Mum told me to never take the bus to school.
So I decided to take the number thirty bus to central London instead. If Kathy were to tell on me, I’d explain the specifics. But we knew Mum: she hates smart-asses.
I was just playing with my Nintendo DS when I was thrown out of the bus. My headphones were on full blast because Kathy kept pulling at my jacket and threatening me with convincing imitations of Mum. It was her idea to get home early before the next episode of Avatar.
I didn’t even know it was a bomb until I woke up in the hospital. On the pavement, I didn’t know what the bloody hell was going on. I knew I was scratched up and my arm felt wet but I didn’t know or feel or understand all the screaming and the sirens and the sobbing. I saw Kathy lying beside me. Her eyes were closed and she wasn’t moving. I remember holding her hand so tightly and feeling sorry and stupid and I kept telling myself I’d never let go.
And then there was a person above me—it looked like the girl on the news, I think—and she told me that she was a doctor and that everything would be okay. I believed her. And at that moment I could hear Kathy saying she was sorry.
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