A Bad Boy in my life

Twenty four

The bus arrived, its doors opening with a swoosh. Ken, our enthusiastic trip organizer, pointed toward the waiting vehicle that would transport us to Ottawa, the gateway to a world of history and culture.

Roosevelt High School's entrance buzzed with excitement as eager students queued up, anticipation filling the air. Boarding the bus, they claimed their seats, their conversations blending into a symphony of youthful energy.

In the days leading up to the highly anticipated museum trip, life had drifted by uneventfully. However, the memory of Maxon's assurance that he would join us lingered, though my enthusiasm for his company was less than overwhelming.

Maxon and I had shared minimal conversation since the argument with my mother. While I consciously distanced myself to avoid further discord, it seemed he had adopted a similar approach.

I wondered if Maxon was privy to the conversation between my mother and me, his decision to maintain a distance reflecting a desire to prevent additional confusion. This realization stirred within me a curious blend of relief and melancholy.

Now, settled beside me in the bus, there existed no rational reason for Maxon to refrain from engaging in conversation. After all, he had chosen to embark on this journey because of me, hadn't he?

Observing his restlessness in the seat adjacent to mine, I couldn't help but remark, "You've never been on a bus before, have you?"

He compressed his lips, a subtle nod acknowledging his lack of experience. "Is it that obvious?"

Considering the impending four-hour ride from Toronto to Ottawa, I offered a suggestion. "You might want to acclimate yourself. It's a rather long journey."

A shrug played upon his features. "I've endured far worse, I assure you."

The monitor's voice resonated through the bus, commanding attention. "Before we commence our trip, please ensure your seat belts are securely fastened."

A brief, sarcastic laugh escaped Maxon's lips, betraying a hint of cynicism.

I dutifully buckled up, glancing toward Maxon, who remained immobile, his seat belt untouched.

"You should fasten your seat belt," I advised, concern edging into my voice. "If there's an accident, the laws of physics indicate that you could be at risk of getting thrown out."

"Ah, so physics would kindly spare me from this aging sardine can," he retorted, his words laced with derision.

A pang of worry tinged my response. "A little appreciation for life's value might be beneficial. If not for yourself, then for me. If anything were to happen to you, I couldn't bear the weight of knowing it was because of my influence."

"And why would it be your responsibility?" His query, softened in tone, hung in the air.

"Because, in a technical sense, I am the responsible for your presence here," I confessed, expecting him to challenge my assertion, asserting his autonomy.

Yet, instead of resistance, he met my gaze, silently threading the seat belt's buckle across his abdomen.

"Margo, you needn't concern yourself so deeply," he murmured, his words almost lost in the space between us.

Uncertain of how to respond, silence settled between us, carrying an unspoken weight.

Minutes stretched into the journey, conversation muted by the harmonious cacophony of voices around us. Maxon made no effort to initiate dialogue, and I, fueled by a newfound sense of pride, resolved to remain silent until he took the initiative.