The bus driver pulled up behind him and got irritated that he was sitting in his designated area and I got on the bus. So I said, “It is not working out for you, is it?”Īnd he said, “You are some kind of bitch.” He tried to gun it, but the car didn’t move because he wasn’t in gear. Without taking his eyes off me, he reached over to open the car door. I could see his thoughts move around like a bunch of trapped flies and then fit themselves back together. We stayed like that for a minute, him clicking the locks and me looking at him. I don’t know why anybody would pick beige for a car, unless it was the last one left. He looked like he had missed dinner the night before and his hunger was starting to leak. I looked up to check for the bus and saw the same beige Chevy, slowing down in front of me. For 35 cents, you could get a vanilla cake with chocolate frosting or chocolate cake with vanilla frosting at the school cafeteria. I looked around, but couldn’t see anybody. The elastics on my braces stretched from my eye teeth diagonally down to my back molars. I had Bonnebell watermelon lip gloss, that I wore on a string around my neck, sneakers, and short socks with pompoms at the back. It was Spring, but it was cold, so I had on a long sleeved shirt under the t-shirt. I had ironed my initials onto the front of the t-shirt. Blue jeans that flared out at the bottom, and a baby blue t-shirt with short sleeves that flared out the same way my pants did. He was probably weird and lonely and hated his mother but had no where else to live, because he couldn’t see well enough to get a job. Or maybe he couldn’t see without his glasses, but was driving around anyway. The next time I was on the corner across the street from the Burger King waiting for the bus to go to school, with my American History book the size of the Yellow Pages and “As I Lay Dying” and my bagged lunch, I decided if a car slowed down and a man leaned across the seat to get a better look at me, I would look him in the eye.
If a car slows down when you’re walking, don’t look at it.”
“How am I going to be a prostitute? I don’t even have a pocketbook.” “He stopped to see if you are a prostitute.” My sister hated me for being taller, but back then she stuck with me. “He wants you to get in the car,” she said. When I was fourteen and so stupid, I said to my older sister, “Do you know, when I was waiting for the E bus, a man slowed his car down and stopped.”
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