While her best friend Cassidy snacks on brie and boys in France, Darcy Li-Quinn must face her last year of high school and the unpredictable wrath of her sister, Danica, alone. Darcy's plan for dealing with Danica and her heinous friends is simple-b...
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"You shouldn't be able to see me."
It's an accusatory growl of rough edges and sharp planes. He sounds panicked. Which throws me completely. I'm no expert on conversing with cute boys on buses, but 'you shouldn't be able to see me' doesn't seem like the typical response to a girl saying 'hi'. It's certainly not how this scenario went in my head.
Awkward silence and heated cheeks replace the false bravado that compelled me to sit here instead of in my usual spot across the aisle. Unsure how to retreat with dignity, I fiddle with the frayed strap on my navy schoolbag and focus on the familiarity of the city-bound bus.
It's too early for the inevitable rush of business commuters and students, and the bus is less than half full. Everywhere you look, orange and grey dominate. Tangerine poles and handrails pop bright against grey floors and handgrips. Moquette-covered seats bathe in a geometric sea of marigold, grey and persimmon triangles. Good for hiding stains. Terrible for migraines. Hard to ignore ugliness that feels like an apt metaphor for my crash-and-burn morning.
From my vantage point in the raised back section, the familiar faces of the regular bus crew are a gentle sort of comfort.
Mrs Rossi is our undisputed matriarch, a no-nonsense octogenarian who favours pink in all things and doles out life wisdom while knitting up a storm. The slight shake in her arthritic hands is the only thing about her that isn't carefully styled and executed.
Mrs R shares the inward-facing seats in the centre section with Aki and Hamish, and Maggie and her toddlers. The two guys met at uni and are enthusiastically planning their European honeymoon. Maggie works in finance, has perfect hair, and isn't fazed by anything—not even projectile vomit. Her twins have very little hair but a lot of energy and must remain trapped in the pram or chaos reigns supreme.
Darren, the tax accountant, rules the front rows. His plaid pant collection is as impressive as his handlebar moustache. There's also Luna, the emergency medicine registrar who we only see when she works day shifts and who always stands because she's afraid she'll fall asleep if she relaxes for even a second. Sometimes there's Luna's boyfriend, Max, or her other boyfriend, Omar. Today it's Max. Most of us are firmly #TeamOmar.
"Why can you see me?" Bus Boy mutters beside me.
I frown, confused, because I assumed we weren't doing the talking thing, but also because I absolutely do see him. I see him on the bus in the mornings and in my head throughout the day. After three weeks of daily seeing, I don't even need to look at the guy to catalogue his features. Average height, lean build, and thick pale curls shimmering like angels' wings. Skin dusted lightly with freckles. Golden perfection disguised as a boy.
Finely inked tattoos wind their way down his left arm like intricate vines. I could map the onyx ink with my eyes closed. From the bow and quiver near his wrist, to the steampunk cogs on his toned bicep, I'm mortifyingly familiar with it all.
