When I leave English, I decide to blow off student council. We’re working on getting the principal to reinstate the prom. Last year, some kids from another school crashed our formal, and they brought drugs and alcohol with them. Prom was cancelled indefinitely after that. I supported council fighting this at first, but now I don’t really care. At first, it was the principle behind the issue. It wasn’t fair for this year’s seniors to suffer for what happened the year before, especially when the offenders weren’t even from our school. But now, I’m on the brink of actually failing a test. And it’s not like I have anyone to go to the prom with anyway.
Besides, I feel crappy. I wonder if I should head back to the library to sleep for a few minutes before trying to study for math. On top of everything else, I’ve forgotten my lunch, and my stomach is growling. I go to Pepe’s and grab a slice and eat it as I walk back to school. As I step through the opening in the fence that separates our field from the sidewalk, a soccer ball rolls toward me. I kick the ball back to my friend Stuart, who yells at me to come play. They need one more to make the teams even. I’m no jock but I’m not too bad at soccer. Most of these guys play soccer every chance they get, and I join them once in a while. What the hell — why not? I run hard, and I chase the ball down one side near the edge of the field. I kick the ball right at Stuart, who redirects it into the other team’s net. Gavin, who’s a really good athlete, slaps me on the back and yells, “Sweet!” I play for the next twenty minutes until the bell rings to signify that the period is over. I’m spent, but it was good not to think about crap for a little while.
Lunch is finished, and now I have my spare. I sit in front of my locker. I open my math textbook, but I can’t focus. I shut my book and then close my eyes. I’m just too tired. I think about going to the office and signing myself out for the day, maybe complain about feeling sick. But the school requires a doctor’s note if you’re absent on the day of a test. I have no choice — I’ll just have to wing it.
I drag myself to math class. I answer the first question okay. But by the second question, I’m regretting not studying during my double lunch. Why did I play soccer when I could’ve gotten an hour and a half of studying in? I always do this. I mess up and then I think back to what I could have or should have done. But the truth is, I still don’t change my ways or try to fix things. I still leave assignments to the last minute, or I stay up listening to music or texting back and forth with my friends instead of working or sleeping. My stomach churns. I feel like an idiot for not studying, combined with how I usually feel after not sleeping well. I regret not even trying to study. But it wouldn’t have helped anyway. I’m too damned tired. My body feels weak. And my head feels cloudy. What I wouldn’t do for a nap right now.
***
I see Maheen after my last class. “Wanna chill?” I ask.
“Sorry, I’ve got STEM club. Any luck finding your cell?”
I shake my head. I’m disappointed but not surprised. “See you later.”
I see a few other people I could maybe hang out with. But I realize I don’t really want to chill with anyone after all.
I walk to the bus stop. I get on and grab a seat halfway back. There are only two other riders, a couple sitting at the rear of the bus.
Without my phone, I feel like a bird that’s had his wings clipped. I don’t even know what time it is, because my cell was also my watch. Normally, I’d be listening to music or texting with someone all the way home. I don’t live that far away, but the traffic is heavy and we’re barely crawling along. I wish I’d ridden my bike this morning. I close my eyes for a bit, but I feel restless. I need to come up with something to tell my parents. Maybe that the phone broke and I gave it to someone who could fix it. Then I could tell them that after they took it apart, they found it was unfixable. It’s a lame excuse and they would still be mad, but it beats the flat-out truth that I just lost it. When I was eight, I lost my backpack. Actually, it was stolen. I had put it down while I played soccer with my buddies in the park after school. When I was ready to go home, it was gone. Losing my backpack prompted my parents to tell me how miserable their lives have been, how I should be grateful for all their sacrifices and that I’d brought shame to the family.
I know that I will hear this all over again tonight, and I will tune most of it out. Most of it, but not all of it. I shake my head. I can tell myself they’re screwed up. They are. But if they’re the ones who are messed up, why do I feel this guilt?
I grab the newspaper left on the seat next to me. The headline is about a mass murder that had happened yesterday morning in the States. Two dozen kids were killed in a school. On the next page, there’s a story about how elderly people are being scammed out of their retirement savings. I skim through the article. I get upset reading stuff like this. Innocent people suffering at the hands of bad people. Then I go from feeling mad to feeling depressed. I turn the page. There’s another article about the guy who committed the mass murder from the first page. It tells how he’d been bullied and abused as a kid. I toss the paper aside. I can’t read this stuff.
The guy and girl in the back of the bus are arguing now. Once I notice, I can’t help but hear what they’re saying.
“I can’t go with you.” The girl’s wearing a tight-fitting aqua-coloured jacket.
“Why not? It’s just one night — and it’s all paid for. Your crazy mother’s not even going to notice you’re not at home.” He’s much taller than she is.
“Don’t call her that.” She looks away.
“You know it’s true. Are you worried about getting pregnant like her? You don’t have to worry — I’m not as stupid as your lazy-ass father.” He shakes his head.
“I should never have told you anything.” Her hair is long and straight. The colour is something between brown and red.
“You’re lucky a guy like me even gives a shit about you. I care about you, Max. Don’t you get that?” He’s got really short blond hair. She tries to get up and he grabs her wrist. He pulls her back into her seat. She looks away. Her eyes are wet and puffy. I didn’t hear the beginning of their argument, but she doesn’t deserve this. Maybe I should say something. “Look at me when I talk to you!” His teeth are clenched. “It’s always all about you!” He’s gripping the upper part of her arm and he shakes her.
“Damn it, Nico — it hurts when you do that!”
Why does stuff like this happen? I can feel myself getting hot around my neck. I imagine myself getting up and going back there. I could just say to him, “Hey buddy, why don’t you cool down a bit?” Or ask the girl if she’s okay. I could do that.
But I don’t. I’m not sure why I can’t. He’s getting louder.
“I’m barely touching you!” he snaps.
I’m sitting on a seat that’s facing sideways, so I can see them without turning my head in their direction. I lean forward in my seat. Okay, I’m going to just say something. Still, I don’t move. Why doesn’t the driver do anything? Isn’t it part of his job to do something? It’s my stop. I look toward the back and get up. Now or never. The guy glares at me. I just get off the bus.
I suck.