On a Bus

Hey everyone! My first post.

Today's theme: I'm going to open up the nearest book to me and write about the first noun that I see. Today's book: The Art of Electronics by Horowitz and Hill. Today's word: bus. As in bus interfacing.

Bus.... Buses... Bus interfacing... Busboys… City buses... Busses? Busi?

I remember riding on the yellow school bus to my middle school. Every morning at 8:15 I began the walk down my street, backpack on one shoulder, as was the trend in those days. I turned onto the busy road where at one intersection was a gas station and also my bus stop. While I shuffled down the main street, I often imagined that as the cars passed me, the occupants of those cars would stare at me through their rear-view mirrors. Sometimes I'd get scared and hurry my step to arrive at the safe refuge of the bus stop. I supposed that a stranger taking an interest in 12-year-old was a precursor to a stalking or kidnapping or some other heinous crime.

Every now and then, though, I imagined that the drivers and even passengers stared because they'd never seen anyone quite like me before. They would somehow see all of the qualities that I liked about myself, shining through my eyes and my hair and my gait. They'd see intelligence shoot out of the tips of my fingers and happiness steam from my sweat set off by the hot Texas morning. In reality, no one was staring at me. No one was planning on kidnapping me. And no one saw joy or innocent beauty radiating from inside me. The only thing in their rear-view mirrors was the back of the stop light behind them and the license plate of the blue pick-up truck on their tail.

My mom once told me the when boys mature, they end up having the same characteristics that they did in 6th grade. If they were jerks in 6th grade, they'll be jerks at 30. No matter how much they change during puberty and adolescence and their 20s, the cycle will eventually complete itself. If they were sweet in the 6th grade, they will be sweet as an adult. I think that's true for many people, girls and boys alike. Including me. The things that I did when I was 12, I do now.

I walk down the street, no longer to the bus stop but now to get exercise or fresh air. I once again imagine that people are staring at me. Is it because they want to rape me, or are they overcome by some elegance and grace that I possess? Do they know that I'm scared of them? Do they really think about me as I walk by? He just smiled at me. Is he checking me out? Does that girl know who I am? In reality, she doesn't. And he didn't smile. No one is looking at me. It’s not because people don’t care about me. It’s just that in the rear-view mirrors of their minds, they’re busy checking to see if anyone is staring at them.