David Carrey rode the same bus to and from his office. He didn't need to look up from the Globe & Mail he was reading; he knew the bus's progress along its route.
 But on this overcast, dusky afternoon, his damp newspaper was folded and tucked under his arm. When the bus stopped, an elderly woman wrapped a kerchief around her head, pinched two ends together under her chin, and exited. A woman and child in rain ponchos entered. The child paused on the steps to shake raindrops from her umbrella, collapse it, then trotted down the aisle to her mother, adapting to the bus's sway as it accelerated.

"Tabitha, let me help with your hood," David heard the woman say as they reached the empty bench a few rows beyond his. She lowered her own cowl and with both hands flicked hair free from between her nape and hood as auburn locks bobbed onto the rear of the seat's backrest. 

David was reminded of Deborah Garrow, his childhood crush with the long red hair and freckles that dotted her cheeks and nose. He leaned his head against the window and focused beyond the rain streaks that shivered against the cool glass. 

He remembered the first time he had met Deborah. It was while walking to school on his second day of grade six. When he spotted her stepping down from her porch, he had remembered seeing her in his class the previous day. Deborah had moved to North Bay that summer, so David knew nothing about her. 

He waited for her on the sidewalk then said hello. At first she was hesitant but when he told her they were classmates her shyness subsided. 

As they walked to school David tried to make small talk. "How do you like Mrs. Johnson so far? Older kids tell me she's nice, and fair. Where did you move from? Hey, you just stepped on a crack in the sidewalk. That's bad luck, you know."

"Sturgeon Falls." Deborah said little and mostly nodded as she concentrated on her footing, skipping over tiny gaps and fissures that lay in her path. 

Half way through the school year, on a Monday morning, Mrs. Johnson had greeted her class with a smile and hurried them to their seats. The students waited for the news that their teacher was no doubt anxious to relay. They were to move their desks into groups of four. And this, she explained, was according to a new teaching formula that the school board had designed. The seating arrangement would allow for certain exercises and projects to be performed by groups of four, or by twos, with the student sitting next to you.

After Mrs. Johnson listed the groups she had formed, Deborah lifted her hand. "May I sit beside David?" 

David's classmates turned to stare at his reddened cheeks. Deborah added, "He lives near my place and this way we could work on homework and stuff."

The teacher agreed. David and Deborah had walked to and from school together on most days, but he mostly did the talking while she remained shy and reserved. He had wondered if he was trying too hard to befriend her, or if she thought he was a bore. But at that moment he was filled with an overwhelming feeling of affection for her. He was sure that his face was flushed red and concentrated hard on not letting his eyes fog up. Now he felt they had become more than mere schoolmates. Surely, now, they were bosom buddies and kindred spirits. David did not want to attract added attention from his classmates and said little for the rest of the day. But he was aware he could not erase the joy from his face as they sat elbow to elbow.

When the city bus ran over a pothole David was shaken from his reverie. He watched the child hand a colouring crayon to her mother. He tucked his newspaper between his head and window and closed his eyes.

Grade six, and the following summer, had not only been David's most cherished school year, but to this day he counts it as his happiest time, ever. Deborah and he were inseparable. Their projects would garner high marks and praise from Mrs. Johnson. They spent weekends together collecting empty pop bottles that they stored on Deborah's porch. They accumulated Bazooka Bubble Gum comics and saved enough to send for various gadgets that were advertised on the back of the comic strips. And they prided in the fact that they hardly had homework. They actually had plenty of homework, but rarely took it home. David would read off the exercises as the teacher wrote them on the blackboard, and Deborah would jot them down. They would rush outside and sit against the school's portable classroom where they quickly completed the work. Afterward, David would slip back into class and stash the notebooks in their desks, and together race home feeling free of all responsibilities. 

David often pondered on the exuberant times that had filled his childhood. But he had a theory on when his actually ceased to be so wondrous and innocent. The climax had no doubt unfolded the year he had spent so much time with Deborah; right until the day they had kissed. And with any climax, there is always an inevitable denouement that follows. In his case it had begun when her mother spotted them embracing in the garden and then forbidden Deborah from seeing David for the rest of the summer. 

Grade seven brought more unfortunate news for David. There were two classes, and Deborah was not in his. He had given up calling on her on his way to school, as she was seldom ready and often late for the morning bell. He had tried spending time with her during recess, but like the first days he had known her, she had become distant and withdrawn. He wondered if her feelings toward him had changed, or if she was still embarrassed by her mother's scolding, back on that day in the garden. But something else was bothering her, and he soon learned what that was. 

David realizes now that every schoolyard has their Simon Lindsey, but back then, David only knew of one Simon, and like most students, he avoided him. He stood a little taller than most kids, wore black cowboy boots, and was often the instigator of pranks and bullying that occurred at St. Vincent Elementary. In earlier years, the children were envious and in awe with the physical abilities that Simon showed in sports and games during recess. But later his need for attention had transformed to aggression and abuse. The word had spread that Deborah kept a dark secret, and it seemed that Simon Lindsey had uncovered that secret and was only too eager to share.

According to schoolyard gossip, Deborah and her mother had run from Sturgeon Falls to put distance behind them and to hide from their past. Her father had killed a Native American man in a barroom fight, and was now incarcerated at Kingston Penitentiary.

David would often overhear groups of kids whispering about her murderous father.
Sometimes, and especially when Simon was in the vicinity, kids were brave enough to hurl insults her way. They would call her names, such as, 'Murderer', or 'Indian Killer' and one of the more articulate kids had started the motto, 'To the gallows with the Garrows!"

It was on one such occasion that David approached Simon to challenge him and demand that he retract his lies. But he was rewarded with a black eye and bloody nose. When he finally asked Deborah if the stories were true, all she had said was yes, but that it was in self-defence and not murder. David never mentioned it again, even if he did wonder why her father was imprisoned. 

In the years that followed, David and Deborah seldom met. Through eighth grade she had bussed to a different school in the south end of town. In high school they were reunited once more but he rarely crossed her path. But one meeting often came to mind, though, and with great clarity.

David was between classes when he went to his locker to drop off a load of books and binders. As he dialed the combination to his lock a hand thudded against the locker above his head. When he looked around he saw Simon Lindsey standing behind him, leaning against his locker.

"Hey. How you doing, Carrey." David did not answer. He knew this wasn't really a question. Ever since the episode in the schoolyard at St. Vincent, when he had challenged Simon and was quickly dismissed with a bloody face, Simon often leered at him with a look of proud contempt. It was as if he realized that David was a pushover and had no choice but to show his superiority to test him now and then. Simon had taunted him on various occasions, but David would simply stare back straight faced, his reaction stuck between fear and confusion. He could not understand what drove this boy and he would not get reeled into a shouting match, let alone a physical altercation. And now he grew both angered and afraid of his challenge. He looked down at Simon's cowboy boot curled around the other, his weight off balance as he leaned against the locker. He knew that with one swift sweep to the foot, Simon would tumble to the floor and be at his mercy. But this was all David ever did; he examined, and he imagined. 

"Simon. I have a class in two minutes."

"So do I. Do I look worried?" 

"Enough, Simon. Get out of the way."

"Or what?" 

"Or I'll tell the principal." 

Simon sneered and David looked to see if anyone was watching. He spotted Deborah and her friend marching toward them. They sported orange crew cuts with spiked hair projecting from the top of the head like a feathered tuft on the crest of an exotic bird. Deborah's plaid skirt fluttered with purpose and her combat boots slapped the floor as she approached. She stood inches from Simon, smiled, then kneed him in the groin.

Simon buckled and tried to retain his composure. With winded breath he said, "Did your father teach you that one?" 

When Deborah swung her fist and hit him on the temple, Simon fell to the floor. Without uttering a word she retrieved her notebook from her friend's arms and they continued their march down the hall.

Deborah dropped out of school that same year and moved out west. David would later learn that her mother had died of an overdose of sleeping pills and vodka.
He once sent her a letter asking if she would be attending their high school's tenth year, graduation reunion. He had acquired her address from a reluctant Father Sauvé, the head priest at St. Vincent Church. On a hunch, he wondered if anyone had been sending mass money for her deceased mother. He had guessed right. Deborah had been sending a little.

David knew that the odds of her attending were slim, especially since she had not graduated. But this was the year that he had separated from his wife. He was depressed and was reaching. Back then he thought of Deborah constantly. She never answered his letter, and did not attend. 

But only one year ago he received a letter from her, and the returning address read:
North Bay, Ontario.

David,
I think about you often, even if what we have in common are but old memories of a childhood crush. I think of writing you now and again but my life has always had a knack for pulling me down and not letting go. I have a child and we have moved back to North Bay. His father sends money on occasion. I hear you are married. Whoever she is, she is a lucky woman, I am sure. And David, to this day I am self-conscious when walking along the sidewalk, avoiding all cracks! I blame you for this.
I would love to hear from you,
Deborah 

David still rehearses what he would say in his letter, if he were to answer it. He tried on various occasions but had given up. What was he so afraid of? Perhaps he feared that reality would ruin the memories that he cherished so. Perhaps he had always been stuck in a dream and never had the courage to awaken and try to live his life with enthusiasm and exuberance, like the year he had spent with Deborah. He was afraid of life itself. He had become comfortable simply witnessing it from the sidelines. And ultimately, this is why his wife had left him. He determined to work on that letter as soon as he arrived at his apartment.

He watched the redheaded woman and her daughter flick their hood up and exit the bus. When he reached his stop, he slouched in his seat, closed his eyes, and listened to the engine's murmur as the bus accelerated. And in his mind, the cloudy spring day morphed to a bright summer morning.

"Debidoo. What are these flowers called again?"

"Forget me not."

"Oh yeah! I forgot." 

With the back of her hand, Deborah slapped David on the stomach and they both laughed. They were kneeling in the garden, pulling weeds and spying on birds.

"Look, Dave! Over there!" Deborah pointed to the oak tree and handed him the plastic binoculars they had earned from saving bubble gum comics.

"Wow! What is it?" 

"It's a cedar waxwing. A male, I think."

David examined the bird's sleek body. It had orange tipped feathers and wore a mysterious, black mask and a tangerine, feathered tuft pointed upright from its crest. It sallied from the branch with one quick flap of its wings then hovered down to the hedges.

He turned to Deborah and stared at her magnified face. "And what is this?"

When he lowered the binoculars she was still sticking her tongue out. And when he feigned biting it, she leaned toward him and pecked him on the lips. David slanted her way and pecked her back. Then they both leaned forward and kissed for what seemed forever. She hugged him tight and it felt to David like a warm cloak wrapped his shoulders.

"You will never forget me, will you Dave?" She whispered in his ear.

"Never. I promise." He whispered back.