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The Bus Ride

Chapter Seven

The bus always smells like damp sneakers and cheap deodorant, a mix that clings to the back of my throat. I slide into a seat near the middle, the safe zone—not too close to the front where teachers can see you, not too far back where the loud kids rule like kings.

I pull my hood up and lean against the window, pretending to be asleep. The glass vibrates against my forehead with every bump in the road. Outside, the houses blur into one another, identical boxes with trimmed lawns, each hiding families that want to look normal. Families that don’t want kids like me.

The chatter around me is a dull hum—someone’s playlist bleeding through earbuds, two guys arguing about basketball, a girl laughing too loudly on the phone. It should feel ordinary, but my chest feels tight, like I’m carrying something dangerous no one can see.

Then I notice it. Across the aisle, a kid I’ve never really talked to pulls a pin from their bag and fastens it to their jacket. Rainbow stripes, black letters: They/Them. My stomach flips.

For a second, the whole bus seems to freeze. My eyes dart around, waiting for the reaction. Whispering. Snickers. Something. But the kid just scrolls their phone, calm, steady, like they’ve been waiting their whole life for this moment.

And me? I can’t stop staring out the window, suddenly aware of my reflection. How small I look. How quiet.

I wonder what it feels like to be that brave.