The Chronicles of a Public Bus (part 3.20)

Wednesday, 6:00, route 31

The first clue that something is wrong with Willow is that she is texting as she steps onto the bus. Her face is lit up with the blue white of the screen, and her shoes knock against the bus’s doorframe as she steps up from the curb. Her black hair has wispies, which she hasn’t had since she discovered the wonders of hairspray in seventh grade, and when Drake asks her a question, she grunts instead of answering.

“Willow?” Drake asks, tapping her shoulder. She walks with the slow, uncertain steps of someone reading a newspaper while walking, and Drake wants her to hurry. “Willow, we need to sit down so the bus can keep moving.”

She mutters a low note of agreement and shuffles into the nearest pair of empty seats, right in front of the back door. Willow hates that spot; it’s always too cold.

Frowning, Drake follows her, making sure to sit extra close to her. “Are you texting Divinity?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light.

“Martin,” she replies. Her thumbs hop across the keyboard, and she bites her lip. “He’s helping me with some stuff.”

The bus eases into a start, engine whispering and buzzing, and with the noise, Drake can’t tell if Willow follows up with more detail on her statement. “Um, what kind of stuff?” he asks.

Willow fidgets, scooting towards the wall and away from Drake, and shivers. “Stuff stuff. Top secret. You’re not allowed to know.”

“Does Divinity know?”

“Nope.”

Despite usually despising Divinity’s uncanny knowledge of things she shouldn’t really know about, Drake gulps. If he can’t ask Divinity for information, he’ll never know what Willow is up to. “Does it have something to do with spirits?” he tries.

Willow only offers a noncommittal grunt and brings her phone closer to her face. Her nose almost touches the screen. However, Drake can tell by the thinness of her lips and the set of her jaw that she’s debating with herself. If he waits, he’ll learn something.

He sighs and falls against the back of the seat, pushing his backpack around on his lap until it teeters on his knees. After twenty seconds—exactly twenty; he counted, and the time was arduous and painful—he sighs again, subtle and soft.

Willow stirs, downy jacket rustling, and pouts at him. “I know you’re guilting me.”

Instead of answering, Drake forces his face into a stern frown. “I’m worried. You could be doing something dangerous, for all I know.”

“You sound like my ba-ba,” Willow retorts. She bites her lips and watches Drake from the corner of her eyes. “You know what? Fine. I’ll tell you.” Scowling, she shifts to face Drake and cups a hand over her mouth, beckoning him to lean in closer. Her gaze is suddenly trained on something to her right, and blood rises to her cheeks. “So you know how I fainted yesterday while we were snooping?”

“Yes.” Drake feels his face darken.

“Um, well, I might have actually sent my spirit to check out the room with the crazy ghost.” Willow moves away and brings her arms to cross over her chest, eyes still averted and her figure made small by a guilty slope in her shoulders.

Drake blinks. “You did what?” he hisses.

“I-

“No, no, no. You told me and Divinity that going in that room would be dangerous, and then you did it yourself?” His hands reach to grip Willow’s shoulders, and she presses into the window behind her. “Do you know how worried we were?”

“It was fine,” Willow says. “I was only in there for a minute. Besides, I have ways of defending myself, and you two don’t.”

Realizing he is too close, Drake relaxes his grip on Willow and slides his hands to meet her tiny, cold fingers. He knows red scales are shining on his cheeks, and he takes a deep breath to will them back under his skin. “Listen, Willow,” he whispers. “I know you want to keep us safe, but you could have just explained the situation. What if you got hurt? Divinity and I never would have known.”

“Martin knew,” Willow says, as though it is as obvious as an elephant. “I’m not completely incapable of forethought.”

“I know that, but-

“No buts, Drake.” Willow’s eyes are lit with blue fire, or maybe the bus’s interior lights, and she holds Drake’s gaze for an uncomfortable length of time. “I found things, okay? Martin is helping me figure out what they mean, but we’re keeping you and Divinity out of it until we’re sure.”

Drake withdraws his hands from Willow’s fingers, face falling and spine curling in. Not knowing how to feel, he settles for a dejected frown aimed at the floor.

“I’m really sorry,” Willow offers, lifting a hand to pat Drake’s shoulder. “It’s just that what I found was upsetting, and Martin and I want to see if we can make the news easier to swallow before we say anything else.”

A part of Drake wants to glare and set things ablaze, and a part of him wants to thank Willow for her attempt at kindness, and when he combines the feelings, his words come out sarcastic and angry, even though that isn’t his intention. “Thanks,” he spits. “I really appreciate it.” He feels his fingernails elongating, sharpening into claws, and he stifles the change by puffing his cheeks and turning so he can’t see Willow.

Her tiny hand lifts from his shoulder, and with a rustling of fabric, she too faces forward, face tucked down so that her hair covers her quivering mouth and wet eyes.