The Chronicles of a Public Bus (part 2.11)

Friday, 14:30, route 31

Mr. Stevenson is as nervous as he was the day he proposed to his wife. A trickle of sweat drips down his temples despite the nippy air, and he fiddles with the zippered pockets on his coat. He glances toward the back of the bus every few seconds, wondering how Martin holds up so well.

“Nerves getting to you?” Rick asks.

“I only wish they weren’t,” Mr. Stevenson replies. Sighing, he pulls his hands from his pockets and clasps them together. “To think that in all the years I’ve heard Martin talk about his friends, I’d never met any of them, and suddenly I’m going to have a meeting with their parents about what it means to raise a powerful folk child.”

Rick leans back, waiting for a river of tiny pedestrians to cross the street. Most of them hunch over in misery, as his daughters do when they have to attend daycare.

“Not something you were expecting, huh?” he says.

“Definitely not.” Mr. Stevenson looks over his shoulder again to check on his son. “It’s so odd though. My parents always worried I might turn into a supervillain, but only one generation later, we all feel like there’s no more chance of unplanned turnings. Then suddenly it just happens.”

“At least you had the benefit of some foreshadowing,” Rick says, leaning forward to get a somewhat better look at the snow on the road. “Imagine if Martin hadn’t gotten that particular thing the Hispanic girl told Mellie about. Your boy might have killed someone before anyone even knew there was a vampire in Franklin.”

Shaking his head, Mr. Stevenson lets out a long, resigned breath. “Who would have thought a genetic disease could both prevent malaria and put a turning into slow motion? Where did the belief even come from?”

“The belief in genetic influence arose after a study of dragons revealed that the human DNA from a non-dragon parent affected their abilities and appearance as a dragon. Originally, it was just a theory, but as it became more widespread, it merged into truth, eventually expanding into the realm of epigenetics and possible vaccines for prevention of turning.”

Mr. Stevenson gawks. He knows Martin’s friends are smart, but he only met them today, and the extent of their intelligences still amazes him. “Divinity, right?” he asks after a prolonged moment of quiet.

“Yes, sir,” she says. “That would be me. Oh, and just to warn you, Drake and Willow’s stop is coming up soon.”

That explains why the kids have filtered up to the front. Behind Divinity stand Martin and the two others, all engaged in some quiet conversation. The Chinese girl—Willow, right?—face pink and hair frizzing, mutters something which elicits a smug grin from Martin and the materialization of red scales glimmering across Drake’s face.

Divinity smirks at them before giving Mr. Stevenson a shrug. “If you’re still confused about anything, I’m sure the actual powerful folk will explain all the nitty-gritty details over cheesecake.” She reaches to grab a nearby handrail, pressing her thumb along a bright red stop button on the way. After a quick peek through the windows, she cups a hand to her mouth and calls out with megaphone volume. “Hey, Martin! Look outside; you’ll be able to see Willow and Drake’s houses soon.”

As Martin moves to join Divinity, Mr. Stevenson notices a change in his son’s gait. Martin’s steps are smooth and slow, like his teenage gangliness has evaporated. When he leans over to better follow Divinity’s pointing fingers, he manages stoic, lethargic grace instead of his former sullen rigidity.

“And see there,” Divinity says, “that house with all the trees is Willow’s, and that big chunk of the fence is missing because Drake backed a car into it when he started learning to drive.”

Martin nods. “I remember Willow complaining about that.” With the snow blanketing everything, he cannot tell what kinds of trees surround the house, but he’s sure that on a summer afternoon, the shade and split-rail fence would provide an excellent location for eating popsicles and watching people.

“Drake’s house is right next door,” Divinity continues, “but it’s not very remarkable from the front. You really only need to know that Drake and I once dumped Willow in the birdbath.”

Leaning further forward, Martin squints to see if he can pick out a birdbath, but the house is out of sight before he can spot it. He straightens to his full height and cracks a smile. “I find it hard to believe that a girl capable of knocking out teeth with a foam dodgeball would just let you dump her into a birdbath.”

“Pfft, we did that when we were like six, and Willow wasn’t all buff yet. Besides, if you spook her, she usually screams first and fights later. Want me to demonstrate?”

Just as the bus begins to slow, Martin shakes his head. “No thank you,” he says. “I think I’ve caused her enough damage today, and Drake is less forgiving to people who are mean on purpose.”

The bus stops completely, and Divinity gives Martin a devilish, appraising look. “You have more hope than they do, at least.”

Before Martin can ask what that means, Willow and Drake are beckoning him to follow them, and his dad is already off the bus. Rolling his eyes, Martin gives a quick yank on a lock of Divinity’s massive hair and strolls away, wondering how he could turn soft so quickly.