dog years: Ten Second Glimpses
When I was in the seventh grade a man climbed onto our school bus and threatened to kill me. It all has to start with that, because before he forced his way on, I never knew he existed.
"You gave me the finger. I should kill you for that. Do you understand me?'
"Yes"

On that day, my navy LLBean parka bunched up around my shoulders when I sat down. The wool liner scratched my neck and made my face hot. I laid my forehead on the cushion of the seat in front and pressed my cheek against the glass of the window to cool my skin. Outside the dead grass alternated from yellow to gray as the bus drove along. The sun filled the gaps between the pine trees and I caught my reflection in the glass, making it look like my face was painted on the sides of semis and billboards as we passed .

I could see into the cars that ducked under us as we drove down four-lane Murcheson Road. I could pick out the trash wadded into floorboards, see the faded covers of Holy Bibles in the rear wind shields, follow the reflection of the bus in the chrome of the bumpers and trim. Unremarkable plain cars were driven by unremarkably plain mothers, reaching over the back seat to slap smaller unremarkable plain faces. Soldiers needing haircuts, old men with their hand cupped to their faces to hide tears, high school kids smoking with the windows up; ten second glimpses at ten thousand lives.

Around me, in the back, were my friends, plied together, swaying in unison as Lymial, the driver, sawed at the wheel. On that day, we were all there: Rob and Nonnie Price, Million Dollar Mike, Ms Teen USA, Fish, Larry Lava. Their noise was like having the television on to keep you company.

We left the four lane and turned onto Honeycutt Road, and I watched the ten thousand lives behind us roll against the backdrop of a flattening sun. I turned and in front of me were the neighborhood kids. The girls grabbed at stolen love notes from the dirty eared boys and sat on their knees , holding each other as the bus pitched and yawed. Fourteen Year Old Mother combed and braided hair, her eyes nowhere near as intent as her hands. Lymial's paper white eyes raced into the rear view with each dramatic shriek of laughter and every barked threat.

On that day, Lymial turned left into Braxton Hills and let the momentum carry the bus to the first stop. His eyes stayed in the rear view mirror, as the first started leaving and the last finished leaving. I tell myself now that this is how the man got on. I would like to remember that Lymial was concerned with us, occupied with our safety. It gives that day irony. But the truth is that it all happened in a moment and he couldn't have prevented it. Think about how long a second lasts and it's over. That's how fast it happened. And in the instant you thought about that measure of time, a man had me in his hands.

He pulled at me and held me up by my coat, the wool of the liner burning my neck like a sliding rope.
"You're the one. You gave me the finger. I should kill you for that. Do you understand me?"
"Yes"
No one moved.
"It wasn't me."
"Lying ass. You could get killed worse for lying about it......I saw you."
I hadn't moved my arms at all during the short trip from the school parking lot. They hung limp in the straps of my backpack.
"I swear I'm not lying", but I hadn't convinced myself.
"If I even see you again, you're dead. Hear me? Hear!? Me!?"
"Yes"

Then he left, bouncing off bookbags and thin shoulders as he forced himself down the narrow aisle. Lymial flinched when the man swung past him and jumped down from the top step to the ground.

My eyes followed him as he walked underneath my window to the white truck pulled into the yard beside us. I looked down at the trenches in his brow and the tight brown curls of his hair. I noticed the black Goody comb in his back pocket and the thin wallet barely make an outline in his jeans. I counted the times the plastic-coated tips of his shoelaces bounced off his boots. I saw the skin on his jaw tighten over his grinding teeth. I looked into his lungs and watched the air swirl and escape. I saw his blood crash against his heart like waves forcing a ship onto rocks.

The man came close to being hit by a car when he u-turned in the middle of the street. The left side kids could see the car that almost t-boned him as it moved past the bus. "Damn", Rob said. Ms. Teen USA used the extra time the man took to right his truck to memorize his license plate. I wedged my face back between the cushion and the window, feeling the redness of my skin on the cold glass and closed my eyes.

The principal of my school and the county transportation supervisor talked with my dad in the den that night while our dinner sat on the table. When Principal J.Breeden Blackwell left, he moved my head to the side and frowned at the red burns on my neck. Standing at the storm door as they backed out into the street, I watched my breath fog a round inch and felt the cold air come through the glass.