Chapter 2: The bus trauma
The hiss of the bus doors closing behind me was the last sound of the world I used to know. It was a sharp, pressurized release the kind of sound that signaled a seal was being broken. Or maybe, it was the sound of a trap snapping shut.
I stood on the bottom step for a heartbeat too long, my fingers white-knuckled around my backpack straps. The air inside the bus was thick, a suffocating mix of cheap cherry body spray, damp denim, and the collective, low-frequency hum of sixty teenagers who were all wider awake than they wanted to be. In my room at 6:00 AM, the air had been full of vanilla and hope; here, it tasted like diesel and judgment.
"Jane, move! You're blocking the flow," Chloe whispered sharply behind me. She gave me a tiny shove, not enough to make me fall, but enough to remind me that we were now in a space where every second of hesitation was a flaw to be recorded.
I stumbled forward, my new sneakers squeaking against the black rubber floor. The front of the bus was a gauntlet of upperclassmen. They weren't sitting quietly; they were draped over the seats, shouting over each other, throwing crumpled paper, and barking laughs that felt way too loud for 7:30 AM.
"Freshmen!" someone yelled from the back, followed by a chorus of 'Ooooooh' that made my skin crawl.
Leo was already halfway down the aisle, his tall frame ducking under the handrails with practiced ease. He found a seat near the back the territory of the brave or the indifferent and slid in, dropping his bag with a heavy thud. I slid in next to him, and Chloe practically hovered over us before squeezing into the seat directly across the aisle.
"Oh my god, did you see that girl's eyeliner?" Chloe hissed, leaning so far over that her ponytail almost hit a Junior in the row ahead. She wasn't being quiet; she was competing with the roar of the engine. "She's a Senior, I recognize her from Instagram. She looks like she's thirty. How does she look thirty?"
"I don't know, Chloe, I'm just trying not to barf," I said, leaning my head against the cold, vibrating window. The neighborhood was a blur of familiar trees and houses that suddenly felt like they belonged to someone else. "Why is everyone so loud? It's literally seven in the morning."
"It's the first day energy," Leo said, his voice a low rumble next to me. He was the only one who didn't look like he was trying to audition for a movie. He was just... Leo. "Everyone's showing off. New clothes, new personalities, new cars. It's a lot of noise for a Monday."
"Look at them," Chloe said, nodding toward a group of guys a few seats up who were huddled around a phone, howling with laughter. "They aren't even talking to each other. They're just passing a screen around. I bet there's already a thread about who's wearing what."
I pulled my own phone out, but my hands were shaking. I didn't unlock it. I just looked at the black screen. "Do you think we look okay? Like, do we look like we belong here?"
Leo shifted, his shoulder brushing mine. "Jane, you've been worrying about this jacket for a month. You look fine. Better than fine. You look like you're ready to take over the school, or at least the library."
"Not helping, Leo," I muttered, but a tiny bit of the tension in my chest loosened.
The bus lurched as it pulled into the Westview High parking lot, and the noise level doubled. It was total chaos. Dozens of buses were idling, pouring hundreds of kids onto the pavement. There were Seniors leaning against the hoods of their cars with music blasting loud enough to rattle my teeth. People were screaming names, hugging, and sprinting toward the entrance like it was a concert.
"Game faces," Chloe said, standing up and checking her reflection in the darkened screen of her phone. "If you look like you don't know where you're going, the Seniors will smell the fear. Walk fast, look annoyed, and don't under any circumstances trip."
We stepped off the bus and were immediately hit by the heat and the smell of exhaust. It was a sea of bodies. I clutched my backpack straps, feeling like a small boat in a very violent ocean.
"Room 212," I repeated to myself like a mantra. "Room 212."
"Whoa, watch it!" a guy shouted, nearly bowling me over as he chased his friend toward the gym.
We fought our way up the stone steps. Every group we passed felt like a different tribe. The athletes were huddled by the pillars, the theater kids were practically performing on the sidewalk, and everywhere I looked, phones were out. People were taking selfies, filming 'Day One' vlogs, and pointing screens at anyone who looked interesting.
"Why are they all filming?" I asked, ducking my head as a girl with a gimbal stabilizer swung past us.
"Content," Chloe said, her eyes finally finding a bit of that 'main character' spark. "Everyone wants to be the one who captures the first big moment of the year."
We hit the main doors and pushed through. The transition from the bright sun to the hallway was like being shoved into a different dimension. The smell of industrial floor wax hit me like a physical wall. The hallway was a meat grinder hundreds of kids shoving, lockers slamming with a metallic bang-bang-bang, and the screech of sneakers on linoleum.
"I can't see anything!" I yelled over the din.
"This way!" Leo grabbed my wrist, his grip firm and grounding. He started weaving through the crowd, using his height to clear a path for me and Chloe.
We passed a locker where a girl was already crying, and another where two guys were trying to shove a giant beanbag chair into a tiny metal slot. It was messy, it was loud, and it was exactly what I'd spent all summer dreaming about and fearing.
"There! Room 212!" Chloe pointed to a door tucked into a side hallway.
We skidded to a halt in front of the door, all three of us breathing hard. My hair was a mess, my "perfect" denim jacket was slightly askew, and my heart was hammering a rhythm I didn't recognize.
"We made it," I panted, looking at my friends. "We're actually in."
Leo looked at the door, then back at the chaotic hallway we'd just escaped. He gave me a small, crooked grin. "See? No spontaneous combustion. Yet."