The Chronicles of a Public Bus (part 3.10)

Monday, 7:00, route 31

Divinity and Marie sit side by side, squeezed together because a crew of middle school girls have taken up the spaces around them, and one even dares to sit on the edge of Divinity’s seat. The younger girls are loud, screaming about some hot pop star who has just made a comeback. They crowd into the aisle, sharing pictures on their phones, and elbows fly every which way.

“Dear god I hate middle school kids,” Divinity groans. Someone’s finger snags on her massive black curls, and she winces. As she finger combs her hair to prevent another grubby middle school kid’s finger from getting caught in the tangles, she makes a sour face and mumbles a long, clean insult.

“Speaking of people who deserve to be insulted,” Divinity continues, hardly giving Marie a chance to process the muttering, “there’s this woman on my floor who’s moving out, and she literally moved in a week ago.”

Pulling out a small comb from her bag, Marie lets her quizzical expression prompt Divinity to explain.

“Like, who does that? Sure, it was a pre-furnished apartment, but it would’ve been cheaper to rent a hotel, and there was a family waiting to rent that spot.” Sniffling in contempt, Divinity crosses her arms and puffs out her cheeks. Then she feels a slight prodding in her arm, and she finds Marie prodding with a comb.

“Perhaps it was an unexpected change of plans?”

Divinity accepts the comb and tugs on a tangle near her face, scowling. “I know, but you can’t just take someone else’s apartment. I bet the lady just paid more for it. Not illegal if there’s no contract yet, but not very nice either.”

Eyes relaxed and thoughtful, Marie taps her chin and gazes out the window. “She might not have known.”

“I’m pretty sure the landlord is supposed to tell people about this kind of thing,” Divinity says, and she yanks on the comb. One of the teeth rips off, and it flies into some middle school girl’s hair. The girl doesn’t notice a thing.

Marie blinks in slight bewilderment before giggling and covering her mouth. “Oh my. That was sort of amazing. Did you forget to brush your hair this morning?”

“My hair listens to no one,” Divinity replies. She hands back the comb and sets back to working her fingers through the waves and knots. “Sorry about your comb.”

“It is cheap plastic. You do not need to worry.”

The two girls soak in the bustling sounds of the bus for the next few seconds as Marie tucks her comb back into her bag. She struggles to pry open the two static-fried sides of a pocket, but manages somehow. Outside, a teenage boy in a red baseball cap has thrown his backpack onto one shoulder and sprints alongside the bus, his quick breaths spewing steam into the air. Poor boy will be late.

Marie turns from the window when the boy is out of sight. “Oh, Divinity, I was going to ask you something before your hair broke my comb.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever wonder if you have made the wrong assumption about someone?”

Divinity freezes. “What?” Her brain tells her this is not a question to actually consider, and that she should lean back and play it cool, but the middle school girl on the edge of the seat is taking up too much room, and Divinity doesn’t have space to lounge. She fidgets instead, like Willow.

“You never um… second guess yourself?” Marie asks.

“I can accept when people tell me I’m wrong,” Divinity says. Her shoulders are tense and raised in defense. “I mean, if they give evidence. When there’s proof, I can even tell myself I’m wrong.”

Even as she argues, Marie stays sweet and collected; her eyes never narrow, and her voice remains only just audible over the bus’s din. “But do you ever consider before you make a decision that you are missing something?”

Divinity frowns.

“I do not ask to find faults. I have this in theater as well, when I act by impulse without thinking about the character’s perspective.” Marie smiles, nostalgia softening her sharp cheeks and bestowing a glow on her blonde hair. “Maybe it would help you to be less angry with people if you took a moment to think about their circumstances. What is the English idiom for this? Something about taking people’s shoes.”

“Don’t judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes,” Divinity supplies. Her tone is flat, and she looks to the side at the bus’s front window, unsure of whether to feel upset or enlightened. Worried angles bend in her eyebrows, and she purses her lips.

In her peripherals, Divinity sees a red sports car roar past the bus, speeding like a criminal with the cops on his tail. Her immediate thought is a nasty one, and it stays nasty.

“I can tell you are angry at that car,” Marie says. “Maybe the driver is late to work?”

“That’s no reason to put other people’s lives at risk.”

Marie sighs and launches into a different example, but Divinity’s mind wanders. If Marie can apply this perspective change to acting, it wouldn’t be so hard to apply it to sleuthing. Divinity grins, hardly registering the new wave of squealing that erupts beside her, and pulls out her phone to text Drake and Willow. She might not be empathetic enough for Marie’s strategy, but those two certainly are.