Observations

• Kirrily Ireland, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2011

As humans, we make several observations a day. There are the superficial, obvious ones, and there are the deeper, more profound ones that only go noticed under strong examinations.
It was one afternoon on the bus home from school when I made similar, genuine observations.
I had gotten on the bus, sat at my usual spot near the back, and evasively stationed my bag upon the aisle seat, a clear sign to tell others they couldn’t sit there. The other students had found their seats, and the bus was about to depart when a girl quickly jogged up the three steps to the entry. I looked around me. There weren’t any other vacant places left. She would have to sit next to me. I groaned inwardly at the small misfortune, and slumped my bag at my feet to make room.
The girl walked tentatively down the aisle, blushing a soft crimson as the other, boisterous passengers made condescending scowls at her. Their expressions confused me.
She finally made it to the seat adjoining mine, and the bus roared off in exasperated lost patience.
As the girl pulled her iPod from her bag and plugged in the earphones, I observed many things that weren’t evident earlier.
First, her appearance. Her bronze hair waved past her shoulders, reaching to the middle of her fine torso. It hung over one shoulder, making a shy curtain between us. She didn’t have a voluptuous figure; she was petite, straight but still very feminine. Her eyes were dark, despite her light hair. Her face was heart-shaped, innocent. It was casted into an indistinctive, wretched pout. Her shoulders slumped in a sigh.
She was sad.
On a whim, I lifted my hand slowly, preparing to reach out and comfort her reflexively. But I put it down, knowing that I’d be most likely to scare her instead of accomplish my intentions to console.
The rest of the bus trip I kept to myself, making the odd observation now and then, like the sweet scent of the floral perfume she wore, or the album cover of the CD she was listening to on her iPod; a band I didn’t recognise.

A few weeks passed, and the same girl sat next to me every afternoon, with the same melancholic grimace. Sometimes I even observed a small tear roll down her cheek. I spent most nights trying to decipher her emotions.
One afternoon she wasn’t on the bus, and I pondered the reason.

The following day, a memorial service was held for a student who had taken her life under the immense pressure of torturous bullies. I observed the picture they showed of her on a projector. I recognised the bronze hair and the heart-shaped face at once– it was the sad girl from the bus.