Sometimes I think my bus has some of the ugliest people in the world.
I'm wedged in like I always sit, capris up around my knees on the blue leather in front of me, lost in my own leather-metal-glass box. Two seats up, one over. Kid yells at me, doesn't even get my name right. Not the kind of kid that's really anybody's friend; he's the kind who spews food all over when he talks to you and still thinks he's the greatest thing ever. Big, loud, wears clothes that show too much, with hair the same color as his skin. I hate that, on anyone. And, once again, he's being facetious. "How do you spell supercalifradgaliousexpalidacious?" he yells, and