The Chronicles of a Public Bus (part 1.12)

Wednesday, 20:00, route 38

Franklin High School is a lighthouse in a sea of open sports fields and dark, star-less skies. Despite the time, cars still wait in the parking lot, and students bustle about the arts department, weaving in and out of the building with giant set pieces and bright props in hand.

Briefly, Rick remembers his daughters’ pleas to watch the upcoming musical, but the glint of platinum blonde hair and a sky blue messenger bag catch his attention before he can be thankful for his weekend evenings off. He pushes on the brakes and pulls over.

The girl waiting at the school bus stop is long and elegant, a collection of limbs and features with fashion model clarity. She holds up a bus pass as she steps onboard, and Rick can’t help but notice that her tan overcoat bears an odd resemblance to the leopard print woman’s. Their tastes are similar too, if the skinny black boots are any indication.

Once the girl is seated, her bag on her lap, she pulls out a phone from her pocket and watches through the windows as Rick drives past the school. She clicks a few buttons before holding the phone to her ear with both hands.

“Hallo?” she says, voice timid. “Oh, er, hello, I mean. I am on my way home from rehearsal. I should be back in about twenty minutes.”

In the pause, she pushes a strand of hair back from her face, eyes still glued to the windows. The bus passes the school around the other side, and the array of campus buildings hide the theater’s lights.

“Oh, no! Fr—I mean, Mrs. Morey—she does not need to cook anything special for me. The other cast members’ mothers provided more than enough to eat. Besides, I could fall asleep the moment I step through the door.”

The girl laughs at something and then hangs up, murmuring a word for goodbye that Rick can’t recognize. With only the quiet purr of the bus’s engine left and nothing odd to listen to, he returns his focus to the road. The dark grey of headlights on asphalt races ahead, free of obstacles, and Rick glances at his mirrors.

Another vehicle cruises next to the bus. Though it is impossible to pick out the license plate or model and color, the driver is illuminated by the lights inside his car, and his obvious profile tells that he isn’t watching his driving.

Rick sighs. He hates distracted drivers, even if he’s been one more than a few times.

Not much later, Rick steers his bus into the west side station, careful of the bump marking the border between street and station. He’s the second to arrive; another bus is already parked in the spot for route thirty-six, and two drivers chat outside, pulling their green uniform jackets tight around their arms.

Just as one of the drivers steps into the route thirty-six bus, and the other meanders into the parking lot, rubbing his arms, another bus pulls into the slot for route thirty-one. Immediately, Rick’s blonde passenger stands and shuffles out of her seat, the rough fabric of her bag scraping the back of the seats in front of her. She exits through the front door and gives a tentative thank-you.

In the parking lot, the leaving bus driver stops to wait for a car to pass in front of him. At first, Rick wonders if that’s the driver coming to take over his bus for the night routes, but then the car parks, and its engine putters to silence. The street lights cast beams of yellow light on crimson paint and a sleek, boxy frame.

Rick’s eyes widen. None of his coworkers would drive a sports car; they don’t make that kind of money. The man inside the car flicks on his indoor lights and leans over to grab something from the passenger’s seat. When he sits up, Rick catches the sight of his sharp profile for a split second, and then the man shakes out a newspaper and holds it in front of his face.

Though cause for worry is scarce, dread burrows into Rick’s gut. He twists and leans in his chair to look at the sports car’s license plate number, but sharp shadows dash across the car’s front, keeping the plate’s reflective sheen from showing any information.

Rick slumps in his chair and drags a finger along the top of the steering wheel. “I must be getting old,” he groans. “I worry about everything and everyone and think random people off the street are suspicious.”

“You’re not that old, Mr. Bartram.”

Grimacing, Rick tilts his head to look at the speaker. It’s a young man with slick, black hair and the green uniform jacket draped loosely over his shoulders.

“Oh, you finally showed up, Everett. Did your class run late?”

Everett chuckles and skips onto the bus, his jacket slipping off one arm. “What do you mean, I finally showed up? Half the other buses aren’t even here yet. And in answer to your question, no, my class did not run late. There was traffic by the highway exit. Some kind of accident, I think.”

“Been a lot of those lately,” Rick says, yawning. He stretches his arms forward, still hunched over in the driver’s seat. Then he heaves himself up and staggers off the bus. “Drive safe, kid. I want to see you get your degree in the spring.”

As Everett processes the serendipitous comment, he waves at the other driver’s back. “Will do, Mr. Bartram. Have a nice night.”