{ C o l i b r i – – ☂

"A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession." Albert Camus

The Girl With The Blue Eyes

I was recovering from a PMS moment after discovering that I had, indeed, kept my IPod in my sweater pocket rather than my coat pocket, my face still slightly reddish from crying from embarrassment/the lols, when I returned to my seat to blast up a sequence of Boston through my ears. I liked spending some time alone to think about stuff, and I normally did that in the bus in the morning or evening. A distraction came when a finger tapped my shoulder.

“You look bored.” I turned around. A tiny girl – must have been about 4 1/2 feet tall – had the face of a Pixar character, with startling blue eyes, freckles around them, and clashing black hair. She grinned over at me, greeting me as though she’d known me for years. I’ve only been on that bus for three months and I’d never spoken to her otherwise, except from that one time when I told her she had really pretty eyes.

She sat down next to me. I admit I was a little shocked, unsure how to react. She started talking to me casually, telling me her life story. She was a foster kid, sent away because her mother was an alcoholic and her father couldn’t take care of her. She loves her foster family, now, but we both agreed that Ottawa was a boring place. We high-fived. She later started to recite bits of her life, her pets, moments her mother nearly killed her – “like that time she had a seizure in the car – while she was driving”. I listened to her, my heart wrenching. How could a girl so tiny go through so much in so little time? This was nothing like a main character from a book or a movie I’ve ever read or seen. She continued her story, telling me how the kids in her class bullied her and called her the Cat Lady for her appearance (which is really astonishing, by the way). It made me want to go up to them and force them into watching the Pianist. “See how you like bullying now, motherfuckers D8< !”

She thinks I’m cool, wants to talk more on the bus. She’s so sweet/quirky. The kind of personality normal kids her age really avoid. I don’t want her to be bothered by them. Something precious like that, you can’t break! I swear if I catch one of those sneaky bastards talk shit about her, I will come with fists on fire! Okay, not really, but I’ll definitely teach them a lesson or two. I get to have this kind of power, you know, being a senior and all.

Earlier today, my geography teacher (the jerk who can’t speak french) opened up to us. He explained us, his eyes welling up, about his severe high blood pressure and how it’s affecting him both emotionally and physically. He apologized for the way he was treating us and how he wasn’t really “into” his teaching. He wants to be, but with his condition, it’s very hard. I felt horrible for talking badly about him – still do, too. For the entire hour of the period, he was honest, and we took some time to joke around, have a bit of fun.

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