Argh.

"So, where're ya headed?"

I wonder who decided that I wanted to be flirted with on my way home from school. I also wonder what possesses high school boys to think that I would ever be remotely interested in their smoker, egostistical selves. Do I look desperate? Do I seem like the kind of college girl whose only wish is to get a boyfriend, no matter how young the guy?

"Home," I answer to Leather-Jacket Smoking Bum as I stand in the bus shelter, trying to get out of the bone-chilling wind, looking up the street as I try to spot the bus.

LJSB steps into sight. He exhales, and the wind makes the smoke whirl into my face. I resist the urge to vomit, but I know he must have spotted the way my chest heaved through my coat as I desperately held in my nausea. Also, my burrowing my face into my fur collar must have been a tell-tale sign.

"Do you live far?" He asks, rather than extinguishing his cigarette, even though public decency typically commands that you smoke outside rather than in the presence of an obvious non-smoker.

I can't see LJSB's eyes. He's wearing large, black, mirror shades. I refuse to breathe in more air than what is strictly necessary. The smoke is absolutely intolerable, and god, it reeks. I answer, "Not really."

"Near the 'view?" He asks, clearly talking about the terminus for the line we're waiting on. He inhales a long breath of cigarette.

"Between here and there," I answer, as vaguely as possible, claiming the obvious. He nods, as though he knows exactly what place I'm talking about. Idiot.

He smirks. "So, uh, how old're ya?"

I look at him pointedly. He looks around my age. "Eighteen." I thought it'd be obvious enough, considering I can only come from the nearby college and the only students there are 20 years-old at most. I also want him to know I'm a legal adult, thinking it'll impress him and make him back off, like I've seen others do.

He nods, smiles larger, then exhales a long plume of smoke. My grimace is obvious, and he suddenly asks, "Hey, is my cig' bothering ya?"

I give him a flat look and resist the urge to hurl. God, it stinks. "Yeah, kinda."

He looks apologetic and throws it to the ground, extinguishing it with his foot. "Oh sorry. I make a point not to bother people with the smoke."

I briefly wonder why he didn't ask me for permission before lighting up, but it's pointless now, I suppose.

"So," he continues to inquire, and I wonder why the bus isn't there yet, "you in college?"

I refrain from rolling my eyes. My messenger school bag is strapped to my shoulder, and I just told him I was eighteen. There aren't a thousand places for me to come home from, are there? "Yes."

"Where?"

I vaguely indicate my college's direction, even though we can't see it from my bus stop. He nods slowly. "Cool. I'm in coll― I still have a year to go before going to college."

I notice the slip-up, but since I'm not interested, it's of no relevance to me. He could have lied and I wouldn't have given a damn. The guy's a smoker: the smell alone is a turn-off.

"A year to go?" I ask, trying not to sound disdainful, because I have nothing against high schoolers... only guys who think they're upshot with college girls when they're still in high school.

He nods. "Yeah. I'm in high school." He hastens to add, "But, yeah, I know I look older." He taps his heel against the salt-covered pavement, as though he's dislodging dirt. "Guys my age, they're so perverted, you know, but I took this maturity test at the psychologists after my grandma passed away," he looks up at me as coolly as possible, "and they evaluated that I had the mentality of a twenty year-old. I was fifteen."

I refrain from laughing out loud. Twenty year-olds, boy, are far from mature, is what I want to say. But instead I opt for the more off-putting, "I took an online test and was judged to have the mind of a forty-five year-old woman."

He looks at me strange, but then he shakes himself and says, "Cool, I guess. Y'know, I skipped grade 8."

The bus is pulling up. I want to roll my eyes. What's he doing, trying every impression technique he can manage? "Funny," I answer. "My brother skipped a year too, to follow me more closely."

I mentally calculate that my brother is probably older (definitely taller) than this guy. I mean, if he still has a year to go, and he skipped a year, than he's probably my brother's age or one year younger.

"Speaking of my brother," I say, walking out the bus shelter and onto the sidewalk in the cold, "at this time, he'll be catching this line two stops down." I hope to put LJSB off, but he doesn't let it be.

"That's cool," he says again. "So, what're you studying in college?"

"Arts and literature," I say, hoping that he'll feel some sort of disdain for it. Instead, he just nods, as if he feels the gangsta sort of respect for me. I can't believe the tenacity of this guy.

"That's cool. I want to study psychology."

I sit in the bus. He sits beside me. Dear god. Soon, though, the bus drives down to my brother's stop. I see my six foot-tall brother standing there, looking bored out of his mind. He's surrounded by a small group of people from our high school (well, it was my high school before I left for college). The moment he enters the bus, I greet him and ask him all about his day, and give LJSB no more opening, even though he's staring me through.

My brother and I get off at our stop, and, at long last, I am free of LJSB.

My brother, far from being stupid, smirks and asks, "So, what's that dude's name?"

In the middle of my deserted street, I howl, "I DUNNO BUT HE'S WEIRD AND HE'S EVEN YOUNGER THAN YOU AND HE'S CREEPY AND HE'S A SMOKER!"

He scowls. "That is gross. Why was he stalking you?"

I shrug. "I dunno. He just decided that I was a trapped target in the bus shelter, unable to escape out into the cold."

Lord Llama laughs. "Sucker."

Let's just say, I knew high school boys tried to pick up older girls. Many guys in my grade used to try.

I just can't believe a guy would actually try his luck on me. I mean, please.

He better not be waiting for me at the bus stop next Friday.

Love,
CM