Cate Pitterle (16)
Bus 143
John Buchanan was an upright gentleman with a gold-plated pocket-watch and a long to-do list, and he certainly would not be distracted by the lady at the bus stop. Or at least that’s what he told himself as he stood shivering in his thin suit, with nothing to do but check the news on his phone and pretend he was a very important man working for a very important law firm.
Spoiler alert: John Buchanan was not a very important man, nor was he a lawyer. But the (fake) gold watch in his pocket and the (cheap) suit made him feel like he was one, or both, and for now that was enough.
The lady at the bus stop was on her phone too, scrolling through feeds with a disinterested frown. Her pink skirt fluttered around her like a butterfly, the soft fabric catching and twirling in the wind. She wrapped her free arm around herself, tucked it close against her blouse’s loose folds. She did not work for a very important law firm, nor did she seem to be any sort of lawyer, but John caught himself staring nonetheless.
The lady didn’t notice. Nor did she notice when Bus 143 pulled up, its red sides gleaming, doors pushing open with a loud squeal of air.
John turned away from the lady and mounted the first step. She still didn’t move. John looked over his shoulder, his eyebrows furrowed and pocket-watch ticking incessantly. Time to go. “Well, are you getting on?” he said, trying to be polite.
The lady ignored him. Or she didn’t hear him. Maybe both, John thought with a frown. The lady just wrapped her free arm tighter around herself, still sucked into the world on her dimly-lit screen.
The driver’s annoyed voice came from inside the bus. “Are you gettin’ on or not? It’s cold and we’re on a schedule here.”
“Ma’am?” asked John to the lady, ignoring the bus driver.
The lady just ignored them both.
John reached out a hand. “It’s cold. Shouldn’t you be going to work?”
At the word “work,” the lady looked up slowly, her eyes glassed over like marbles. Her hollow gaze wandered around for a second before meeting John’s, and recognition slowly brightened her face. “What time is it?”
John didn’t have to check. “Seven-thirty in the morning.”
“Come on,” said the bus driver.
“Oh.” The lady squinted for a second. John decided she was quite beautiful, with the wind stinging her cheeks and her dark hair flowing down her back. He imagined he could see thoughts gathering in her head like butterflies, fluttering about as she formed a response. “I should probably get on, then.”
She hurried toward the bus, and John climbed the rest of the steps to let her on. The doors snapped shut behind them, and the annoyed driver shook his head, reaching for the gears.
John strode down the gray plastic-plated aisle, taking the first available seat. He slid to make room for the lady, but she sat down a row behind him instead.
A strange sense of disappointment stabbed John’s chest. He tried to ignore it, distracting himself by shifting to face the front of the bus and turning on his phone. His professional, boring black wallet case glimmered in the winter sunlight as he flipped it open. He brought CNN’s headlines close to his face and began to read.
A few seconds later, John was doing a poor job of ignoring the lady behind him. His thoughts kept drifting to her skirt that fluttered around her like butterflies, so similar to the butterflies flapping around in his stomach. The butterflies made him a bit nauseous, actually, and he scoffed at that. You don’t even know her, gosh darn it, he tried to convince himself. She’s not even your type. But his protests were futile. The butterflies stayed.
Then the bus pulled forward with a jolt, and John was thrown forward in his seat. He cried out, scrambling to hold onto his phone, and instead crashed into the window as the phone slipped from his grasp and onto the floor.
He reached down for it and groaned. The clear glass screen reflected his own sour face staring back at him, nose wrinkled and cheeks pinched with annoyance. At least it wasn’t cracked.
Then John noticed a light chuckle coming from behind him, and he turned to see the lady watching him, a small smile blossoming across her face.
“What?” he asked, his face flushing with heat.
“Oh, nothing really,” said the lady. When John didn’t turn back around, she smirked again. “I was just wondering. Ever been on a bus before? They do move.”
John’s mouth fell open to respond, but no words came out. A long stutter escaped him. “I, well—I, um, got distracted—”
“I’m joking.” The lady’s eyes glittered with amusement. John found himself staring into them, the warm brown pools the color of walnut. Ignore! His gaze snapped away, and he struggled to find words.
“I—oh.” John attempted a smile. “Thanks?”
The lady stuck her hand through the tiny gap between rows. “I’m Maria.”
John tried to fit his hand in, too, but it was too big. Instead of shaking hands, the two settled for a quick brush of fingers. “Nice to meet you, Maria,” he said, trying to look collected. “I’m John.”
“What do you do?” asked Maria.
John frowned. “Why?”
“Sensitive topic?” At John’s shrug, Maria continued, “You’re wearing a suit. That’s why I wondered.”
“This old thing?” John asked, with a sudden impulse to impress her. “Oh, well. I actually work at a law firm. I’m a paralegal.”
“That’s a good job.” Maria suddenly became interested in her hands, twisting them around to check her fingernails. “I’m a waitress. Was, actually. I lost my job last week.”
“Oh,” John said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. The diner went out of business, nothing I could do.” Maria shrugged. “I’m interviewing at another place today. But there aren’t a lot of open spots for waitresses anymore. No one seems to need them.”
“There are lots of restaurants,” said John helpfully. “Surely one of them needs a waitress.”
“We’ll see.” Maria switched her attention to the window. John did, too, watching the world rush by in sheets of gray, trees dark with rain, sidewalks lifeless with winter chill. It was beautiful, John decided, if you were into the haunted-city look.
He peered back through the gap. “Maria?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll find a job.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ll put in a good word for you, somewhere.”
Maria flashed him a sad smile. “What good would that do?”
“I… I go to this place, every other morning. A diner on the corner of Fifth and Main. I think they’re hiring.”
“And how will they know who I am?”
John smiled and reached into his coat, pulling out a pen and a pad of paper.
Maria raised an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t carry that around with you everywhere.”
“An important man like me never rests,” said John, only half-joking. A smirk played across his tired features. “Here.” He scribbled down something on the paper, folded it and handed it to her. “They’ll know it’s me.”
Maria took the paper, but she didn’t open it yet. “Thanks, John.” The bus rolled to a halt, the doors thrown open into the winter air. John’s stop. He stood slowly, smoothing out his coat, holding Maria’s warm gaze in his. The paper rested in Maria’s hand, and she curled her fingers tighter around it. “Have a good day at work.”
“You too,” said John, and winked. He turned and strode down the aisle, his pocket-watch jingling softly.
He didn’t see Maria unfold the paper, didn’t see her take in his messy, quick handwriting or breathe in the thick scent of ink. But he did know what was on the paper. A short letter to Antonio, the diner’s owner, and a phone number. His number. The butterflies fluttered again, and he hoped that, somehow, Maria would know the number was meant for her. That she would text him.
He didn’t have to worry. Maria typed the number into her phone quickly, then snapped a picture of John’s retreating form, her eyes lingering on his messy brown hair and slightly-wrinkled suit. She made it his contact photo.
That night, as a sliver of the moon hung in the sky like the wing of a silver bird, or maybe a butterfly, John got a text. It was not from Maria. It was from Antonio.
Spoiler alert: she got the job.
Cate Pitterle is a sophomore at Cary Academy, where she edits for the school's literary magazine and is the editor-in-chief of the school newspaper. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Teen Ink Print, Foliate Oak, and elsewhere, and has been recognized by Scholastic Art and Writing. She has a seemingly permanent sock tan.
Bus 143
John Buchanan was an upright gentleman with a gold-plated pocket-watch and a long to-do list, and he certainly would not be distracted by the lady at the bus stop. Or at least that’s what he told himself as he stood shivering in his thin suit, with nothing to do but check the news on his phone and pretend he was a very important man working for a very important law firm.
Spoiler alert: John Buchanan was not a very important man, nor was he a lawyer. But the (fake) gold watch in his pocket and the (cheap) suit made him feel like he was one, or both, and for now that was enough.
The lady at the bus stop was on her phone too, scrolling through feeds with a disinterested frown. Her pink skirt fluttered around her like a butterfly, the soft fabric catching and twirling in the wind. She wrapped her free arm around herself, tucked it close against her blouse’s loose folds. She did not work for a very important law firm, nor did she seem to be any sort of lawyer, but John caught himself staring nonetheless.
The lady didn’t notice. Nor did she notice when Bus 143 pulled up, its red sides gleaming, doors pushing open with a loud squeal of air.
John turned away from the lady and mounted the first step. She still didn’t move. John looked over his shoulder, his eyebrows furrowed and pocket-watch ticking incessantly. Time to go. “Well, are you getting on?” he said, trying to be polite.
The lady ignored him. Or she didn’t hear him. Maybe both, John thought with a frown. The lady just wrapped her free arm tighter around herself, still sucked into the world on her dimly-lit screen.
The driver’s annoyed voice came from inside the bus. “Are you gettin’ on or not? It’s cold and we’re on a schedule here.”
“Ma’am?” asked John to the lady, ignoring the bus driver.
The lady just ignored them both.
John reached out a hand. “It’s cold. Shouldn’t you be going to work?”
At the word “work,” the lady looked up slowly, her eyes glassed over like marbles. Her hollow gaze wandered around for a second before meeting John’s, and recognition slowly brightened her face. “What time is it?”
John didn’t have to check. “Seven-thirty in the morning.”
“Come on,” said the bus driver.
“Oh.” The lady squinted for a second. John decided she was quite beautiful, with the wind stinging her cheeks and her dark hair flowing down her back. He imagined he could see thoughts gathering in her head like butterflies, fluttering about as she formed a response. “I should probably get on, then.”
She hurried toward the bus, and John climbed the rest of the steps to let her on. The doors snapped shut behind them, and the annoyed driver shook his head, reaching for the gears.
John strode down the gray plastic-plated aisle, taking the first available seat. He slid to make room for the lady, but she sat down a row behind him instead.
A strange sense of disappointment stabbed John’s chest. He tried to ignore it, distracting himself by shifting to face the front of the bus and turning on his phone. His professional, boring black wallet case glimmered in the winter sunlight as he flipped it open. He brought CNN’s headlines close to his face and began to read.
A few seconds later, John was doing a poor job of ignoring the lady behind him. His thoughts kept drifting to her skirt that fluttered around her like butterflies, so similar to the butterflies flapping around in his stomach. The butterflies made him a bit nauseous, actually, and he scoffed at that. You don’t even know her, gosh darn it, he tried to convince himself. She’s not even your type. But his protests were futile. The butterflies stayed.
Then the bus pulled forward with a jolt, and John was thrown forward in his seat. He cried out, scrambling to hold onto his phone, and instead crashed into the window as the phone slipped from his grasp and onto the floor.
He reached down for it and groaned. The clear glass screen reflected his own sour face staring back at him, nose wrinkled and cheeks pinched with annoyance. At least it wasn’t cracked.
Then John noticed a light chuckle coming from behind him, and he turned to see the lady watching him, a small smile blossoming across her face.
“What?” he asked, his face flushing with heat.
“Oh, nothing really,” said the lady. When John didn’t turn back around, she smirked again. “I was just wondering. Ever been on a bus before? They do move.”
John’s mouth fell open to respond, but no words came out. A long stutter escaped him. “I, well—I, um, got distracted—”
“I’m joking.” The lady’s eyes glittered with amusement. John found himself staring into them, the warm brown pools the color of walnut. Ignore! His gaze snapped away, and he struggled to find words.
“I—oh.” John attempted a smile. “Thanks?”
The lady stuck her hand through the tiny gap between rows. “I’m Maria.”
John tried to fit his hand in, too, but it was too big. Instead of shaking hands, the two settled for a quick brush of fingers. “Nice to meet you, Maria,” he said, trying to look collected. “I’m John.”
“What do you do?” asked Maria.
John frowned. “Why?”
“Sensitive topic?” At John’s shrug, Maria continued, “You’re wearing a suit. That’s why I wondered.”
“This old thing?” John asked, with a sudden impulse to impress her. “Oh, well. I actually work at a law firm. I’m a paralegal.”
“That’s a good job.” Maria suddenly became interested in her hands, twisting them around to check her fingernails. “I’m a waitress. Was, actually. I lost my job last week.”
“Oh,” John said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. The diner went out of business, nothing I could do.” Maria shrugged. “I’m interviewing at another place today. But there aren’t a lot of open spots for waitresses anymore. No one seems to need them.”
“There are lots of restaurants,” said John helpfully. “Surely one of them needs a waitress.”
“We’ll see.” Maria switched her attention to the window. John did, too, watching the world rush by in sheets of gray, trees dark with rain, sidewalks lifeless with winter chill. It was beautiful, John decided, if you were into the haunted-city look.
He peered back through the gap. “Maria?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll find a job.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ll put in a good word for you, somewhere.”
Maria flashed him a sad smile. “What good would that do?”
“I… I go to this place, every other morning. A diner on the corner of Fifth and Main. I think they’re hiring.”
“And how will they know who I am?”
John smiled and reached into his coat, pulling out a pen and a pad of paper.
Maria raised an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t carry that around with you everywhere.”
“An important man like me never rests,” said John, only half-joking. A smirk played across his tired features. “Here.” He scribbled down something on the paper, folded it and handed it to her. “They’ll know it’s me.”
Maria took the paper, but she didn’t open it yet. “Thanks, John.” The bus rolled to a halt, the doors thrown open into the winter air. John’s stop. He stood slowly, smoothing out his coat, holding Maria’s warm gaze in his. The paper rested in Maria’s hand, and she curled her fingers tighter around it. “Have a good day at work.”
“You too,” said John, and winked. He turned and strode down the aisle, his pocket-watch jingling softly.
He didn’t see Maria unfold the paper, didn’t see her take in his messy, quick handwriting or breathe in the thick scent of ink. But he did know what was on the paper. A short letter to Antonio, the diner’s owner, and a phone number. His number. The butterflies fluttered again, and he hoped that, somehow, Maria would know the number was meant for her. That she would text him.
He didn’t have to worry. Maria typed the number into her phone quickly, then snapped a picture of John’s retreating form, her eyes lingering on his messy brown hair and slightly-wrinkled suit. She made it his contact photo.
That night, as a sliver of the moon hung in the sky like the wing of a silver bird, or maybe a butterfly, John got a text. It was not from Maria. It was from Antonio.
Spoiler alert: she got the job.
Cate Pitterle is a sophomore at Cary Academy, where she edits for the school's literary magazine and is the editor-in-chief of the school newspaper. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Teen Ink Print, Foliate Oak, and elsewhere, and has been recognized by Scholastic Art and Writing. She has a seemingly permanent sock tan.