The Bus - Molly Warton

The drizzle threw itself against the windowpane, trying and failing to obscure the grey fields dotted with grey cows and grey calves. The world stretched out before her, drifting to the horizon, bigger than anything. She leant on the ledge between the coach and the window and felt the vibrations tremble through her body, simultaneously calm and urgent in their whisperings. She closed her eyes, and listened to the endless chatter of her schoolmates.

You’ll never believe what happened Friday/What?/Go on…/I was talking to Tania—/Tania Bell?/Yes, Tania Bell. And she said that she’d seen Georgia and Emma snogging in the toilets at Charlie Ashbrook’s house last week/She never!/She did!/Eww!/Good for them/Nobody asked you, Lily/Sorry/She said they were quite drunk, mind/How drunk?/I dunno, she didn’t say./Still!/What’ll Tim say?

Latifah was jolted from her reverie by something brushing her hip. She looked, and saw that it was only Mr. Cwej’s coat shifting.

She sighed. Of course she would end up sat next to the teacher. Mr. Cwej was alright (despite her not liking English), but still. She had all the luck.

He smiled down at her, looking slightly tired.

“You doing alright?” he asked.

“Ye-es—yes. Thank you,” she stumbled.

“Good,” he said, and looked over her, out of the window. He looked as if something was troubling him. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “If there is anything wrong, please do tell me, won’t you?”

He held himself in such an awkward way, for a teacher. It was rather endearing.

“I will,” she lied.

Sighing, she looked back out at the drizzle and the grey-blue sky, and her mind began to wonder what it would be if she had said something else, and a hundred scenarios played out disjointedly in her head, slightly different every time. To her horror, she found that her mouth was enacting one of the scenarios quite of its own accord.

“Have you,” she began, stumbling over the words even as they ejected themselves from her brain, “Have you ever been lonely?”

It was out before she could stop it.

Mr. Cwej smiled.

“I think everybody gets lonely sometimes,” he said.

“It’s just… cause…” What was she saying? “Well, I had this friend, and she was… I dunno, she was so… beautiful. And we would laugh together, and she would be happy, and then sometimes she wasn’t happy, and she’s gone—uh, moved away. Now. So I—I don’t know why I’m talking about her.” She sighed, and cringed internally. God, was she mucking this up. 

Mr. Cwej was looking at her. She was looking out of the window again. 

“And, like, I tried messaging her, but she didn’t reply, and Emma said that somebody had said she was mean to them, and—oh, I don’t know! It’s just that… well…” She sighed again. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be dumping this on you. It’s got nothing to do with you, I don’t even know why I—”

“It’s alright,” said Mr. Cwej, scratching the back of his neck. “Look, I—I’m glad you told me, at least. It’s good to talk to people about… about things. Uhm.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then smiled sadly at her. “What was her name?” he asked. 

“Oh,” said Latifah, “Uh, Bridget.” 

Why did she feel so funny talking about her? 

“That’s a nice name,” smiled Mr. Cwej, “You know, sometimes… Sometimes people move on from your life. And—well, I don’t know anything about Bridget, but—”
He was interrupted by the sound of the bus drawing to a halt and the familiar grey structure of the school appearing. 

“Sorry,” he said, “I have to go.” 

“That’s alright,” said Latifah, but it wasn’t. 

Everyone filed off of the bus, and Mr. Cwej, after talking quickly to the driver, looked at those heading back into the school and sighed. 

“Well,” he muttered, “I cruked that one up.” 

Absent-mindedly he wiped away a tear, then wondered why he had been crying. 
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Ah well, he thought, and back he went to school.