fiction by Elisa C.
I’m sitting in the backseat. Wrappers and empty candy boxes conglomerate in the cupholders to the left of me; a smashed tissue box sits kicked to the right. Three boys are shoved in the middle row, and a younger girl sits in the passenger seat of her dad’s red Sienna.
The boy seated directly in front of me has this mess of curled black hair. It’s overgrown and greased with the sweat of teenage youth–I imagine him running through the school campus with his shoelaces untied, loosely holding his book bag in one hand and his hair whipping through the wind. His locks bounce with each step, and the breeze attempts to slip through each strand, but his hair’s so thick that it only escapes through his baby hairs, tangling ends. His chin’s slightly lifted, his eyes are wide, his mouth open, and he’s calling to his friend on the other side of the grass. The sun’s not shining down on him, and his friend can’t hear anything he just said, but he’s laughing and barreling ahead anyway.
I feel bad for the kid in the middle. I assume he’s a middle-schooler with his fluffier, lighter hair that’s not quite curled or completely straight, and he’s wearing a hoodie. He’s the first to have his head thrown back over the headrest. It’s the most uncomfortable seat, being nearly impossible to keep your personal space while relaxing, but he’s already clonked out. He initially pulled out his phone but immediately shoved it back in his pocket after probably feeling his buddies’ and my eyes on his screen. He’ll probably learn later that nobody was looking anyway (I actually was, and the other boys could see it too, but it wouldn’t change anything, so does it really count?).
I don’t care for the third guy. He never says “hello” or “thank you,” and he’s always got this sort of surprised look on his face like he found out he got kicked out of the group chat even though he never read the messages or texted anyway. He’s got the straightest hair of the bunch; it’s almost buzzed down completely, framing his head in this square-ish way. A couple of minutes later, he’s also sleeping, head dropped at an awkward angle, neck straining over the seat. I can hear his breathing, and I bet he’s drooling, slobbering all over his ironed navy polo shirt.
I look at the back of the three boys’ heads as if they’re a painting. The two on the rights’ heads are almost colliding, and the guy in front of me is turned toward the other side, staring out the window. I turn my head toward the window, too; it’s the same scene I see every day, but being a passenger in the back, I convince myself I’m getting a completely new view. I spot some fallen but still spinning yellow pinwheels on the sidewalk, the crisscrossing highways stacked above each other, and I try not to peer at the faces in the cars. I’m not really all that observant; it’s just me trying to feel significant, dramatic? I count all the people caressing their phones with their right hands while driving in the left lane with the other. This dad’s speeding like crazy. I glance up in the rearview mirror, and he has one black Bluetooth earbud shoved up his right ear. I wonder why I didn’t ever look at the girl. Now, thinking back, I don’t think I could see her over the head of that towering middle schooler–he’s actually a sophomore.
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