A Cover

• Caitlin Nicholson, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2008

Like every other day I slouched onto the bus looking for a spot. Wedged between a grandmother and a Goth I pondered my choice. The grandmother smelt of rose petals and shortbread like mine, the Goth of smoke and sweat. I pitied him stuck in all that black in the middle of summer. But then it’s their life and who am I to judge? Especially if it’s him getting heatstroke, not me.
The aroma of petals and sweat wafted over me as I glanced around. An older gent is sitting next to a blond in a mini. Judging by the looks on their faces the man is pleased with the arrangement but the woman…not particularly. Further along a young mother clutched a newborn child to her chest.
An elderly couple sat up the front. The gent was reading a newspaper crackling each page as he turned it. His wife sat beside him gazing out the window. She seemed far away; I suppose it gets like that when you’re old.
Up the front the driver adjusts his cap and glances back at us. I would hate to have his job, to ferry strangers for a living. Backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards; not exactly exiting.
The Goth had pulled out some headphones and I could hear the lyrics of the song he had it up that loud. The bus was silent as the music drifted through the air.
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favourite things.
The Goth began to sing. Softly at first then slowly he began to get more strident. Soon his voice soared above the growl of the engine. It was then I surprised myself and sang along.
Cream coloured ponies and crisp apple strudels
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
These are a few of my favourite things.
The Goth glanced at me. His face was blank then as we launched into the next verse he winked. Our voices mingled in the stifling atmosphere of the bus I smiled at the looks on my fellow passenger’s faces. A third voice joined in. My grin became wider as the driver’s baritone rippled with ours.
Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes
Silver white winters that melt into springs
These are a few of my favourite things.
The elderly couple, the blonde, the gent beside her, even the mother bounced her child as she sang.
When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favourite things
And then I don't feel so bad.
We smiled as the song finished. Our faces flushed with heat and laughter.
Silence came. I was disappointed no-one had suggested a song. Ah well…. The wheels on the bus go round and round…