The Bus Stop

by Rafael Henry

Chapter 2

'Who is he darling, this boy of yours?'

'He's not my boy , as you put it mum, he's new on our bus. Started on Monday. St. Judes. That's where he gets off. First term there. He's in Year Six.'

'That's nice darling. What's he like?'

'Just a boy, much like the others.' I lied. He's not.

'Where does he live; this very ordinary boy? I'm feeling sorry for him already, the poor darling. Does he have people?'

'No, not really. He lives with his grandmother.'

'Oh dear. Where?'

'Lynton Road, about three minutes from here. He was just there at the bus stop on Monday morning. 75 Lynton Road to be precise.'

'I hope you were nice to him darling. Were you? Sometimes you can be very……..'

'Very……what?'

'Not totally welcoming darling. I mean, your cousins last weekend for instance. You might have…….'

'They don't like me anyway mum. I'm just tolerated. You know that.'

'I know they're older and…….well, you must do your best with them.'

'All they want to do is talk about themselves mum, and play with makeup in front of a mirror. Girls mum. Boring.'

'Oh dear. So did you talk to this boy?'

'Not to start with, but I did later. He's just started at a new school, St Judes, that Catholic school just as you get to Cheriton. I felt a bit sorry for him. He looked a bit……..forlorn. You know, on his own. Then he goes back to a cold dark house with just an old lady for company who doesn't understand boys or what they want to eat, wear, or anything . So yes, I did talk to him. He cried mum. He almost made me cry. It was all rather sad.'

'Goodness me! Oh dear. That's dreadful darling. You were kind to him?'

'As far as my capacity exists to be kind to anything or anyone mum, yes I was. Yes I am . He's still on my bus; every day.'

'Does he sit near you? That might help.'

'Yes, quite close so we can talk, but he finds that difficult. Talking. But he's very good at crying.'

'Oh dear! You must invite round one afternoon. You really must darling. Does he have a name?'

'Kerry. It's a girl's name isn't it? I don't suppose that helps either.'

'Not necessarily Arlo. Boys can be called Kerry.'

'Oh good. Not all bad news then.'

'Seriously darling, invite him to have tea with us. Tomorrow? You won't forget will you darling? Shall I write you a note?'

'No mum, I won't forget. He'll probably say no anyway.'

I don't know why Kerry is living with his granny, not yet.

Friday morning. September the 8 ^th 2025.

Not the best morning to be standing at a bus stop. It's raining and cold with it. I've come out without a coat and Kerry is not here, but the girls are. Bumholes.

'Where is he then? The new boyfriend?' One of the girls says to me, Lisa, loudly.

'He is not my boyfriend.' I said, turning away, my face reddening.

'Oooooh.' They all go. Bumhole effing girls. Why do they have to say things like that?

The other girl, Sarah, says in that shrill fishwife way of hers. 'He's so cute. Don't you think so Arlo? Go on, admit it. He is , isn't he?'

I'm not going to rise to it as I gently tap the base of the steel pole again with the toes of one shoe which I would very much like to hit her in the shins with, or even better, the girl's head. Thinking that thought I hit the pole harder. It hurt but I wasn't about to show it.

'Oooooh, temper temper Arlo.'

'There's room under my umbrella Arlo. Come on. Come and get close for a minute. You might like it next to a real girl. Pigs might fly.' She says as they all laugh.

'Oh did you hear what he said Sarah? He said the 'F' word. I'm sure I heard it.'

'That'll be the day with him. Fanny pants.'

'Does your mummy want grandchildren Arlo, one day? She's going to be disappointed I do believe. Has cute little Gaylord shown you his knickers yet back there Arlo? I bet they're all lacy and pink. Suits you.'

And then the bus came thank God, just as Kerry comes running round the corner, open rucksack in hand, paper flying out. He screeches to a halt. The girls are on the bus, cackling. I wait on the steps of the bus. The driver has seen him.

'Don't worry, I can wait. Go and sort him out please. I'll sort out the girls for you.'

Now that really is a cupful of the milk of human kindness. A human coach driver. How gratifying.

We retrieved all the papers, albeit damp by the time we caught them all and shuffled them into some sort of order and got them safely inside the bag. Poor boy, things are not going that well for him. Anyway I've got him next to me on the back seat, both of us breathing hard after that unexpected exertion.

'Phew. All's well that ends well eh Kerry?' I say, looking sideways at him trying to be cheerful. The whole unfortunate thing has upset him. He's welling up again, visibly.

It's distressing to watch, those great big raindrop tears falling onto his shorts making dark blobs on the mid-grey material, all new, pressed and fresh. His dark hair clinging together, his hands on his thighs, fingers outstretched. Good hands he has, nails nicely clipped and clean. Probably a bath last night. He smells fresh.

'Here. Use this.' I said handing him some tissue I keep in my pocket.

'Can I blow my nose with it?'

'Of course! That's what it's for. Keep it.'

I'm waiting a few minutes before I tell him what my mother said to tell him.

'For goodness sake Arlo, you could be a good friend to the boy, just this once?'

I didn't reply to mum but just went on with my work, laid out on my bedroom desk all lit by an angle poise lamp. She's come upstairs to tell me that and I'm pleased to hear it too. I turned to look at myself in the mirror mounted on the cupboard door. I don't look too bad in this light. No acne yet. Hair a tad untidy. Teeth quite white but not white enough for my liking. But what about the other bits? I've been growing recently, everywhere, not just upwards, but in other ways, just like the book said I would. I need another check.

My mother used to say 'Have you washed your front bottom darling? You must do that. The doctor said, the last time I took you.'

I had a bit of swelling down there. I hadn't attended to it properly. The doc said it didn't matter in the past but now I'm a bit older, it does.

'And I've done my back bottom too mum.' I told her, just to wind her up. I've never actually seen my back bottom but I'd quite like to. I've felt it in the shower lots of times, cleaning the blasted thing. A strange feeling. Yes, before you ask, I have had the book that all boys need, when they need it, and they'll know when they need it. I knew alright. I was very ready to continue finding out all about it but in greater depth you might say, or in more detail. Boys at school call them their pleasure books. The one I got was good. The Boys Guide to Growing up. I don't know how many times I read the chapter on DIY! Do it yourself, to the uninitiated. Crikey, did I have fun with that. I'd hold the book in one hand and see to myself very nicely with the other, my left hand. It's that stage in your life when you stop leaping out of bed at the crack of dawn and turn the telly on downstairs, but decide it's now more fun to stay in bed for a DIY session; or two, or even three if it's a weekend. I always reckon the second one to be better than the first which is often too urgent and the feeling comes too quickly. The second takes longer but lingers beautifully. The third gets a bit hard work, so to speak, but even that one can come out nicely, albeit rough going on poor old willy by the time you get there fifteen minutes later. I reckon any orgasm is worth the wait don't you? The book was great, going into very nice detail, no doubt the author had consulted quite a few boys on the subject. Sadly no photos. I would have gladly modelled for a few of those if the law permitted. Imagine watching another boy doing it, all the way. I suppose boys with like-minded friends do it and watch each other at the finish of things. I have a poor substitute; drawings of myself naked or in my pants. I even took some photos but when the guilt set in just after you know what had come to pass, I deleted them. I've yet to receive a sext. That's what they call them, sexts. You photo yourself and text it to a friend, or someone you'd like to know better. We had a talk about it at school last year just in case any of us were contemplating something a stupid as that. That's something I will not be doing, anyway there's no one I can think of to send a photo of my horny body to. Ha ha. The trouble is that when one feels really horny one's judgement might just fly out of the window. I can see why kids do it.

Those girls are horrible. They show no mercy to us vulnerable boys. They upset poor old Kerry that morning, bigtime. But every cloud has a silver lining, so they say. On the bus home that afternoon I had an important question to ask him. He sits next to me now on the back seat between me and the window. I let him sit there so he can stare out, and so I can look at him without him noticing that I'm doing it. That's beach behaviour I'm afraid. I have been guilty of that, deliberately sitting myself near, but not obviously near to something interesting like……..well, never mind what.

'Kerry.'

'What?'

'Would you like to come to mine for tea one day?'

He looked at me for a few seconds, the wheels turning, before he answers…….

'Yes please.'

'Ok then, I'll ask mum when you can. Maybe this Saturday afternoon?'

'Yes please.'

He's thrilled. I can see he is. He looks away and returns to his staring out of the bus window as the houses and shops in Sandgate whizz by. Then his right hand comes up and quickly brushes across his eyes. Poor boy, he's lonely. That was so painfully sweet. I'm beginning to worry that he's not been surrounded with love all his life. I think that's something that quite a lot of us take for granted, being loved and looked after well. These days times are very hard for quite a few families and we need to remember that. I mean look what been going on in the Middle East? Those lovely children. The Murder of the Innocents, nothing less.

The boy shuffles in his seat, moving his bottom oddly. I want to move closer but I can't do that as much as I'd like to. Our bus stop is not far away now.

The girls get off first, still chattering and making plans to meet up during the sound of it. I go next followed by Kerry. I wait on the pavement for him to get himself down the steps. He stands next to me and due to his height; he's a few inches shorter as he looks up at me. There's a question in those eyes.

'Tomorrow then? What time?'

'Come round at three?'

The boy looks down.

'Ok. Number 75 isn't it?'

'Yes. Are you alright Kerry? You don't look it.'

'I'm ok. Do I need to bring anything?'

'No! just yourself.'

He looked like he didn't want to go, so……….

'Look. Can you come round now? Just for a bit or………..'

His face lit up.

'Will your mum mind?'

'No! I have mentioned you already. I know she would love to meet you Kerry. Really she would. The new boy on the bus and all that? She'll love you in that blazer, and what's inside it too.'

'Are you sure?'

Ten minutes later.

'Kerry isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'How lovely to see you. Now, put your things down there and come and sit down. Arlo darling, go and change so I can talk to Kerry.'

Poor old Kerry. I hope mum doesn't scare him off by being a bit too kind. Maybe he'll respond the way I want him too and feel welcome and at home here. I don't make friends easily and I'm sure Kerry doesn't either. The doctor said I may be on the spectrum which I think means I'm slightly autistic; or perhaps more than slightly. It's been pretty weird meeting Kerry. He's not the sort of ordinary boy that……..I don't know. He's different somehow and I certainly see him differently than the others, like he was meant to be here; if that possible? We were meant to be friends. I'm sure of that. I think about him in odd moments throughout the day, wondering what he's doing and how he's getting on at his new school. He told me he's doing his eleven plus exam in one month. Imagine that, arriving at a new school, not knowing anyone, and having to face a life-changing test in four weeks-time and just into your first term at a new place.

I'm not going to change, I need to eavesdrop!

I can hear everything. Mum's used to talking to children and she's gradually getting everything out of Kerry. He has no chance with her. She's very clever at it; asking the right questions like moving chess pieces around a board, and getting the answers she needs. Poor Kerry. He has no idea that my lovely mum has extracted all the salient facts of his life, and the situation he has been put in with his grandmother. It's tough for her too. Eighty something and not particularly fit either, to cope with an eleven-year-old boy who is himself facing some serious challenges. I think it's mum to the rescue, and by the sound of it, me too. It's a very queer thought, but I want to. I think my mother is in love with Kerry already. She's like that. Lame dogs and all that. And I know what's coming next. We'll have some squash, not tea, a slice of toast, and then it's up to my room to be shown round. Not much to see I'm afraid. Just me and a few bits. But that's not the point. Kerry needs to know he has a friend now. He has. Me. At least Kerry has a home phone number. Mum phoned it and got his granny and told her he'd be late home tonight. Granny Perkins he calls her.

I duly gave Kerry a tour of my bedroom, not that there's anything particularly interesting about it. Oddly, he wanted to look in the chest of drawers where I keep all the shirts, sock and the other small stuff, and the free-standing wardrobe.

'Can I look in here please?' He says, smiling, his hands on the white ceramic knobs of the top drawer. I nodded with a smile.

'You're an inquisitive boy, are you not?' I said to him. I'm glad he's looking in those drawers. I want him to see everything I have. I want to see everything he has too. Everything.

He had a thorough look at everything, and seemed to tactfully approve of my choices, particularly the more personal items.

'Which sort do you prefer Arlo?'

'Those ones on the right. I hate that other type.'

'So do I.' I said moving over towards him, encouraged by his remarks.

'I have those for school, just to fit in. You know what boys are like. If you look a bit different you become a target.'

'Are you a bit different Arlo? I mean, I think I am. I'm sure if I will fit in at St Judes.'

'You will in time, you see. And yes I think I am a bit different to most of them, and glad to be. But I'm not going to tell them. I don't have a death wish.'

'In what way are you?'

'Do you really want to know Kerry?'

'I do. If you feel you can tell me?'

'I'd like to tell you, but you might not understand. My mum knows, and my father. It's 2025 now Kerry. Fifty years ago it was different, but no one at school knows, at least I don't think so. I've never been friends with anyone who…….well you might know what I'm driving at if you…….'

'I am, at least I think I am. Can we both say the word please, like simultaneously?'

'What? On the count of three; just come out with it? Is it a one-syllable word by any chance?'

'Yes.'

'Does it end with a……….'

'Yes.'

'Go on then. On the count of three. I'll go, one, two, and then we say it together. If you don't say anything I won't let you sit next to me on the bus, ever again.'

'I'll say it. I promise I will.'

He means it. I'm sure he does. So here goes………one……two………

He did say it, the one syllable word, and I said it too. The same word.

The effect was dramatic as our whole relationship lurched to one side. Our side. We now know something about each other that might have taken weeks to say, or months, or even years, or perhaps never.

'Do you think you're sure Arlo?'

'Pretty much, yes. You?'

'I'm the same as you.'

We sat on the bed and just stared at each other, occasionally taking deep breaths. It was extraordinary when I think about it. Apart from my mother, who had asked me about it, in a roundabout way, I have never told anyone, but here is a boy, younger than I am by almost a couple of years, hearing it from my own mouth and my acquaintance for less than a week. That is extraordinary, especially for me, a person who doesn't like to give myself away about anything. I just told him how I felt. What I think I am.

'Do you think about it much Arlo?'

'Quite a lot.'

'So do I. Have you ever……..?'

'No, never. I'd like to but I haven't met anyone yet that might want to.'

'Nor have I.'

Kerry walked over to the window. He said he wanted to see the view from it, our garden. I watched him walk the few feet, sans his blazer, his jumper lying nicely and just covering the waistband of his short pale grey trousers, standard issue for those St. Jude boys. I drew another deep breath. He turned to look at me as if he knew I was watching him. He knows alright, and he's playing to a captive audience. Yours truly. He turns towards me and smiles. I shake my head.

'What? What have I done Arlo?'

'Nothing. Nothing wrong. Nothing at all. I'm just amazed, that's all.'

'Why?'

'That you're here, in my bedroom, like this. I can get my mum to shorten those trousers for you, after what you said at tea.'

'Would she?'

'Of course she would. Tomorrow when you come round. You have to take them off first.' I said raising my eyebrows. 'Would you mind doing that?'

'No. So long as you were here.'

'Don't worry, I will be.'

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The Bus Stop

by Rafael Henry

Chapter 2