by Elisa C.
It was so cold I could see my breath, even in the dark.
My father was late to pick me up, so I was left with the joy of standing in the parking lot across from the H-Mart in Westshire City. Only me, the other stragglers, and the soft glow from the office building next door were left in the parking lot.
“It’s too fucking cold.”
I turned my head to the boy, who also lived in Westshire, waiting beside me. He shoved his hands in his pockets and flashed his Crest-white teeth at me.
He looked like a cool kid. In fact, I had been hoping he would speak to me for a while now after noting how he read the same books I did and overhearing his soft “thank you”s when leaving the bus.
However, at this current moment, his usage of “fuck” combined with his smarmy smirk just irked me.
“Yeah, too cold,” I pulled out my phone. “I hope my dad comes soon.” Perfect transition.
These transitional moments would have to be my least favorite parts of the day, which are the times spent waiting to go from one momentous moment to another when there is nothing planned and only something you should do: the time when none of your friends have arrived, so you’re stuck looking like a loser, filling an entire lunch table, the extended passing periods between classes, the bathroom line, some Saturdays, the lunch line, the locker room, filling your water bottle, the time spent waiting for your dad to pick you up from the bus stop at night, so you and the other stragglers are spent picking at your nails and shuffling your feet as your breath slowly becomes visible…the only in-between moment I tolerate and have grown to love are the bus rides.
Taking in one last gulp of the crisp, cool air and attempting to dust some rain from my hair, I stepped onto the bus. A chorus of creaks announced my arrival, and my soul defrosted as a soft, warm sensation, a mixture of gas exhaust and heater fumes, filled my lungs.
As I made my way down the aisle, a chorus of scents wafted up my nose: body odor from the baseball player who only watches gym-bro videos the whole hour bus ride, a sweet candy scent from the girl-who-gets-off-at-the-third-stop’s Skittles chapstick, spaghetti and meatballs from the open container of someone’s leftover lunch they didn’t feel like eating before practice.
I didn’t look too hard at each of them–that’s weird–but I felt the presence of their apathy slingshot back to me.
Once about halfway down the bus, I hesitantly dragged my eyes up to the fourth row from the back on the right side of the vehicle.
“Estrella Lee!?” A pair of dark brown eyes popped up above a seat. “Is that you?”
My birth name is Estrella Lee, but everyone calls me Elena. I only tell people my name is Elena because why would I say my name’s Estrella if everyone calls me Elena? Only Charlie and Addison call me my full name. Well, I guess some of my old friends used to, too. We don’t think about them anymore. We don’t try to. We just don’t. They’re not here anymore, so only Charlie and Addison call me my full name nowadays.
“Charlie? Addison?”
It’s gosh-awfully dramatic to say this (but is it really when it’s really true?), but immediately, my whole being was re-validated by that one exclamation, and I could live again.
I watched Addison’s head pop up alongside Charlie’s. Her faintly highlighted bangs fluttered up and then crashed back down into her eyes. She parted them out of the way for the first time that night.
“Hullo,” I took my spot in the third row and plopped my body horizontally across the two seats. I smiled at the cake pop in Addison’s hand and the vanilla hazelnut latte in Charlie’s.
We fancied each other with some small talk, excited over the prospect of a snow day tomorrow and the biology test the next.
I sat, adding humorous remarks when appropriate, just waiting for the bus to take off and leave school.
It leaves every weekday at 6:14 pm. The bus driver, a kind man who sometimes swears but always waits patiently for the little children leaving the bus because they remind him of his own supposed children, revved the engine, and we were off.
As usual, once the bus left, moving deep into the night, we were silent for a moment, waiting. Today, I was the one to break the silence:
“Why do you live?”
Charlie widened her eyes, and Addison laughed.
Unfazed, I smiled back at them and waited for their responses. Perhaps I would have to elaborate further on my peculiar question.
My question wasn’t a worrisome one. It wasn’t a cry for help in the form of an inquiry; instead, it was merely a curious type of question.
Why do you live? I got up in the mornings, wondering what pulled me out of bed.
Why do you live? I brushed my teeth, finished my homework, and made sure to talk to my friends.
But why–what exactly kept me living? Why did I do these things? I sure wanted to be religious and knew that God should be fulfilling my purpose, but I wasn’t quite there yet. I didn’t have very many friends and didn’t enjoy the solace of aimless wandering, and five hours of sleep each night was definitely not helping me, but why didn’t I want to die?
It’s not that I wanted to want to die, but I wanted an explanation as to why I wanted to keep living.
You see, it was simply an innocently curious question.
Addison began, “I don’t think I have a reason for living. I think it’s just a habit now.” She paused, allowing each of us to soak in the meaning of her words and for her to think. “It’s also a little superficial. I think I just want to do stuff. It’s like a fear of missing out.”
I stared at her and, in my peripheral vision, watched the colorful lights of cars and shops from the outside blaze by.
“Do you fear death?”
“No. I wouldn’t mind dying, actually,” she grinned. “I don’t fear death–like if I were to die right now and here, I’d be content with how I lived my life. Just while I’m here, I just want to do as much stuff as I can.”
I gaped at her. Charlie stared. Addison was an anomaly.
She turned to Charlie, “What about you, Charlie?” She dipped her chin and smiled again, “Why do you live?”
Charlie looked down, and we eyed the movement of her restless hands in her lap. The light on her headphones blinked twice, then disappeared.
“I–” she paused. The bus rolled to a stop. Kids got off. We waited.
……………..
It’s now 7:32 pm, after that bus ride, and I find myself wanting to explain and describe everything, wanting to capture each moment because I now realize–we all know–that it won’t last. Addison and Charlie noted how that very memento mori of our time together on the bus is what makes these moments even more special. But while they’ve come to recognize and accept that our relationship will end, I can’t. I need it to continue. So, I must preserve and save and turn toward the past even when we’re together in the present. I must reflect upon these times now so that I am reminded that everything is fleeting.
And now I’m standing here, utterly gloomy and annoyed because all I was trying to do was remember our conversation from this night and stay stimulated and gay, but all I could think about was how the boy next to me wasn’t as interesting as I had hoped and my dad was late again.
And so, I laughed without amusement about how we all stand here as stupid, angry teenagers who don’t know a thing about the world. We all wait for someone else to pick us up and demand our parents to be on time even though no one, not even ourselves nor the bus driver, knows when we’re arriving. Everything is changing. Everything, including our adolescent lives, is but a brief moment in time.
I watch as my father’s familiar silver Sedan pulls up to the curb, decorated with little snowflakes on the windows. I evade the boy’s eyes and step into the warm car, as he probably watches us drive away.
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