First

(Ashley)

I often sit and wonder about the people surrounding me. What is their story, what are their goals and passions? And do they really reflect the person they display at first glance. For instance, a boy with a black eye, has he been in a fight or is he abused.

I constantly worry about these strangers. Sometimes a face will stick with me so if I should cross paths with them again, I feel like I'm seeing an old acquaintance. My closest friend, Taylor, says I'm obsessive. I don't think so. I just want to know the world, know that it's all right.

Once I saw a girl, about 18, crying outside of a building downtown. It bothered me. I find the people that remind me of myself freeze in my memory longer. She looked scared, lost, weak. I thought of her for weeks. I saw her again, about a year later in a mall. She looked a little aged, but happy. Her arms were flung about a man, around 25 maybe, she was laughing. I know her story could be a sad one and maybe it still was but I was happy for her. I came dangerously close to walking up and talking to her.

Taylor says I'm obsessive, he also says I'm crazy. Maybe I am, but it hasn't done any harm to me yet.

At the moment, the bus I'm riding in is empty but for five people. The first is narrating. The second is driving the bus. The third, a youth, is sitting across from me. With his dark brown hair, slightly spiked at a short length, he's seated by himself. I can just make out his stern, army green eyes, which are strongly glaring in the direction of the grungy window, the product of four weeks of on and off rain and this sudden wave of heat. Dirt from the road has coated the bus a fine puke brown, also covering the large windows making them impossible to see out. I am left annoyingly puzzled as to why this boy still stars so intently. What is he trying to see or more importantly what is he trying to avoid by seeming so mesmerized by the sad excuse for a window?

Fourth person, sitting behind boy number three, is stunning. She strikes me as superior. Her hair is a bewildering red, an explosion of colour and seemingly natural orange streaks, in short, it is well dyed. Dripping at a length just below her shoulders, it's stringy and wet. Actually so is the rest of her, not stringy, but definitely wet, with exception for her fine white runners, nice brand, she's rich I suppose. Number five is sitting beside White Shoes. A quite plain girl, brown hair falling to the center of her back. She obviously does not go to the same stylist as her friend. Black and brown baggy clothes, if she shut her eyes while standing beside this bus she'd disappear. The colours don't suit her, and of no help to the poor thing, the mascara running down her ample cheeks is making her resemble a raccoon. She is drenched as well, but more so than her friend. No clean white shoes for her, but those are some pretty spiffy hiking boots. I have some just like that. Her expression is blankly sad, or useless may be the better word. The girl looks useless if not drained. Most likely from whatever she and the red head went through to look so ridiculous on a perfectly sunny, muddy, day.

Tomato Head is mad. I wouldn't trade places with Raccoon Girl for the world. Another bus ticket maybe but nothing less. My stop is coming up soon but I'm nowhere near home. I dropped my extra fare while fleeing from the park. I should have called in sick today. The art gallery could afford to lose me for that long. Never go against my gut instinct, it is always right. Hopefully I won't be going to school tomorrow. If I have to face those kids again, I won't have anywhere to run.

Chapter 2

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