Rebel With a Cause

Travis took a deep breath. His hands were starting to sweat. Trickles of perspiration dewed his thick polo shirt, like strings of peals squeezed reluctantly from the mouth of a shy clam. He looked down to consider his shoes – Converse, scuffed, just the right amount to tell people that he cared enough about fashion, but that he didn’t take it too seriously. There was a fine line between try-hard and nonchalant laidback-cool after all. He'd considered Doc Martens, but he didn’t want to look like he was trying to be an Indie or anything.

He reached down into his bag (khaki green, shoulder strap, no brand – he didn’t want to look like a brand pony), and rummaged for a packet of cigarettes (Malboro; some brands mattered. Pack brands mattered a lot) and a light (Zippo – none of those cheap, plastic kiddie supermarket lighters for him. A Zippo said that THIS was a serious addiction. That he didn’t care about things like cancer or emphysema. He was a man with attitude, a man who didn’t care about health warnings and the annoyed superiority of GPs with their disgruntled expressions, clucking thier tongues “Another smoker, eh?" A man that did what he wanted. A man who smelled like lazy jazz bars and probably listened to records. A man like that didn't awkwardly fumble clammy palms over porn mags in his closet, or struggle to say hi to a girl at school. At least, that’s what he hoped it was insinuating). He flicked his lighter six times before it even sparked. It took another seven to light it. This wasn’t going well. He inhaled too fast, and coughed loudly and explosively until his eyes reddened and watered.

Stellar job, idiot, now you look like you’re crying. Travis flicked his cig, but in his irritation he flicked too hard, and it bent a little, angling toward the ground. Now it looked a touch limp, a bit sad, a little flaccid. Flaccid? Why on earth had he just thought of flaccid? His virgin desperation was invading. He hoped it wasn’t creating some kind of tangible field.   

He started to check his watch, but realised the movement was too fast. Stop. Slow down. That’s it. He languidly raised his wrist within eye view, and gave it a throwback glance and a sarcastic grimace of annoyance. This would give the impression that he was a busy guy, with places to be, and much better things to do than wait for a bus. He jerked his neck from side to side, trying to crack it loudly. Nothing happened. Well this was awkward. He checked quickly to see if anyone had noticed. Maybe no one had. He sighed, and then mentally admonished himself. His veneer of cool was slipping fast. Time for cover.
He unlaced his headphones from his bag, and plugged them into his MP3. (No ipod for him – everyone had an ipod. MP3 players were a little more old school. So were his oversized headphones). And really, no one could hear the kind of music he was listening to, so it didn’t really matter if his playlist was a mash of… well… he hastily turned it off again, just in case someone asked him what his tunes were.

He popped his collar. No, too much. He pushed it down again. He had to get this right. There was no going back. He tapped his fingers against his thigh, and stopped again. Went to check his watch, stopped. Took a deep breath. This was it. It was happening. Today. A new step in his life, the first towards being a real teenager, a real man, someone with cred. Someone with attitude. Someone with status. In a few short moments, Travis’ life would be transformed.

He heard the familiar grind of wheels on asphalt as the bus slowly lumbered into view. Not too fast, let the others rush forward for their seats. He waited a few beats, hanging back, looking as if he didn’t care. He rolled his eyes at the hurrying backs. “Kids.” He said loudly, the edge of a sneer dripping off his tone. He hoped no one had noticed the slightly high register he’d said it in. He was nervous, very nervous. This was pivotal. This… was a critical moment.

He took two long strides, and started up the steps. Gave the driver a nod, and moved along the aisle. Eyes followed his progress. Heads turned. This was it, he was doing it, it was really happening. His eyes moved over the plush red pleather seats and the curved steel, he was up to the sixth row, he was really going for it. Travis exhaled and allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction as he slid into place. A girl in the fifth row let out a slight gasp. Yep, this was the new Travis. He’d done it. He was reborn. Back seat rebel.