Page 2 of The Pucking Wrong Man

I grabbed my bag, and I walked out of the dance studio, dread building in my stomach with every step I took.

Trudging to the bus stop, I did my best to keep the happiness with me. Dancing was the only time I felt happy. The only time I felt like everything was going to be okay. My life didn’t have to turn out horrible just because now was really hard.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement as I stared at the concrete, trying not to catch anyone’s attention. The regulars who caught this bus were used to seeing a ten-year-old riding by herself by now. But the new riders never were.

I nodded at the driver, a sweaty man with hair coming out of his squished up nose and pit stains under his arms that went halfway down his shirt. He didn’t nod back, he just made sure I swiped my bus card before his gaze moved to the person climbing on behind me.

The bus was like a giant metal oven, baking us in the heat of the dying sun. But instead of cookies, it smelled like a mix of old socks and moldy cheese. Every time someone opened a window, it just seemed to make things worse, bringing in a blast of hot air and even more funky smells.

I tried to ignore it, pressing my face against the cool glass and watching the world pass by in a blur of colors.

I should have gotten used to the stench by now—I probably didn’t smell very good either after hours of dancing. I usually would shower at the studio, but with Miss Gallagher stopping me, she’d taken the extra time I had before I needed to get to the bus.

Dad was usually passed out or at a bar. But if he was awake and I happened to be late...

That would be really bad.

I fingered the shiny, pink burn mark on my arm where he’d held my arm to the gas stove six months ago.

I had only been a few minutes late that day...

Staring out the window, I took in the “nice” part of town as we passed through. There was a line in this city, invisible but noticeable as soon as you crossed it.

The rich and the poor side.

Unfortunately for me, I didn’t live in just the poor side. I lived in the so poor everyone forgot about you side, where they didn’t even bother to send buses because very few people—if any—were ever leaving there. Thus, the bus stop was a mile from my house.

I watched as the shiny buildings and storefronts, the manicured lawns and towering mansions disappeared...making way for crumbling buildings and litter-strewn streets.

It was symbolic of what it felt like to go from my dance classes to home.

Glittering, gleaming dance studios to boarded up windows and struggle.

I didn’t understand how in the same world, there were people that had so much...and others that had so little.

The bus shuddered to a stop, the squeak of the breaks making me wince as it assaulted my ear drums. I threw out a “see you,” to the driver, knowing he wouldn’t say anything back.

But sometimes I liked to pretend that we were friends.

“Ana!” a familiar voice called, and I sighed before straightening my face and turning around.

Michael Carver gave me the creeps. That was the only way to describe it.

And that was saying something with where I lived, where down-on-their-luck men seemed to haunt every street corner.

Maybe it was how he looked.

So perfect. So clean. Not a hair on his head out of place.

No one else looked like that around here, like they had stepped out of a Brady Bunch episode.

Even in my dance outfit I didn’t look like that.

Maybe it was the fact that he was a sophomore at the local high school, and I’d heard rumors already in middle school about how he was selling drugs.

Or maybe it was the fact that he always seemed to be lurking around, popping up every time I was outside my house, even though I knew he lived nowhere near here.

That was probably it.

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