recognise the individual or if you have any questions. Thank you for your attention.’

The microphone squawked as he handed it back to the driver. A burst of rock music shook through the coach before the driver managed to turn it off. Both officers made to walk forward at the same time. Their shoulders banged and there was a split second of awkwardness, which didn’t help create an appearance of professionalism.

To begin with I was confused by the word ‘minor’. I’d thought, you see, that he’d meant ‘miner’ and imagined some tiny guy with a hard hat and pickaxe running about. As soon as I saw the iPad’s picture, though, I understood my mistake.

Because it was so her. The girl was the girl, if you know what I mean. The girl with her head on my shoulder. Wanted by the police and everything. She probably had stolen gold in the box. Or, like, rare butterflies. I don’t know.

What should I do? There was that time in Chemistry when Al Philips held Emma Ashton’s pencil case over the Bunsen burner and even though I saw, I never told Dr Adiga. The whole class were put in a lunchtime detention and Emma’s parents came into school to see the deputy head the next day.

I’d had anxiety dreams about that situation for, like, months afterwards. And we’re talking about Dr Adiga, who everyone joked wore glasses because he couldn’t control his pupils. Not two American police officers with belts that contained all kinds of devices meant to hurt and control you, not forgetting their actual guns.

What had she done? When I’d seen her back at the station the first thing I’d thought was how tense she looked. Like the way she gritted her teeth. On edge. Focused like a criminal.

I’d definitely never had a criminal fall asleep on me before. I’d have thought it would be less comfortable.