The sagging bus seat creaks as I slouch uncomfortably on the unidentifiable material. Across from me, a kid with dark shaggy hair bends over his blasting iPod. Rihanna. Ugh.
I shield my own iPod from his gaze. I have in my opinion one of the most varied playlists in my school. My iPod harbors artists like Alanis Morisette, Elton John (yeah, yeah, “the gay guy”), etc. You know, the kind of stuff people never want played at dances. I live this music, though – I breathe the lyrics, drink the melodies, soak in the rhythms. But as the people around me squeal about which Jonas Brother is the cutest, I sigh inwardly, lean my head heavily on my hand, and try to reenact some of my favorite songs in my head.