Sometimes We Tell the Truth

by Kim Zarins

  My thoughts are interrupted when the bus driver takes an off-ramp, and Mr. Bailey digs into him.

  “You can’t stop now. Come on!”

  The driver snaps back, “You bet I can. I’ve got union rights. What with traffic and the stops, you’ve hit your time. Anything over six and a half hours violates my contract. I get an hour break before we go on. And I like the station outside Philly. It has an employee rec room. Good couches.”

  Mr. Bailey almost shrieks. “But if you need a break, at least drop us off somewhere more interesting than a parking lot for buses! Seriously, it’ll be like thirty minutes overtime tops! Teachers do overtime every day!”

  “What’s going on?” Marcus asks.

  Mr. Bailey just grumbles about bus unions while everyone else tries to figure out what’s happening.

  “Stop whining, everyone, and listen up,” the bus driver says through the loudspeaker. He studies us in his rearview mirror.

  If Pard were sketching him, the driver would be a study in circles and ovals. He’s got a gigantic bald head, gigantic shades above two round cheeks, and a big round belly topped with two round man-boobs.

  “It’s time you all listened to me, for once,” he says, still using his loudspeaker.

  THE BUS DRIVER’S TALE

  Kids, the whole world is filled with heartbreak. Sometimes it’s just disappointment . . . like a bunch of damn kids and their uptight teacher bitching and feeling sorry for themselves because a bus driver keeping his eyes on the road for hours needs to take a break—which he legally has the right to—so he can drive safely. But I’m talking about the real stuff. Like the kid back there with the sister, or you in the front, with the dad. That’s the real deal. Hurts like hell. I should know. Because we all expect good things to come our way and stay there. You kids are too young to know, but you will learn soon enough. Life don’t work that way. Something good happens, and boom!—it’s gone. Maybe it’s your fault, maybe it’s not, but rest assured, the pain is headed your way.

  You kids sit all smart with your college sweatshirts on, thinking you’ll be stockbrokers and lawyers and shit like that. You’ll never drive a bus for whiny high school brats, eh? Well, guess again, is what I’m saying.

  I know about disrespect. It walks through these doors every single day. But I’m getting off track. I was talking about heartbreak. Like, when I was an undertaker, I got no disrespect. But the smell, kids. The smell was like nothing else. Growing up, it was the smell of my father before he showered. The smell was death and the family business. You come to think different, breathing air like that. You come to see how it is. The way things turn.

  You show me the heroes of the world, and we know how it all ends. But let’s look at the turn before the turn. The heartbreak before the daisy pushing.

  I don’t know. Take JFK. I mean, he was young, handsome, dated Marilyn Monroe. He had it all, and he died on camera. That’s what we’re talking about here. A nation is given a great gift, and that gift gets ripped away, clean out. Hell, aren’t you going to go see the Lincoln Memorial? There you go again.

  But there are other ways heroes die, you know. Shame is a kind of death. Think Lance Armstrong. You too young to remember him? A cycling hero, until his doping went public, and a bunch of kids lost their hero. And sometimes the hero screws his fans and screws the people who trust him. Think of that football coach in the news, creating that charity outreach organization and using it to manhandle a bunch of young boys. That kind of thing happens all the time.

  I remember Kurt Cobain’s suicide airing on the radio. You kids weren’t even born yet. There’s another guy who had it all, and ended it. Makes you think no one can have it all for keeps. Life just doesn’t hold still like that. You get something, and you lose it. Hell, Robin Williams went the same way, and he was the funniest man alive. Damn. Even the world’s best sense of humor can’t protect you from the dark.

  I’m skimming these off the top of my head. I could come up with hundreds if I set my mind to it or fiddled with one of your smart-ass phones. But in the end, it’s the lives near you that make you take notice. How many people can say they prepped their dad’s body for burial? Makes you face it, don’t it? He was a good man, and I knew it was coming, what with old age and all. But what killed me was how the strokes took him bit by bit. None of this going to bed healthy and waking up in Heaven. But I was there for him. I let the family business flop because they were strangers needing burial, and he was my father needing his son on this slow decline and then final stop. I figured he’d understand if he were with it enough. And when you lose day by day the only person who’s ever really loved you, when you lay him in the ground . . . well. You stand up from that, and your hands are empty. That divorce after, and then the stint of being homeless? That’s just icing on the cake.

  They say time’s a healer, and I guess after a bad turn, there’s some good to come. Maybe.

  But my hands are still empty, kids. Who would you rather hold: your father, or this steering wheel?

  Thought so.

  Oh look, here’s our stop.

  THE UNION BREAK

  Everyone’s stunned by the driver’s story. Some of us mumble “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” he tells us. “Changes nothing, but you’re welcome all the same.”

  The driver pulls into a huge lot of school buses. “I’m now officially on break, God bless our union. See you kids in one hour. There’s a bathroom inside the building there, and vending machines too.”

  The bus makes that sound like it’s dying, the doors screech open, and all goes quiet. And the driver is the first one off the bus, off to the employee rec room for his nap on the couch.

  Mr. Bailey surveys the bleak, massive parking lot, with buses parked all the way to the horizon, but he’s not about to complain after a life story like that. “Okay, everyone, feel free to stretch your legs, but be back in fifty.”

  I don’t go to the dumpy rest stop with the bathrooms and vending machines. Instead, I track Pard from a distance, weaving between the rows of buses. I can’t decide whether to talk to him or not. When my phone buzzes and I check it, I lose him among the maze of buses. He obviously wants to be alone anyway.

  Cannon: Where R U now?

  Philly. One-hour delay. Bus driver’s union, or something.

  Cannon: Sucks. U in the bus?

  I text back, No, outside.

  My phone rings. “Hey, Cannon.”

  But it’s not him. “Is this Jeff?” A girl’s gravelly laugh fills the silence.

  I splutter, “Uh, yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Nikki.”

  “Oh. Hey.” My heart beats faster. Cannon is smart. Manipulative, but smart.

  “I can’t wait to meet you. From what Cannon’s told me, you sound amazing.” Her voice is pitched like she’s excited but chill at the same time.

  “You sound . . . well, I guess Cannon hasn’t said much about you.” Unless a topless photo counts.

  Her sigh sounds like an eye roll. “Cannon can be so communicative. Ha. But what can I say? I’m a sophomore, and super friendly. You can ask Cannon or ask Mace, and they’ll tell you that. We’re going to have a lot of fun, Jeff.”

  “Mace? So you’re friends with his sister?”

  “Melanie’s like a sister to me. Mace and I fight over sibling rights.”

  Weird. I’m not sure how I feel about someone who is “super friendly” according to Mace. “So, what do you want to do?”

  “Whatever you like.” She laughs. It’s a really sexy laugh. Exactly the kind of laugh you want to hear from a girl on a phone. It could be a start to something. I do have to go to college somewhere, after all. Maybe Cannon is right. Maybe I should go where I know people like Nikki. People who’d take a chance on me. And if she’s okay with Mace, she’s going to think I’m totally hot.

  Of course, she hasn’t hung out with me yet. I imagine myself going to a party with Cannon tonight, meeting people over beers and loud music, and smi
ling my face off. It sounds so mind-numbingly exhausting. It’s not about obeying school rules, though I still don’t want to give up my chances with Cornell and Penn. But I just don’t feel like partying with strangers. I’ve been pumped with stories all day—stories by people I care about, some a lot and some not so much—and I want to hold these stories close tonight. All of them. And maybe . . . maybe write.

  Yeah. I might be able to write tonight. It’s been a while.

  “Jeff?” Nikki asks. “You still there?”

  “About tonight . . . I don’t know, Nikki,” I say. “I told Cannon I couldn’t do much. Kind of busy here.”

  Her intake of breath sounds practiced. “What? But you have to. We don’t have to party all night. We could just go out for drinks. I don’t have anyone to hang out with tonight, and Cannon’s going to be all business. . . .”

  She says it in a pout, and I’m hooked on the chance for information, straight up. “What kind of business?”

  “Oh, Drew has this new plan to rig up computer labs. You’ll meet him when you get here. He’s—”

  In the background she squeals, “What did I say?” and it’s muffled, but I hear Cannon’s harsh tone.

  “Of course you’re coming,” he says with hard cheerfulness into the phone. “I’m fixing up Georgetown for you, red carpet.”

  “Who’s Drew?”

  “You’ll meet him when you arrive. He’s amazing. And there’s a party tonight at his frat house. All you have to do is meet some friends, and this place is yours next year. I’m counting on you.”

  “Counting on me for what?”

  “Counting on friendship, man.” He adds in a dramatic whisper, “Nikki’s not so interested in friendship, though.”

  “Hey!” I hear her shout in the background, and he laughs.

  He means to tantalize me, but my head is screaming for me to run. I can’t make it look like I’m running. Not to Cannon. That would be a fatal mistake. “Look, I’ll text you after I get to the hotel. Maybe then we can go out.”

  He laughs like I’m funny, like I’m offering him the first page of a term paper, and what he really wanted was work for a dozen clients. “Nah, I’ve already worked out the itinerary. Jeff, look. When you go to college, how many friends do you think you’ll have?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “So. Time to make some connections. And I’m the only one who can really help you. I like helping you. There are other people I could work with, but I’d rather team up with you. Because you’re my friend.”

  “Cannon, I’m not a business guy.”

  “Hey, stop being so scared. There’s a whole world out there, and we’re going to go see it. See you soon, kid.”

  The line goes dead.

  * * *

  I need to clear my mind after that call, so I walk aimlessly through rows of buses. It’s like my feet know exactly where to go in this labyrinth, and I find Pard way out there where the ground isn’t paved anymore, just dirt and gravel.

  He looks tiny seated and leaning on the front tire of a parked bus. He rolls a cigarette. Cloves. It’s this complicated process that makes him look sophisticated. Licking the papers here, in this school bus graveyard, he looks gritty and raw.

  My feet crunch against the gravel underfoot, and he looks up and waits for me to get closer. “Hey,” he says. He opens his plastic bag and puts the finished cigarette inside.

  I want something from him. Not sure what, but it’s not pity. “You can smoke that. I’m not going to die or anything.”

  He shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about stopping. Quitting.”

  “You? Quit?” I do one of those laugh-snorts through the nose that I hate. I feel stupid standing there while he’s sitting down like the cool kid.

  He licks his teeth like he’s tasting the papers. “I don’t smoke as much as you think I do. But, yeah, it’s time to make a change. Be who I want to be.”

  He looks up with a lonely smile that shatters me.

  I feel like my body is doing some sort of telepathy without translating for my brain, or maybe a transfer of little atoms leaping out of me and into him.

  These are probably more than friends feelings. I’d like to blame him for flirting and tricking me into it, but he’s just sitting there talking about something that my busy atoms don’t even care about. What was it? Quitting. And changing.

  I am changing.

  “Jeff?” His smile blooms.

  He pats the ground next to him. I am suddenly right next to him but don’t remember bending my knees or putting my ass on the ground. His hair is oily, the way it always is by this time of day. I look at it hoping to find fault, to somehow distract myself, but it’s no good trying to focus on his less perfect features. No good.

  I need to stop these feelings before so many of my atoms jump ship that my center of gravity shifts and I smack into him.

  What did I come here for? To apologize? I need to get this over with and get out. “Pard, I’m sorry. About my story. About what I said at McDonald’s. How I’ve acted in general, all this time. Treating you like crap. You must hate me so much.”

  There’s a long enough pause to make me cringe at being hated.

  “Actually . . .” He laughs softly, pulling one knee toward him so he can hug it to his chest. He doesn’t finish his sentence, doesn’t look at me.

  And then he does.

  Heat mushrooms inside me. I probably shouldn’t let it, but I can’t stop this warmth from rising.

  “You know how I feel,” he says finally. “The question is, how do you feel?”

  How do I feel? It depends which atoms you ask, but they all agree that I’m terrified.

  I toss my head horselike the moment he takes my hand. In seconds I transform into a sweaty mess. I need to pull away, but I can’t. Please, let this not be love. Maybe it just feels that way because I’ve missed him so much. Because he was my best friend. Why can’t friends acknowledge they love each other too? Because friends do. So that must be why this heat is rushing through me and why my fingers opens like a flower when he runs his hand over mine.

  Our fingers lace, and I watch like it’s happening to someone else. It has to stop. “I can’t—I’m not—” I finally manage, and he slides his thumb over my slick palm. With nothing more than a soft hmm, to show that he’s listening, he explores my fingers, like they’re places he could get lost in.

  “I’m not into guys.”

  “You’re into me.”

  “As a friend.”

  He does the oh, come on head tilt. “I could kiss you. Then you’d know for sure.”

  I shake my head, but he leans in.

  No, I’m not shaking my head. I’m shaking.

  “Just once,” he whispers, and he runs his other hand around my neck, and the heat, the sound in my ears, the breath on my mouth, everything is too much. I kick out, and gravel shoots in a noisy spray and a great cloud of dirt wafts up like the smoke I’ve never been allowed to exhale. Suddenly, I’m kneeling three feet away, holding my breath so I don’t breathe in dust.

  My heart is pounding.

  “I can’t,” I say when the dust settles. “I’m telling you. I’ve thought a lot about this.”

  “So have I. You wanted me, just now, as much as I want you. You can’t deny it.” He glares as if he’s braced for me to do exactly that.

  “I’m not denying anything. . . .” His whole face changes like I’ve handed him something he’s waited a long time for, and it’s lifting him. But it’s a false hope. “Even if I did want to, what’s the point? I’m not gay. I never wanted to go all the way with you.”

  “Ah. You think I’m the sex-crazed one, but look where your mind is,” he chides, but his voice is alarmingly gentle. He’s still smiling like he doesn’t understand how hopeless this is. “Very well. Go partway, then. If two people want to kiss and hold each other, wouldn’t their world be full and perfect? Mine would be.”

  “Mine wouldn’t.” I sound so certain saying it tha
t his face crumples back to that slapped-kitten look. He turns away so I can’t see.

  I should leave, but it would be shitty leaving now. I have to finish this properly. “Look. I can’t be that person. But we can be friends. I came over here to check on you and talk because my story made you cry. I feel bad about that.”

  He sits back and deflates against the tire. “You should feel bad about not going with your true feelings. But your story was good. It was honest and real, and I only cried because I . . . haven’t been.”

  My eyes cut to his face like I’d heard him wrong. “What do you mean? You’re the most honest and real person I know.”

  “You don’t get it.” He doesn’t look at me once, doesn’t sneak glances the way I do. He’s scared, and I understand that. “I don’t think I can talk about this.”

  I scoot next to him, and he stiffens. “I know it’s painful for you to talk about, but we both have that death thing going. It’s hard. But we can help each other.”

  He shakes his head no so fast he’s going to get dizzy. He’s being eaten alive.

  “Pard, I meant to tell you. When Briony told that story about twins . . .”

  He’s staring at me, horrified. He keeps shaking his head no, no, no.

  I can’t stop. I need to put things into words for myself as much as for him. “I know. I do. It kills me that some twins get reunited while others get—dammit. I think your pain is sharper than mine because it’s so recent, and you were older. Mine is so . . . Pard, I can’t even picture my sister. Not really, not without the photographs influencing my imagination. I’m kind of empty that way. Is that awful? But I want to help you. Do you want to talk? Maybe I can’t . . . kiss you, but isn’t this more important? Because, let’s face it, we’re kind of together on this one, yeah?”

  His knees are all the way to his chest, his arms tight as rubber bands around his legs. He’s crying. I make a move to wipe his tears, but he flinches away from my hand. “Don’t.”

  Still in knots, he wipes his tears on his dirty knees.

  “Shit,” he says. “I can’t do this.” It’s tenfold now, whatever shook loose in him that he couldn’t say on the bus. He’s busting apart.