No one was home aside from me.  My father was an important surgeon and always left at the crack of dawn.  Summer, who I called my sister, but technically wasn’t, had stayed that weekend with her biological mother.  Summer’s parents were friends of my parents since high school.  After years of fighting, Summer’s parents got a divorce.  Then their careers took them both to different countries.  Neither parent wanted to force Summer to live in a new country and city every few weeks or months, so my family volunteered to take her in.  For the last six years, Summer had lived with us as my adoptive sister.  She had been my best friend since we were four.  On the rare occasion that one of her parents was in town, Summer would spend the weekend with them. 

Chewing thoughtfully, I lost track of time.  The dark-skinned man called my attention back to the present.

“Miss Eri,” the man said bashfully.  “Shouldn’t you be heading to the bus stop?”

“Huh?” I replied and saw the time.  It was ten after seven.  Damn.

“Thank you!” I said quickly, dropping my bowl into the sink, grabbing my backpack, and dashing out of my house. 

Bryan and Arkon were unloading something from their van and they waved as I ran by.

“Have a good day, Eri,” Bryan called after me.

I waved and only momentarily wondered if I had ever introduced myself to Bryan. Shrugging it off, I figured my mom must have mentioned my name to them at some point. 

Sprinting down my street, I took a sharp left when it dead-ended into Rain Street.  Down Rain Street, I ran until I came to Autumn Street and I took a right. We lived in a section of town known as the Season Streets. Every street was named after a season or type of weather. About a block down Autumn, I stopped panting.  The bus stop wasn’t far from my house, but when you are running late, it feels like miles. Luckily, I made it before the bus arrived.  Panting, I bent over, leaning on my thighs, I felt a stitch in my right side.  Damn, I was out of shape.

Looking around, I didn’t see the bus.  Pulling my phone from my pocket, I checked the time.   I still had about five minutes and sometimes the bus did run late. That was a personal best for running to the bus stop. Crashing to the soft grass, I took a deep breath in.  The air was cool but warmer than it normally was in April.  Opening my backpack, I pulled out the spare fleece I always kept in there just in case. Putting it on, I shivered against the cold breeze that brushed against me. My hair was still damp, and I prayed I wouldn’t catch a cold.  It amazed me how we had cures for most forms of cancer, preemptive vaccines for HIV, and flu-resistant vitamins, but no cure for the common cold.   Closing my eyes, I tried to rest for a few minutes before the bus arrived.  Birds chirping sounded softly in the distance.  The gentle breeze rustled leaves.  It was peaceful. 

Then a low bass of an amped-up stereo vibrated in the ground.  Groaning, I rolled my eyes. I only knew a few people who rode with their bass so loud.  The car drew closer as I waited.  Momentarily I debated leaving the bus stop to go hide around the corner. Yet I couldn’t leave or else I would miss the bus, so I resigned myself to a pointless talk with people I didn’t care for. 

A fire engine red convertible pulled up next to me.  The car was flashy with all looks and no real power.  Even in those days in which gasoline alternatives were preferred by the majority of the population, this thing was a gas guzzler.  In the driver’s seat sat David Anept, the bane of my freshman year existence.  Next to him was his best friend, Ramiro Dias.

David was three years older than me, finishing up his senior year of high school.  He was a very rich, spoiled kid, who was used to get what he wanted. Unfortunately, he had decided when I entered high school that he wanted me.  Of course, that didn’t stop him from dating anything that moved.  David stood at five feet eleven inches with dark blonde hair that he had buzzed on the side and slicked back on the top.  His face was traditional Anglo-Saxon with a masculine nose and jawline.  The best description of David was a pretty boy.  Most girls found him attractive and I could see why.  He had that well-manicured model look about him with his continually tanned skin and clean-shaven features. But personally, he was just okay.  I guess I never was attracted to pretty boys. 

Ramiro, on the other hand, was not a pretty boy. His features were more chiseled and defined, giving him a dominant alpha look.  Keeping his head shaved, never growing his hair more than an inch, Ramiro always appeared serious and stoic, the perfect image of personal control.  He wore two-day-old scruff and mustache on his face, just enough to emphasize his masculinity without being a proper beard.  The scruff emphasized his elegant cheekbones on his oval face, which led up to his sharp, observant eyes.  Ramiro’s eyes were what disturbed me the most.  They were granite gray and intense, staring at you as if, by force of will, he could make you submit.  His eyes stood out against his natural copper skin tone; Ramiro’s family immigrated from Columbia before Ramiro was born. Most girls simply said he was intense, but I found him to be unnerving.  He still had a little roundness to his face at that stage, his baby fat clinging on as the last reminder that he was only eighteen. 

“My favorite girl,” David cooed as he saw me sitting on the grass.  “What are you doing here all by your lonesome?”

“Waiting for the bus as usual,” I replied blandly.

David and I had this conversation at least once a week.  He always “just happened” to be driving by my bus stopped.  Flashing his million-dollar smile at me, David waved me over.

“Come over here and talk to us,” he grinned. “We don’t bite…well, I don’t.  I can’t speak for Ramiro.”

My eyes moved from David to Ramiro, who stared at me coldly.  He always did.  I never knew what he was thinking.  Ramiro was like a sheet of steel, cold and unreadable. 

“I’m already comfortable,” I brushed off David’s request. “You all should be heading to school anyways.  You’ll miss out on the best parking spots and be late to class.”

“Naw, we always find a good place,” David laughed.

They always found a good place because people knew better than to take the one David always used.  David tended to be a bully, and no one would stand up to Ramiro.

“I got an idea,” David said with sudden fake inspiration as if he hadn’t asked the same question a million times before. “Why don’t you come with us?  We are going to the same place.  Just climb on in.”

“I can’t.  Maria is expecting me on the bus.  I told her I’d go over our history homework with her,” I lied, keeping my face expressionless.

“Aww,” David pouted.

A quick, almost unnoticeable smile crossed Ramiro’s face.  It was gone before I could really register it.

“You could catch up with Maria at lunch.”

“History is first on today’s block schedule.”

“Oh…okay…I guess since you did promise Maria…”

David gave me a hard look, trying to decipher if I was being dishonest.  I kept my face blank.  I had had a whole year to perfect the look when talking to David. A rumbling noise told me the bus was coming.  I struggled to my feet.  A hand caught me by the elbow, and I found Ramiro at my side.  In less than two seconds he had exited the car and approached me.  Carefully, Ramiro assisted me as I stood.  Normally it would have seemed kind of Ramiro, but the strength of his grip made my jaw tighten.  His hand held my bicep just above the elbow and squeezed.  Snapping my eyes to him, I saw him staring at me intensely as he always did.

“Ramiro, you are such a gentleman sometimes,” David chuckled. “I wish I had thought of that.”

“You would have taken too long to get out of the car,” Ramiro said, giving David a smug smile.  “I was closer.”

Ramiro still hadn’t released my arm.  I tried to use my backpack as an excuse for him to let go, making an obvious show of struggling to put it on.  Yet Ramiro ignored me.  His fingers adjusted on my arm, pressing into new spots.  A pinch told me he was hitting a nerve, but I didn’t want to seem rude when he appeared to have been helping me.

“Thank you, Ramiro,” I said, smiling meekly at him. “I can see the bus, though, and you all should be getting to school.”

“She is right,” David agreed.  “Let’s go.”

Leaning forward as if to brush off his pants, Ramiro’s lips brushed my ear. 

“Don’t ever give me that fake smile,” he whispered in my ear.  “I hate it.”

Blinking, I opened my mouth to speak, yet Ramiro was already back in the car.  Waving, David sped off.  Rubbing my arm, I scowled.  What was Ramiro’s problem?  Why did he care if my smile was fake?  Shaking my head, I chalked it up Ramiro being Ramiro.  Since middle school, he had pushed me around.  When he was a sixth grader and I was a third grader, Ramiro pushed me off the jungle gym.  I ended up with a broken arm.  For some strange reason I told everyone I fell.   To my knowledge only Ramiro and I knew the truth.  The strangest part of that memory is that I recalled Ramiro staying with me as I cried.  He had sat next to me, watching me cry and holding my uninjured hand.  He never apologized, but he wouldn’t leave until my parents arrived.