As soon as the server leaves, Charlotte slides the flip booklet in front of her and starts thumbing through the pictures of drinks and desserts. “Ooh, look at this,” she says, pointing to a picture of molten lava cake.
I nod and start to reply but my heart skips a beat. I look around the restaurant and register the song flowing out of the speakers above us. It’s that song. God, how I hate it. And as if that isn’t bad enough, the music video is on the television above the bar. Why don’t they have football on? Faith Hill is sitting atop a giant peach, swinging back and forth, singing about a kiss that was apparently so powerful she had to write a song about it. I had seen the video years ago when it came out, but now it just seems stupid. The cheesy melody, her perky vocal inflections full of overdone joy, it’s too much. I normally don’t have such strong opinions about music, but there is a reason this particular song irks me so much. I remember being in the sixth grade and having to take the bus to and from school every day.
I stood at the end of my driveway by our faded black mailbox and watched as the big yellow bus slowed to a stop in front of me. After some puffing noises from the engine, the folded door opened and I looked up to see Mr. Evans. He was leaning over in his seat, his large hand gripping the lever. Wiry tufts of grey hair spread across his hand like old, dying trees in a forest with a peach floor and tiny brown ponds scattered throughout. Looking back up at his face, I watched him raise his eyebrows and give me a half-hearted smile. I hesitated. There was still time to run back to the house.
He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, son,” he said. “Haven’t got all day.” I did this every morning and every morning Mr. Evans would say the same thing, an annoyed look on his wrinkled and weather-beaten face. I sighed and climbed the steps, praying Benjamin would be home sick today. But no such luck. He was sitting in the back, as usual, away from Mr. Evans, away from any possibility of him hearing what went on back there.
Benjamin sat up straight in his seat as soon as I stepped on. “Hey, Matt!” he called out. “I saved you a seat. Come on, buddy!” He slapped the seat next to him loudly and laughed, looking around at his friends who laughed with him. My eyes scanned the entire bus for a seat away from him but they were all taken. The only open seats were in the back. Resigned, I made my way back to an open seat two rows ahead of him.
“Aww, you hurt my feelings,” he said. “I just want to be your friend.”
I ignored him and sat down, putting my backpack on the floor in front of me. Then I felt a sharp searing pain on the top of my head. Turning around, I realized Benjamin must have switched seats with someone so now he was sitting directly behind me. Hitting me on the head with his book was his favorite, followed by shooting spitballs at me through a straw. And then, like clockwork, “This Kiss” from Faith Hill started playing on the radio. 107.1 WJAM must have played it fifty times a day and I heard it every single morning on the way to school and sometimes on the way back home, too. It was the soundtrack to my torture, courtesy of Benjamin Pruitt, the nightmare of the sixth grade at Lexington Elementary.
He continued his attack, alternating between the spitballs and the whacks to the top of my head all while taunting me, saying things like, “Why are you such a nerd, Matt?” and “Everyone hates you, why don’t you just jump out the window?” As I yelled at him to leave me alone, while trying to get Mr. Evans’ attention (he was too busy singing along to the stupid song), and dodging the wet pieces of paper flying at me, the words blared from the speaker, “It’s. . .the way you love me, it’s. . .a feeling like this, it’s. . .centrifugal motion, it’s perpetual bli-iss. . .”
“Hello? Earth to Matt,” Charlotte’s voice rings in my ears.
I blink. “I’m sorry,” I say, glancing around. The song is over.
“What happened? Are you OK? You were gone for a minute there.”
“Oh, yeah, I—“ I start. Should I tell her or will she think I’m crazy? Hell with it. “That song just. . .it makes me—“
“Oh, God. I hate that song,” Charlotte says, sticking her finger in her mouth and making a gagging noise. “It’s so annoying. A song about a damn kiss? Really? So lame.”
I laugh and breathe a sigh of relief. “I couldn’t agree more.”
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