22 had always been his lucky number, it seemed. That was something I always thought odd. He rode bus number 22 with me in the second grade, I remember that. I remember him, running to catch up to the damn thing, his backpack spilling contents and homework onto the sidewalk, his dark hair still damp from the shower. The driver would always sigh, I could see it because I sat in the front seat, and slow down, letting the out-of-breath boy through the bus doors. He would sit next to me, panting, attempting to zipper his backpack. I tapped him on the shoulder.
"How come you're always late?"
He'd just stare at me with bug eyes and creased eyebrows for awhile.
"Why you askin'?" He had a sort of southern drawl to his voice already, despite only being seven years old. I suppose that's what happens when you live in Georgia.
"'Cause I'm just wonderin'," I proclaim, and he never spoke another word to me every single bus ride to school. He didn't speak until we started sharing a coat rack in the classroom.
"Football," he whispered into my ear while I was busy hanging up my backpack and coat.
"What?"
"That's why I'm always late, I'm practicing football." He chuckled in a weird, throaty way. "What's your name?" He questioned, looking me straight in the eyes.
"Rick," I tell him.
"I'm Shane."