The Bus to School

I stood at the bus stop four houses down the road from my own house. It was snowing this morning, slow-moving flurries that had covered the ground in the night. It was kind of pretty actually. Everything was always real quiet when it snowed. I guess a lot of people don’t go out unless they have school or work, but still. And it was morning, there was that.
“Hey, Sellors!” Jamal Allan called out to me. Tall, basketball star, probably a gang member—Jamal Allan doesn’t talk to me.
“It’s Sennors, actually,” I said.
“Oh my B, my B,” he said, coming over to me. “Hey, you do the History homework?”
“No dude, sorry,” I told him.
“Ah it’s cool. Thanks anyway, man.” Oh good, because I was really worried about not having my work for you to copy, I thought as he walked back to his two friends.
Behind Jamal there was a dark figure walking down the road towards us. I watched as it got closer, then realized it was a girl. A girl dressed entirely in black; black jeans, black winter boots, black leather jacket, black ushanka—you know, those Russian hats? Or at least, the ones people wear in movies when they want you to think they’re Russian? The girl had a lit cigarette in one hand and a Slurpee from 7-11 in the other. She could, of course, only be one person: my sister, Clair Sennors- 22 years old, college drop-out, living in my parents’ basement, working as an auto mechanic, and perfectly happy.
“What up baby bro?” she said, coming to stand next to me. Her tongue and lips were bright red from the Slurpee. The snow crunched beneath her feet.
“You know,” I told her, “most people drink coffee in the morning.”
“I’m not most people,” she said.
“Clearly, I mean, most people take the school bus to go to school.” I raised my eyebrows at her. She smiled.
“Yeah baby bro, I think you’re right. Most people.” It was still weird, being taller than her. For most of my life the seven year age difference meant she towered above me.
“Car wouldn’t start again?” I asked, looking for the bus, but only seeing a snow plow pass on a cross street two blocks down.
“Eh, didn’t even try,” she said. “You know Old Ed doesn’t do well with snow.” She took the cap off her Slurpee and caught some snowflakes in her cup, then stirred it up real fast and snapped the lid back in place. Old Ed was her car, and old it was. Really, really, old. And not in a cool way. More so in the way that made you fear for your life every time you got in it.
The bus came, bright and yellow, rumbling down the street at 7:05 sharp. It stopped and Jamal and his friends, Dom and Jordan got on, followed by Nina, a quiet freshman that I hadn’t heard speak not even once. Clair dropped her cigarette and stomped it out with the toe of her boot then climbed on board. I followed with a sigh.
“Hey Gene,” Clair said to the bus driver.
“Hiya Clair, darling! How ya doin’?” he said brightly.
“Great thanks,” I heard her say. You could just tell she was throwing him one of her warmest smiles. She looked completely out of place as she walked down the aisle and sat down in an empty seat. I sat down next to her.
Gene was decrepit. He probably would have driven our parents to school if they had lived on this road twenty years ago. Of course, he loved Clair, remembered her from when she was in school. One day she got on with me and he just beamed like he’d won the lottery, seeing her again. That’s how this whole mess with taking the bus with me got started.
Once we started moving Clair was talking again. “So guess what?” she asked.
“What?”
“I totally banged this guy that looked like Pete Townshend last night. You know, the guitarist for The Who?” I didn’t know. “But like, old school Pete Townshend, not sixty year old Pete Townshend. That would be weird.”
“Stop. I don’t want to hear this.” I told her. See, my sister had this thing for sleeping with people who looked like celebrities. I guess regular people didn’t do it for her anymore. Her number one life goal right now was to get all The Beatles. Including Ringo.
“Oh come on! If I can’t tell you who am I supposed to tell? Dad?”
“How about Sexaholics Anonymous?”
“Screw that. That’s for people who have too much sex. Me, I just have…interesting sex. And believe me, they don’t want the details.”
“Well neither do I!”
“No, really you do.” Really, I didn’t. “I met him at a bar, and Chris I swear to you, this guy even acted like Pete Townshend. He must have been his grandson or something because when he—” I put my hands over my ears. When I saw her stop talking I took my hands down slowly. “You’re no fun,” she said.
The bus rounded a corner and fish-tailed to the far side of the street. A few people gasped but no one really spoke on the bus in the morning and didn’t start now. It was so quiet. I wondered how many people were listening in on me and my sister’s conversation.
“Who’d you go to the bar with on a Tuesday night anyway?” I asked, lowering my voice and slowly changing the topic. She smiled mischievously.
“Grandpa,” she said.
“You’re kidding.” She shook her head no.
“Well,” she said, “it wasn’t previously planned or anything.”
“What does that mean?” She sucked on her straw for a while drinking the last of her Slurpee, indicated by the loud slurping sound it was now making.
“The bartender at Gunther’s called down to the house,” she explained, “said he thought the old man might need a ride home. Mom and Dad were in bed already and I thought, hell, I can get him. So I get to the bar and I figure I’ll just have a drink with Grandpa and he insisted on another and...well the night got away from me. And then, you know, there was Pete.”
“I don’t believe you. Forget Sexaholics, you need AA. Bring the old man with you while you’re at it.”
“Hey, Grandpa’s still got it. He was fine when I got there. Best wing man I ever had.”
“You know what’s bad? I can totally picture this,” I said to her, shaking my head.
“Yeah, yeah.” Clair turned to look out the window. We were nearing the village, where she would get off and go to work in the one and only auto body shop in town.
Really, it didn’t make much sense to me. The girl graduated sixth in her class, went away to school, and came back three months later telling everyone that, as it turns out, college wasn’t for her. So she gets a job as a receptionist at this mechanic’s place, and decides she doesn’t want to do that either. She wanted to work in the shop, on the cars. So Clair being Clair, the owner of the place finds himself completely wrapped around her finger and starts teaching her everything he knows. Now, apparently, she’s a pro. Hell, even Dad lets her work on his car.
“Hey Chris, you got two dollars for the bus?” Clair asked, turning back to me.
“No way. You have your own money.” Clair took out her wallet, opened it up, and stared into the fold. She showed it to me. Empty. “If you didn’t have any money then why did you buy the Slurpee?”
“Didn’t realize how much I spent at the bar until I went to pay for it. Guy behind me gave me a dollar. Kinda looked like Buddy Holly. Without the glasses.”
“All I have is my lunch money.” I reached into my pocket and gave her two crumpled up dollars.
“Nah, keep it. I’ll catch a ride home.”
“You sure? I think the school bus stops running after three…” She laughed.
“You’re funny,” she said. We neared Main Street and Clair stood up. “I’ll catch you later bro. Have fun in school, study hard, make good choices. Yada yada yada.” I stood up and let her out.
“Yeah, I’ll try.” She passed me and started walking towards the front. “Hey Clair?” She turned around. “You too. I mean, have a good day.” She pointed a finger at me and winked, then continued up the aisle.
When the bus stopped she stepped off with a quick “Thanks again Gene, you’re the best!” to which he replied, “No problem Clair, anytime!” and she was gone. I sat back down. The kids at the Main Street bus stop climbed on, not looking at all surprised. I stared out the window and watched my sister walk up the street. She pulled her hat down low on her head and stuck her hands in her pockets, immediately taking one out to wave to someone across the street. I was still watching her as the bus pulled away, taking me to school.