The ride home
Lily sits alone and looks out the window. There is no colour to the sky today, only a dull gray light that washes over everything. The snow-covered ground reflects and amplifies the dullness. As she gazes out at the quiet landscape, Lily wonders if happiness itself is in hibernation, waiting for a warmer day.
But the bus is filled with noises that are happy enough. Each child contributes to it, each one trying to best the other with boisterous stories and an extravagant sense of awe reserved for the young and inexperienced—everyone except her.
Lily sits alone and looks out the window. The bus turns a corner, and she lets her eyes sweep across the other faces on the bus. There are no empty seats except for the one right next to her. Three girls two rows up are sharing a seat meant only for two. When she sees them whispering and laughing, it feels punitive.
She turns her gaze back to the window and wonders what it is about her that is wrong enough to make everyone want to leave. She wonders if her life will be like the landscape that lines the road, dull and washed in endless gray. She watches the trees disappear behind the bus and bites her tongue as hard as she can to stop the tears from coming. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she sees a woman standing on the shoulder of the road.
“Stop the bus!” she says. All the other kids on the bus turn to look at her. What they must think of her. The quiet girl comes undone, a tremor in her voice. An urgency.
“Stop. Stop!” She says again. This time, the bus driver obeys the command and presses the brakes.
She strains to look past all the curious faces seated behind her and out the back windows so she doesn’t lose track of the faint outline of that familiar shape.
“What’s the prob—” the bus driver starts as she makes her way to the front of the bus—all eyes dissecting the strange girl and soaking up the curiosity of her sudden outburst.
“Open the door,” she says. The bus driver stands up. He looks confused.
“I can’t just—”
“Let me off. Please, that’s my mother. Let me off,” she says.
“It must be 20 below outside, sweetie, I can’t—”
“Now,” she looks at him with an unexpected sternness. His thick arm reaches for the lever, and he opens the door. As she steps off the bus, she can hear the whispers start, the loudest voices coming from the three girls sharing a seat made for two.
“I thought her mom was dead.”