Battle at the Bus Stop
February 5th, 2008.She was short and very, very pink. Her skin, closely resembling a full bottle of pepto-bismol, was constantly dueling with her bright orange hair over which was more obnoxious. Unfortunately, her skin always won this battle considering it was stretched tight over an extremely ample body while her hair merely hung limply due to a bad layering job. A small sprinkling of freckles dotted both her face and arms and her voice was high pitched and whiny. Her two favorite subjects in school were art and music. Not surprising since she generally despised most things that took effort. For example, she hated gym and recess with a passion.
He was short as well, but that was really his only fault. His skin was as pale as ivory which set off deep, dark eyes. A shock of chestnut hair was constantly being brushed back from his forehead with a lazy smirk. He was soccer goals and new sneakers. He was easy friendships and quick confidence. He was clever jokes and saucy grins. He was, quite simply, The Boy. Every girl in the 5th grade used him as a stand in as they planned their eventual weddings.
I was walking with her, although to this day, I don’t know why. I didn’t much care for her, but I always had a nasty habit of befriending the underdog. I always wanted to make the dumpy girls cool.
We rounded the corner, whispering and giggling among the pea green covered walls adorned with inspirational posters. My books were piled thick and heavy in my arms. Hers were carefully stored in a red backpack with navy blue penmanship. So involved we were in our conversation that we didn’t even notice that The Boy had fallen in step behind us.
It wasn’t until we made our way to the top of the wide staircase that The Boy made himself known.
“April!” he called teasingly, “A-APRIL!”
She whirled around to see who had called her. When she saw him standing at the bottom of the stairs, her blush turned her pink skin red.
“What?” She whispered.
He didn’t hear her, so I replied on her behalf. “What?”
At this point, more children were escaping the lunchroom. They gathered around The Boy, curious as to what he wanted from this random girl he had never spoken to before in his life.
“April, will you marry me?” he chided.
We were both staring at him now. She was completely blank; I was merely startled. Neither of us understood this game.
Finally finding her voice, she screeched, “NO!”
The crowd erupted in a tidal wave of laughter. They clapped The Boy on his back in appreciation of his superior wit. Unable to withstand the tsunami of mocking, April turned heal and ran. She left me standing there at the top of the stairs, pissed off at The Boy who had not even bothered to acknowledge my presence beside her.
He shouldn’t have done that to her, I seethed, That was a dirty trick to play.
The Boy caught me glaring and quizzically cocked his head in my direction. I shook my head in answer, doing my very best to communicate my utmost disdain in the small gesture. Then I walked away and left him to his back slapping.
Later, she asked me if I thought he was serious. Could it be possible that he really liked her? She asked me in breathless whispers that tore at my heart.
Finally, the bell rang signifying the end of another day in the treacherous waters of the 5th grade. Dejected, I bundled myself up in a purple raincoat and made a disenchanted trek to the bus stop alone. I couldn’t stomach the idea of walking with her anymore that day. I didn’t want to expose her to more ridicule, nor did I want to introduce her to reality. I couldn’t ignore the subject, either. He was the only thing on her mind.
The Boy was standing at my bus stop. Cold fury overwhelmed me; I clenched my fists tightly desperately trying to regain my self control. He had no right to be standing at my bus stop. He was a walker and he should be walking. Besides, she wasn’t even with me! If he spoke to me, I vowed to give him the silent treatment.
“I’m sorry I made fun of April,” he said simply.
Sheer shock loosened my tongue. “Don’t you think you should be telling April this?”
“I can’t. I think she really likes me.” he groaned.
So. He was a coward. I wasn’t surprised. I snorted and decided to follow through on my plan to administer the Silent Treatment.
“Why do you hate me?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Seriously. I didn’t do anything to you.”
That was the opening I needed. I laid into him using every negative connotation I could conjure up in my limited 5th grade vocabulary. I called him selfish and nasty and cruel. I told him he was heartless and insensitive and chicken. I told him that while he might have everyone else fooled, I knew exactly what kind of person he was and that sort of person did not deserve to be in my company.
As I viciously muttered insult after insult, his face crumpled. His lips trembled. I could tell I was getting to him; he had yet to fight back. Unfortunately, this knowledge didn’t slow my tongue. Instead, it incensed me further.
“Hateful!” I declared. “You’re hateful, hateful, hateful.” It was my Mother’s old insult. It was her big gun. It never failed to destroy me. And yet…here I was wielding it myself, coolly and confidently, as if I had experience in these matters.
I paused for a second, mildly disturbed and wondering how I learned to fling this hate speech so carelessly. The Boy used this opportunity to defend himself.
“That is not true!” He said, “You don’t know me! It’s not true!”
Then The Boy turned and ran away, his sneakers splashing in puddles leftover from last night’s downpour.
I stared after him for a minute, flushed with shame. Then, I looked up and realized that I had missed my bus.
February 5th, 2008 at 11:08 pm
[...] Original post: Battle at the Bus Stop [...]
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