What Face? (fiction)

The boy leaned his face as close to the front window as he could without pressing up against it.  He had made that mistake before.  He strained to see down the street, his right foot hovering in the air, its shoe lace reaching down toward the floor.   He saw nothing.  Heard nothing. 

Back to the kitchen table, or at least the table that was in the kitchen.  He had seen a table like this used for playing cards in other homes.  He pulled two slices of bread from a bag, opened a jar of peanut butter, then looked around.  He walked over to the sink and retrieved a dirty knife, ran it under the water, then wiped it dry with a towel that had been lying on the counter for three days.  He spread peanut butter onto one of the slices of bread, folded it in half, then slid it into his mouth.  He kept it there while he spread peanut butter onto the other slice.

The taste reminded him of dinner last night.  He had asked his father to make him something.  His father spoke to him over his can of beer, mocking a recent viral video, “Ain’t nobody got time for that!”  And he laughed and laughed, putting on his I don’t have time for you face.  The boy’s mother was at work, or somewhere.  She wasn’t home last night.  Or this morning.  So peanut butter sandwich for dinner last night, peanut butter sandwich for breakfast this morning, and since he didn’t want to wake his father right now, peanut butter sandwich for lunch.  He gobbled up the rest of his breakfast sandwich and wrapped the lunch sandwich in a paper towel.  He rested it on top of the books in his backpack, books he hadn’t looked at since he put them there yesterday. 

He wanted to pull them out and do his homework, but not as much as he wanted to avoid his father’s you’re a nerd face.  He put that one on any time he caught the boy doing his homework.  Last year, he caught the boy in the bathroom.

The boy stopped walking across the kitchen when he heard the dull roar of the school bus revving up the road toward his bus stop.  He didn’t want to make the driver, and everybody on the bus, wait for him again.  Yesterday he flew out of the house, one shoe on, one shoe off, backpack flopping left and right as he ran toward the street.  The boy didn’t want to see the bus driver’s you make my job very difficult face.  So he hustled to the street, and was waiting at his stop as the bus pulled up and the door yawned open, a bead of sweat running down the side of his face.  He investigated his shoes as he climbed aboard, trying not to notice the you finally did something right face the bus driver had put on.

None of the other kids on the bus tripped him or pushed him on the way to his seat.  Nobody made fun of him.  They stopped all that a long time ago.  He used to have to duck his head and plow back to his seat, holding his bag like a football so nobody would steal it from him.  But that had become boring.  Too easy.  Now the kids put on their you don’t even exist faces, and stared at their screens instead. 

The bus turned right into the school driveway, and the kids groaned as they started reaching for the bags and other belongings.  Some closed their eyes to get just a few more moments of rest before starting their school day.   Others rehearsed their this class is so boring face.  Some wished the building had somehow burned to the ground overnight, and they could rush back home, grab a bite to eat, fall asleep on the couch, play video games all day.  Instead, just survive this faces.

But for the first time of the day, a smile spread on the boy’s face as he saw the brick facade of the school.  He sat on the edge of his seat, legs and socks and sneakers and untied shoe lace bouncing in the aisle.  His I love coming to this place face was shining through, he couldn’t hide it if he tried. The bus stopped and the door wasn’t even fully opened before he slid through sideways.  He ran inside, and rushed toward her room.  He knew she would already have on her Tyler, I love you just the way you are face.