Love, Hate and Other Filters(50)

Violet sneers. “Ignore him. He’ll be on the bus with the other football players, anyway.” Monica nods in agreement.

They’re right. I take a breath and start filming again.

“I don’t get it. Boys are always wondering why girls go to the bathroom in groups, and yet the entire football team travels in a pack—even off-season,” Monica observes.

And Phil’s the alpha.

I don’t see Phil anywhere. When I was panning the crowd, I searched for his face. I don’t say it, but I’m disappointed not to see him. Even after last night’s drive-by fiasco, my crush still burns bright.

We pile into the third bus—Justin and Mike snagged seats early and are waving at us from the back. Violet grabs a window seat, and Monica scoots in next to her, across from Mike and Justin. I slip into the seat in front of Monica and Violet, then get up on my knees and pivot around to film my establishing shots.

Students pair off and take their seats. Sun pours in the windows on the right side of the bus and casts splotches of light on people’s hair and faces. Through my lens, for a moment, this worn-down old bus is beautiful. I zoom in on a couple whispering to each other. The boy tucks the girl’s hair behind her ear and—

Phil steps into the shot. And he takes up my whole frame. “Mind if I take that seat?”

“You’re not on the jock bus?” Monica pipes up from behind me. She asks what we’re all thinking.

Phil shakes his head, just slightly, not taking his eyes from my lens.

I lower the camera and nod. While Phil eases into the spot next to me, I throw a quick, wide-eyed glance at Violet and Monica, clear my throat, and brush the hair out of my face. I’m not sure if I’m breathing, so I remind myself to do so. I can barely look him in the eye. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Phil says as he taps his thumb on his jeans to an imaginary rhythm.

I close my eyes. My brain is a tempest. I can’t decipher a single coherent thought. It feels like forever since Phil and I have been so close. I’ve tried to forget how good he smells and how the curves of his biceps extend beyond the short sleeves of his shirt. I’ve tried to erase his simple, factual hotness. It’s all been a failure. He places his left hand on the edge of the seat, an inch away from my knee. Heat radiates off him.

“Hey,” I say for the second time and bring my hand to rest on my knee. The space between us grows painfully small, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon.

“Hey,” Phil repeats and then laughs. “I guess we’ve covered the hellos.”

“We’re experts at establishing each other’s presence.” I bite my lower lip. Either Violet or Monica knees the back of my seat. My money’s on Violet.

“Haven’t talked in a while.”

“No. Well, it’s kinda been chaos on my end, what with the death threats and frantic mother.”

“I’m so sorry about everything that’s happened to you and your folks. It’s unreal.”

“My mom’s still totally freaked.”

“She’s probably worried. It’s parental.”

“She has the overprotective, suffocating-mother skill down to a science.”

Phil chuckles. I cast a sidelong glance at his face and the incredibly delicious dimple that every smile of his reveals. “You’ll be out from under her grasp pretty soon.”

“Not as far as I’d like.”

“New York is pretty far.”

“I won’t be in New York.”

Phil half-turns his torso toward me. “I thought they were cool with you going.”

“Were. Emphasis on the past tense. When I said my mom lost it after the death threat? She totally tightened the screws on me. My parents won’t let me go to NYU anymore because they’re too scared something will happen to me out there.”

“Maya, that sucks. I’m sorry. Is there anything—?”

“No. Trust me. Do you mind if we change the subject?” I’m sick of everyone apologizing and even more tired of trying to convince everyone that it’s going to be okay. It’s not going to be okay. But there’s nothing anyone can do to make it—my life—better.

Phil has no immediate response. I stare out the window, twirling strands of hair around my finger. I’m sure he can hear my heart pounding in my chest.

“Um …” He drops his head and lowers his voice so I have to lean in to hear. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Please don’t,” is what I want to say. I’m content to simply sit next to him in silence, the air between us still crackling with possibility, but Phil is going to ask, and I know I have to answer.

“I was out at the pond Saturday night. When I was walking by the garden, I saw a car pull up on the gravel. Was that you?” Phil turns to look at me. His eyes are so soft it kills me.

Our faces are close, near enough that the soft exhalations of his breath caress my skin. I can end this conversation if I can muster the courage to arc my body into his, bring my lips to his mouth, let our bodies align while the rest of the world falls away.

But if that girl exists inside me, I fail to coax her out from hiding. “It was. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Phil whispers in my ear. “Why’d you tear out of there? You saw my car, right?”