The bus ride home is an almost deathly kind of silent, so unlike the usual ruckus that occurs pre-game, when all the band kids were fidgeting with their school uniforms as they sit in the picked-at, foam-cracked brown leather seats of the vehicle uneasily and they chattered endlessly with friends. But then again, the after-game always was like this, with the whole lot of them collapsed on either the window or the person next to them, eyes glazing over with exhaustion. The time must’ve been around 10:30 pm, the nearly hour and a half ride back home seemed like two eternities and one forever rolled in one as Krystal slumped down farther in her spot. She was still sweaty, the humid summer heat had been unforgiving as they’d marched on the turf of the football field during the half time show and sat close together in rows in the metal bleachers, instruments poised to blare out cheers to their school. 

    Her thick, platinum blond hair was still sticking slightly to her forehead as she leaned against the edge of the bus’s carcass, staring half at her reflection in the darkened window and half at the tangled streaks of streetlights and headlights flickering passed them. The cold sensation of the windowsill is slowly seeping through the sleeves of the long sleeved tee she’s thrown on after a late dinner at the mall with still-bubbling friends, laughing at the stupidest things and causing ruckuses only they would understand. She had her headphones in to kill the deadness of the atmosphere but it just didn’t seem to be working this time. There was more than just the eerie quietness surrounding her bothering her, and maybe it was the stillness of the moment that made her feel it again. The loneliness was seeping in through the cracks in her defense, and there was nothing distracting the girl from thinking about her. And so, she was exactly what Krystal thought about. 

    Band kids are probably the most dedicated people to their high school, for many reasons. They get home at outrageous hours on Friday nights, they have to practice for long stretches of time during the summer and school year to ready themselves for the next year of marching and holding their school high upon their shoulders, and they have to put up with the same (unattractive) uniforms pretty much for four years. Krystal always used to say that she looked better in the uniform better than her, that it graced her curves better and showed off her body, but there’d always be the casual laughing it off and that was that. She looks in the reflection