Incandescence

04: Irony

I put a hand into my coat pocket, fumbling for my cell phone. The thought of campus right now, with its central heating and cosy couches, calls to me. Sometime between leaving school and entering the movie theatre I felt a knot grow in my stomach, and that persistent headache is still present. Meh. Being away from your bed when you feel this sick is never advisable.

"April?" Erik calls my name.  "Are you listening to this bull?"

"Sure am." I nod, preoccupied with pulling out the cell and checking the time on its lit-up screen: six twenty-seven. That's . . . Oh, crap. I swear, not quite under my breath.

"What's up?"

"The bus is due in three minutes," I say. We're a good few blocks away – if I were on my own, there's no doubt I'd make it in time. But with Lena and Erik in tow? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why didn't I think to check how long the movie lasted before buying the tickets?

"Chill out. We'll catch the next one."

"There is no next one." Well, not for another thirty three minutes, at least. It's a half hour service, but we need to be back and registered on campus for seven or else Marks will go haywire. It's a deal every student agrees to when they first start: You don't leave campus under any circumstances from Monday to Friday unless given special consent, and if you do leave at weekends it can only be between the hours of nine a.m. and seven p.m. No exceptions.

We're so screwed.

"Let's go," I say, grabbing Lena by the shoulder. "We'll make a run for it."

She pulls her arm back. "Are you serious? I can't run after watching that movie. I'll spew everywhere."

Yeah, a real Zombie Apocalypse survivor in the making we've got here. "Well, deal with it."

There is no way I'm missing this bus. And Lena isn't, either. Our mom would kill me if I let her stay behind. If Erik is prepared to deal with the consequences of showing up thirty minutes after clampdown then he can wait for the next one all he wants.

"C'mon. I'll race ya, Little Miss Coward." He wiggles his eyebrows at Lena in challenge, and she rolls her eyes right back. Game on.

We sprint down the street with reckless abandon, feet sloshing through puddles left over from yesterday's storm. I can feel the water seeping through my Converse sneakers but turn a blind eye, solidly determined to catch the bus. A woman wielding a pram dodges to her left, narrowly missing us as we speed past. Lena trips over a pothole as we cross the road, but Erik's pulling her upright before she can topple to the ground and she's running again. We are a blur of mismatched colours – Lena's cherry-red hoody, Erik's vivid green jumper, my purple, battered sneakers – zooming through the sunset streets. A tornado, fuelled with purpose and unstoppable in force.

Around the corner we turn, panting heavily but still not stopping. In the near-distance I see the bus shelter. It's empty bar one: an elderly woman carrying grocery bags. The bus will have to stop for her. And it's only a few yards away now. We're safe.

"That . . . was . . . intense," Erik wheezes, fighting to get his breath back. The sound of tires screeching catches my attention, and I turn to glimpse the double-decker turning at the intersection. "Oh, man. Not again."

We start running once more, much to Erik's dismay, and make it to the bus shelter just as it's indicating to pull out. Perfect timing. The driver gives Lena an almost sympathetic glance as he opens the doors for us and she steps on, her cheeks puffed out and scarlet. When Erik wraps his arm around her shoulder, however, he averts his gaze.