I feel grimy.

I press my fingers to my skin. It’s almost slimy from the humidity. I don’t like it. The thick windows of the subway reflect back my shiny face. It has to be the lights in here – their unfiltered brightness is reflecting off the sunscreen I slathered on my skin this morning. Why did I put it on? It’s not like I venture into the outdoors on a regular basis.

The train sashays to a halt, whining like a squeezed cat and hissing in response. “Step back, doors opening,” the clean female recording calls. People shuffle in. The weight of the stale air presses down on them, turning every average man, woman, and child into a tired-looking city-goer who doesn’t want to deal with you, touch you, get near you. They play human Tetris until everyone finds a spot. The elderly woman with a breathing machine gets the prized seat in the brightly lit corner – no one is inhumane enough to shove Grams out of the way. The blue collars have barged into the gum-covered seats, each face holding its own shade of grump or irritation like a palette of rageful emotion. The squirming tourist kids are wrapped around the grimy poles; their neon shirts stand out from the grays and blacks of every Phoenix native. Their parents surround them, eyeing everyone threateningly. And then there’s me, sitting cross-legged, holding a pumpernickel bagel wrapped in the crinkly Einstein’s paper. There’s a spot on each side of me – no one wants to sit next to the possibly homeless hooligan – so my bagel and I have plenty of room. It’s the average Monday crowd.

“Step back, doors closing,” the automaton chirps. The tired doors begin to shut. An arm shoves through. The rubber lips of the tram door collapse against it. The arm wheedles the door open and a scrawny girl in rollerblades steps in, her face absolutely beaming.

The adult tourists’ eyes bug out in the shock of seeing a non-depressive person get on the tram. The blue collars don’t even look. The hack on the breathing machine continues knitting.

The only open seats are the ones next to me. Rollerblades skims forward as the doors shiver shut. She plops next to me, and I have to unfold my legs. I don’t like having to unfold my legs.

I see out of my peripheral vision that the girl’s head is cocked toward me. Um, no thanks. I stare forward. Slight irritation is bubbling in my stomach. I drown it with another bite of crusty bagel.

“What flavor?”

My eyes dart to the left.

The girl is watching me intently. I take a moment to size her up. Her skin is smooth and white. Eyes wide and round, like the ones you would see on a Kellogg’s-commercial. Thin, mousy hair. White shirt that says “New Design.” Clunky rollerblades with newish blue jeans tucked into them. I categorize her immediately: upper-middle-class white kid on some sort of self-proclaimed field trip into the city to pick out a couple “new” records for her vintage gramophone. Or on her way to skate into a tea shop to meticulously select a few loose-leaves and host classy banter about Darjeeling.

And she’s just broken the most important rule of public transportation.

You do not talk to other people.

When you’re on the subway, you don’t make eye contact. You pretend other people don’t exist, or, if you’re like me, you judge them so harshly you can’t help but feel absolutely above them in every way. You stare at your reflection in the mirror and sigh. Feel wounded that you’ve dipped so low as to be forced to ride to school on public transportation. Promise your imaginary self that you’ll take the Porsche tomorrow. You wrap yourself up in your head, eat your damn bagel, and then you get off.

This chick has not done that.

I stare straight ahead, watching my darkened reflection as the train coughs to life. She’s in the reflection too. Staring at me.

A minute passes. She’s still staring at me. I casually tear off another bite.

“Pumpernickel is kinda gross,” the girl says. I can actually feel the puff of air from her mouth. It smells like chemical sweetness, a fruity lip balm or something.

I glance at the other people on the subway. No one is seeing this. This is a groundbreaking moment. A gangly teenage girl with wheels strapped to her feet is attempting to initiate conversation on a subway. I stare ahead. In the reflection, Rollerblades leans back in her seat, folding her arms across her chest.

“It’s rude to ignore someone,” she says in her annoyed little murmur.

I sigh loudly. Perhaps this will give her the idea. I. Do not. Want. To talk. The girl clicks her tongue. The subway is slowing again.

“Well, good-bye,” she says. “This is my stop.”

Why does anyone ride the subway to go one stop?

I blink down at my remaining half bagel. She insulted pumpernickel. I love pumpernickel. Her reflection in the mirror shows a stiff body, arms in a pouty, tight fold and legs firmly crossed. Is she actually angry that I don’t want to talk to her? Something in my stomach feels like laughing.

As the train shudders to a stop, I tear off a piece of bagel and hold it out to her. She stares at the tough brown bread. She meets my gaze and takes the bagel bit. Her lips firm up.

“Your face is shiny,” she says. “It’s kinda cool.”

The girl tucks the chunk of bagel between her molars. The doors shimmy open, and she skates away.

I cross my legs on the seat and return to feigning superiority.