"Mind if I join you?" The question seems almost too polite to be from a teenage boy, and I immediately begin to analyze his ulterior motives. It could be that he's simply drawn to the blond girls in baseball caps and sunglasses. Or maybe he likes the company on bus rides into the city. But my gut reaction tells me that this bastard has recognized me, and that I'm about to get bombarded with questions regarding my performance on The Program.
I stare up at him over my sunglasses and shoot him the harshest glare I can manage. It doesn't seem to faze him at all. The boy smiles widely revealing teeth slightly tinted yellow. For a minute, I can sense the warmth of his smile, and it reminds me of Connor, and the boyish grin he'd give me every once in a while. And I consider that maybe, just maybe, there's nothing else at play here other than a boy wanting a place sit down.
I slide to the side and he sits down in a rush, thanking me in the process. I turn my attention outside the bus, as the buildings begin to float by. It's a surprisingly sunny day for autumn, and what few trees are present in the city have already begun to lose their leaves. My windbreaker is enough for the chill that sweeps by every once in a while, but won't be enough when dark falls. Luckily, I've thought ahead and brought other articles of clothing for the wait at the bust stop after my self defense class. I sweat so much during class, and if I don't have something to keep me warm, the cold air mixed with my sweat raises my chances of catching a cold.
And with everything that I'm doing, I can't afford to get sick.
Connor's father and brother have been giving me what little information they come across regarding The Program. This is difficult because they can't appear eager to gain knowledge about it. Everyone in their respective departments is aware that Connor died in the latest Program, and so his family is being monitored for "traitorous" actions. My guess is that valuable information will become available after a few more years, once the surveillance is slackened. Once we figure out how the collars work and discover the next location of The Program, we can enter the playing field and deactivate the collars from within, saving as many contestants as possible – and slowly build our ranks. Once we build the army we need, we can nullify The Program by removing the contestants before the death tolls become too large. And with no contestants, The Program will steadily crumble.
I see the boy in the window's reflection, stealing glances at me every few minutes. It seems that allowing him to sit with me was a mistake. Luckily, my stop is coming up in a few minutes, and if I can keep ignoring him until then, he won't have the opportunity to ask-
"Can I ask you something?" he whispers discreetly to the back of my head. I grit my teeth. No good deed goes unpunished. I decide to blatantly disregard him, hoping that he'll take the hint and realize I'm not in the mood to entertain him.
"Hey." He whispers again and taps me on the shoulder. I respond immediately to physical contact and spin around to face him.
"What do you want?" I hiss at him threateningly. Again, my scare tactics don't faze him at all. He smiles warmly at me again.
"I was wondering if you could answer my question."
"No."
"How about, I ask my question, and if you don't want to answer, then you don't have to."
"How about I sit here in silence for the rest of the bus ride or you learn what it's like to swallow your own teeth."
"Swallowing teeth, huh?" he replies with a grin, "Well that would create a big scene for everyone else on the bus. And once they see my bleeding face on the ground and you standing over me spooning my teeth into my mouth, it won't take long for everyone to recognize you."
I glare at him furiously. I don't need Program fans bouncing around me asking for an autograph. And I don't need a riot of paranoid people freaking out that I may decide to murder everyone on the bus either. Both have happened, and I'm not too happy with either. So I decide to submit. If he wants the answer to one question, I can give it to him. As long as Connor's name isn't brought up.
"I'll take your silence as an agreement." The boy says and then turns to face me, even though I'm not looking at him. "The audience is always told that weapon distribution is random."
"It is." I interrupt quickly.
"That wasn't my question."
I sigh in frustration.
"So, here's the thing. If weapons are randomly assigned, then how is it that a student can have information files about the other contestants? They have a list of the students – along with their weapon. How can anyone know beforehand who has what weapon if they are randomly assigned?"
This is no where near the question I was expecting. Whoever this boy is, he's not an ordinary one. He's clearly far more observant than the majority of Program fans, since this is the first time I've ever been asked this question. And despite my contempt for him earlier, I admit that he is more mature than most kids his age.
"The weapons list is agreed upon before the contestants are known, and a weapon is assigned to a number. The fork was assigned to Girl #25. The contestants are chosen (randomly or otherwise) and assigned to numbers. I was given the number 25, and so I was given the fork. Weapons are randomly distributed, but they are known in advance to the government. So they can make contestant files and give them to a student as their weapon."
"Doesn't that leave a big opportunity to give certain students advantages over others?" The boy asks, his eyes focusing hard on me. I'm surprised by his intensity and the thought he's put behind these thoughts. "I mean, isn't it possible, with that way of doing things, for the government to 'randomly' give a useless weapon to a student they might see as a potential threat later on?"
I smile for the first time since I walked onto that bus.
"Of course. They gave me a fork."
He looks stunned for a second, but his warm smile returns to him almost immediately. The bus slows and I realize that it's time for me to get off. I tell this to the boy and he stands to allow me to slide out of the bus seat.
"My brother…" he begins, but the stops. I freeze. I stare down at him, and I watch as the warm smile remains on his face as tears begin to stream down his face.
"They gave him a rose. A flower. That was his weapon."
The bus slows to a stop.
"Joshua. Boy #1. My big brother was really smart – at the top of his class. And they gave him a rose, because he was too smart."
"What's your name?" I ask, motioning for the bus driver to wait.
"Jason." He voice is a little muffled because he's wiping the tears from his face.
"If you ever want to talk with me, here's my phone number." I hand him a small piece of paper on which I've scrawled my number. He takes it, not exactly sure how to respond.
"It seems to me that your brother wasn't the only intelligent in your family." I say with a smirk, "And I may need your smarts in the future."
Jason stares at me in complete confusion as I turn back around and get off the bus. I can see him in the corner of my eye rushing to the window and staring at me as the bus pulls away. He might be too young to do anything now, but if he wants to fight against the government which took away his brother, then I can give him the opportunity. I'm sure I can find something for him to do, and it won't hurt to have more people join my cause.
Even little boys grow up to become men someday.