puzzle piece

0.

He sat there, his empty Walkman in hand, together with his headset. He refused to insert anything in it --although he did have a large collection of mixtapes he always brought with him-- fearing that the batteries might die before he could make any use of them.

He feared every little thing, actually, with the mind of a child prodigy occupying his skull, he was aware of what might happen to him before it did happen (it would still happen, of course, as his awkwardness resulted to utter clumsyness, therefore resulting in even more damage than predicted). So he just sat there, waiting for his schoolbus to finally arrive, backpack on his back, Walkman complete with its batteries and headset in hand, and his wide-rimmed glasses resting on his nose.

He liked the dullness of this everyday routine of his. It was monotonous and boring, but still, it was what he was used to, and he didn't plan on messing it up soon. It was what it was, and that was that. 

It was still fifteen minutes of  foot-tapping. nape-scratching, bridge-of-the-nose-pinching, moving-hair-from-one-side-to-another, and debating whether or not it's worth it to listen to music while waiting -- it still reasulted a no, because he was firm about decisions, although his decisions were not always the best -- the bus finally came, together with him breathing a sigh of relief.

He filled his Walkman, turning up the volume to the fullest. He stuffed his ears into the headset, drowning out into the music. He loved the very feeling of deafening himself to the sounds of Stevie Wonder, Elton John, and Billy Joel. He didn't like rock and roll, unlike most of the kids in his honors classes -- he even made a theory debating if rock and roll made you smarter or not. He never finished it, anyways -- and found it very uninteresting, for some reason that he didn't want to know. 

The bus started to move, with him feeling the vibrations of the engine under him, only to end with a jolt, springing him forward, together with his schoolmates at the back of the bus. "The fuck?!" He heard one of them --probably the giant Sam-- howled. He shook his head, re-adjusting his glasses. The reason for the undeniably painful jolt was a girl. A girl who would probably soon become the girl in his life (he didn't have a clue, of course, for most don't until the said girl enters his life). 

"I am so sorry, I'm new and I didn't know what time the bus arrives." She said, trying to catch her breath after running towards their bus. "It's okay, sweetheart. Go find a seat." Their bus driver -- Ronald, as he took the liberty of knowing his name -- told her, pearticualarly sweetly, in which most of the students would vomit, but she didn't; she only smiled at him, and walked ahead. 

He'd took off his headset now, listening to the footsteps of the girl coming closer to him. He'd only glance up at her once, and that was when she was talking to the driver (he couldn't see her quite clearly, as he was sitting directly in front of the seat at the back). She was coming closer now, as none of the freshmen in front had space for them. They weren't being mean or anyhting, they just didn't have space, most of the seats were occuupied, and he was the only one lucky to have a whole seat to himself.

"Does anyone sit here?" She asked him, and he stared at her. 

She wasn't particularly bad looking, and not that hot either. She had messy dark hair, with wide, circular eyes, and a face sprinkled with freckles that didn't look like it's been washed. But she felt like a rose; fragrant, soft, subtle. Her hair was uncombed, her eyes were bloodshot, almost as if they'd been crying, her clothes were wrinkled and she looked as if she hadn't bathed; yet she smelled of vanilla, and she was warm as the summer's sun.

"No." He had replied, sounding a bit sharp, as if he was snapping at her. And it felt like he did, for she looked taken back, as if she didn't expect the boy with wide-rimmed glasses and big blue yes to snap at her like that. "Well, may I sit?" She asked once again, with him nodding. 

He didn't want her to say anything. He knew he was already in hot water -- probably a week of torment from Sam -- for letting her sit down. She didn't want to leave everything in the air. She should say something, shouldn't she? She should at least say thank you. But she didn't know how.

"I'm Paige. By the way. Thanks for letting me sit."

"James. Thanks for keeping the seat warm."