Morning Routine
He sits on the bus, hands tightly folded. Eyes fixed firmly on his shoelaces. Blood rushes to his face as he tries to ignore what is happening four seats behind.
Four seats behind, a thin boy in a white jacket is crying. He is crying because another boy, older, huskier and dull-eyed but a boy all the same, wants to make him cry. He does it with his words- faggot, baby. When that's not enough he turns to his hands- punching him with a grape juice box clenched in his fist. An explosion of purple spreads across the pristine surface of the new jacket, as the boy crumples against the wall.
Our first boy knows the jacket is new, because he was with him yesterday when he got it. It was a birthday present. They had cake and played bocce out on the lawn and laughed while jumping through the sprinkler.
He hears the tears, and is thankful that they belong to someone else.