no one.
Martin looked away again. There was a guy about his age holding a book bag that said Manhattan Beach Junior College on it, standing in front of the bus stop. He was just a couple feet to the right of Martin and the old woman. He had longish hair, wore jeans and a T-shirt that said in bold black letters: Vietnam: Stop the Killing . Martin had no idea how much of his conversation with the old woman the guy had heard, and he felt embarrassed. He could have eavesdropped on the whole thing. The guy turned around then. “You know what time this bus is going to get here?” he asked.
Martin looked at his watch. “About five minutes,” he said. The guy was obviously on his way to class, a normal guy with opinions about the world and a destination, a place to go, a guy who didn’t hit little girls on their way to school or spend time confessing to people who didn’t understand him.
Martin didn’t want to get on the bus and go all the way to campus with this guy. Maybe he’d do something else today and check out the school tomorrow. He’d get to his parents’ restaurant early and help out. He’d figure out where he was going once he got on the bus, which thankfully had just arrived, shooting its black air into the sky, the doors whooshing open. Martin stood up and thought about helping the woman and her empty stroller onto the bus, but he really didn’t want to. He was relieved when the bus driver got out and stepped down. He addressed the old woman by name. “Manuela,” he called to her, speaking in Spanish and helping her and her stroller up the stairs.
The bus was crowded and noisy with chatter. Martin stood in front, scanning the rows for a place to sit.
“ Sí, sí ,” the bus driver said, helping Manuela settle into her seat, patting her arm.
By the time Martin made his way down the aisle, there was only one open seat and that was next to College Guy, so Martin didn’t have a choice. He sat down and tried to get comfortable.
In front of them, Manuela was singing a Spanish lullaby.
“Lady’s crazy,” Martin said softly out of the corner of his mouth, but either College Guy didn’t hear him or didn’t like him because he leaned down, unzipped his bag and pulled out a textbook. He put the book in his lap and opened it. Martin used his peripheral vision to check it out. Apparently, he was studying astronomy. On his lap, stars and galaxies, the sun, the moon, and a blue-black sky.
“You into stars, huh?” Martin said to him.
The guy nodded, begrudgingly, but didn’t look up. He obviously didn’t want to talk or make friends, which convinced Martin that he’d heard everything.
The bus moved along, stopping once at the public library and another time in front of a supermarket. One middle-aged woman got off at the library and several old people moved slowly down the aisle at the supermarket stop.
When Martin saw the shopping mall in the distance, he knew instantly where he’d spend the day. He pulled on the cord and stood up.
“Bye-bye, señor, ” Manuela said.
He turned around to wave at her, but she had her head turned and was looking out the window.
“Bye,” he said.
The bus driver looked at him impatiently, so Martin hurried down the steps. The doors smacked shut behind him and the bus pulled away from the curb.
22
THE HEAT was the big story. Record highs, the newscaster said. The hottest it had been in thirty years. One hundred two degrees on the coast, 110 degrees inland. He suggested staying in the shade and stressed proper hydration. He sipped from a glass of water to demonstrate. A young reporter with a ponytail and shimmery lipstick talked to a bare-chested construction worker, a glistening bear who complained into the microphone, his shirt stuffed in his back pocket. When he turned around to point at the apartment complex he was working on, the shirt swung behind him like a tail.
Hannah sat on the armchair in the den with her sweaty, itchy leg outstretched, the cast
Martin looked away again. There was a guy about his age holding a book bag that said Manhattan Beach Junior College on it, standing in front of the bus stop. He was just a couple feet to the right of Martin and the old woman. He had longish hair, wore jeans and a T-shirt that said in bold black letters: Vietnam: Stop the Killing . Martin had no idea how much of his conversation with the old woman the guy had heard, and he felt embarrassed. He could have eavesdropped on the whole thing. The guy turned around then. “You know what time this bus is going to get here?” he asked.
Martin looked at his watch. “About five minutes,” he said. The guy was obviously on his way to class, a normal guy with opinions about the world and a destination, a place to go, a guy who didn’t hit little girls on their way to school or spend time confessing to people who didn’t understand him.
Martin didn’t want to get on the bus and go all the way to campus with this guy. Maybe he’d do something else today and check out the school tomorrow. He’d get to his parents’ restaurant early and help out. He’d figure out where he was going once he got on the bus, which thankfully had just arrived, shooting its black air into the sky, the doors whooshing open. Martin stood up and thought about helping the woman and her empty stroller onto the bus, but he really didn’t want to. He was relieved when the bus driver got out and stepped down. He addressed the old woman by name. “Manuela,” he called to her, speaking in Spanish and helping her and her stroller up the stairs.
The bus was crowded and noisy with chatter. Martin stood in front, scanning the rows for a place to sit.
“ Sí, sí ,” the bus driver said, helping Manuela settle into her seat, patting her arm.
By the time Martin made his way down the aisle, there was only one open seat and that was next to College Guy, so Martin didn’t have a choice. He sat down and tried to get comfortable.
In front of them, Manuela was singing a Spanish lullaby.
“Lady’s crazy,” Martin said softly out of the corner of his mouth, but either College Guy didn’t hear him or didn’t like him because he leaned down, unzipped his bag and pulled out a textbook. He put the book in his lap and opened it. Martin used his peripheral vision to check it out. Apparently, he was studying astronomy. On his lap, stars and galaxies, the sun, the moon, and a blue-black sky.
“You into stars, huh?” Martin said to him.
The guy nodded, begrudgingly, but didn’t look up. He obviously didn’t want to talk or make friends, which convinced Martin that he’d heard everything.
The bus moved along, stopping once at the public library and another time in front of a supermarket. One middle-aged woman got off at the library and several old people moved slowly down the aisle at the supermarket stop.
When Martin saw the shopping mall in the distance, he knew instantly where he’d spend the day. He pulled on the cord and stood up.
“Bye-bye, señor, ” Manuela said.
He turned around to wave at her, but she had her head turned and was looking out the window.
“Bye,” he said.
The bus driver looked at him impatiently, so Martin hurried down the steps. The doors smacked shut behind him and the bus pulled away from the curb.
22
THE HEAT was the big story. Record highs, the newscaster said. The hottest it had been in thirty years. One hundred two degrees on the coast, 110 degrees inland. He suggested staying in the shade and stressed proper hydration. He sipped from a glass of water to demonstrate. A young reporter with a ponytail and shimmery lipstick talked to a bare-chested construction worker, a glistening bear who complained into the microphone, his shirt stuffed in his back pocket. When he turned around to point at the apartment complex he was working on, the shirt swung behind him like a tail.
Hannah sat on the armchair in the den with her sweaty, itchy leg outstretched, the cast
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