“I gotta go,” I said, rushing toward the door.
“Cassie, please don’t tell anybody,” Tonya pleaded to my back.
“I won’t,” I called out, letting the door flap behind me. I raced down the hallway. When I made it to backstage, Zoe was in freak-out mode.
“Where were you?!”
“Sorry,” I huffed, trying to catch my breath.
“Where’s your jacket?”
“I don’t have it. But it’s okay. I’m ready.”
Nerves gone, I danced on stage and did my best. I forgot a couple of moves, but kept going just like I do when I forget a note while playing piano. We delivered the lines I wrote to try to earn some cred. The audience laughed in the right places and clapped when we danced. When it was over, Zoe and I high-fived and then exchanged a look. It was fun, but I knew we wouldn’t be doing that again. Next time, we wouldn’t enter the talent show just to score some cool points.
Tonya bounced back and killed it. She and her crew won second place for their hip-hop routine. Zoe and I came in third.
After it was over, kids surrounded Tonya and her girls and Zoe and me, saying how awesome we were. But Tonya kept looking my way. When I smiled at her, she came over.
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said, seeming suddenly shy, “for everything.” She leaned in and whispered: “I’ll give your jacket back tomorrow.”
“Why is she wearing your jacket?” Zoe asked when Tonya walked away.
I shrugged and changed the subject. If someone heard about Tonya’s accident, it wouldn’t come from me.
Tonya and I shared a secret, but we never really became friends. She stopped teasing. We smiled at each other sometimes. That was good enough.
Zoe and I made a pact. Pinkies clasped, we pledged to be ourselves. We were band girls who loved to dance, get good grades, and create our own style. That was the kind of cool only we could be.
Mike Winchell
BUS RIDE
The end of the school day is finally here. But now you have to get home, and that means you’re in for a trip on the bus. And the thing about the school bus is, almost anything can happen inside.
Authors Steve Sheinkin and Ellen Yeomans share their more memorable bus rides with us, and then take those experiences and morph them into some pretty interesting stories.
Steve Sheinkin
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED
THE UNFORTUNATE SCHOOL BUS INCIDENT
So I’m sorry, but this is gross.
I had just started at this new school, and didn’t know anyone yet. I was always pretty shy, so it took me a while to make friends. On the bus to and from school, I would sit alone, on the right side, by a window, and try to lay low, remain unnoticed.
I should explain that at age ten I was superskinny, superfreckly, and had this enormous head of reddish-brown curly hair. Basically, it looked like I was wearing a clown’s wig. The kids on the bus called it a nest and thought it was hilarious to pretend to check it for birds. My mother insisted my hair looked handsome, and whenever I was forced to go with her to her hairdresser other women would sigh and say stuff like, “I’d spend all day in the beauty parlor for hair like that!” Which I guess kind of explains why kids found it so funny. But that’s not really the point.
The point is I hated riding the bus and I sat alone.
But there was at least one person on that bus worse off than me. The driver. He was this enormously obese guy who was wedged into his seat, and for some reason he always wore this thick, Russian-style fur hat, even on hot days. So he was always very red and sweaty. But on the afternoon this unpleasant little story takes place, I got on the bus to go home and noticed that he was looking pale, almost see-through. It was obvious he was sick.
I went to my usual seat. On the back of the seat in front of me some kids had scrawled very bad—I mean, artistically incompetent—obscene drawings of what were supposed to be teachers in our school. We were about halfway to my house when the bus driver pulled over. He picked up his radio and said, “Eighty-four to base.” The dispatcher came on, and our driver explained that he was feeling sick. The dispatcher asked him to try to finish the route. Our driver said he’d try.
He seriously did not look well.
So we continued. But at one of the next stops, just as a few kids were walking down the steps, he leaned toward the door and opened his giant mouth and vomited amounts I didn’t know were possible. The first fountain splattered the leg of one of the girls getting off, and she screamed like she was being murdered.
I watched it all from my seat. There were only a couple other kids still on the bus, and we were dying from the stench, holding our noses and mouths to keep from puking ourselves.
Finally the driver lifted his radio again and said, in this really sad voice, “Eighty-four to base. I just got sick all over the bus.” The dispatcher said he’d send a new bus to pick us up. He sounded angry.
Then we all just sat there. We asked to wait outside, but the driver said he couldn’t let us, for some reason having to do with the school’s liability insurance.
We waited for what seemed like an eternity. It became a whole thing, a pathetic little reality show— kids from the neighborhood came up to look at us and to see the mess on the stairs. Some shouted about how gross it was, and they laughed at the driver and at those of us still stuck on the bus. The driver seemed really upset. He put his head in his hands. His shoulders shook a little, like he was crying.
Finally we heard this burst of laughter from the kids outside. The new bus was coming, and it was one of the short ones. The kids found that hilarious. The short bus parked behind us, and the new driver got out and came around and opened the emergency doors in the back of our bus. And one by one, we jumped out the back and got on the short bus.
Only the bus driver stayed on the bus. We left him there. I don’t know how he got home.
Of course, this became a famous incident in our school for a little while, and people asked me to tell the story a lot. I loved the attention, and got a lot of laughs. And I’m kind of ashamed to admit that it was only later, many years later, that I started to think about what that day must have been like for the bus driver.
And I wished someone had been on his side.
Steve Sheinkin
THE STORY
THROW UP
Sometimes I can tell when something bad’s about to happen. I once said that my sister was going to get hurt, and that night at dinner she told everyone she had a raisin up her nose. No one believed her, but she kept saying it so my dad got some tweezers. She cried because the tweezers poked her, but my dad said, “Sit still,” and he really did pull out a raisin. It had blood on it.
I had that feeling again when I got on the bus this day. Our bus driver is very fat. He wears a fur hat all the time like the kind they wear in Russia. His face is always red and sweaty. No one has ever seen him stand up. This day, his face was even extra red and sweaty, and you could tell he was sick.
I sat in my same seat in the middle of the bus on the right side. On the back of the seat in front of me were naked drawings of different teachers from our school. No one ever sat next to me, except sometimes for a little while to touch my hair and say they were looking to see if there were any birds living in the curls, because they said it was like a nest.
It was a hot day, but we couldn’t open the windows anymore. Too many kids stuck their heads out like dogs do. “You might get your head chopped off,” the driver said, “and then I’ll be in big trouble.”
When there were still seven kids on the bus, the driver pulled over. “This isn’t a stop,” one kid said. “The bus driver is lost again.” The kids all laughed.
The bus driver picked up his radio and said, “Eighty-four to base.”
The radio crackled, and a guy said, “Come in, Eighty-four.”
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The driver said, “Vic, I don’t feel so good.”
The guy asked, “What’s the matter, Clark?”
“I think it’s the flu. Remember I felt dizzy before? Now I feel a little nauseous.”
The guy asked if he could finish the route, and the driver said he thought so.
The next stop was a street where three kids got off, and the stop after that was a street where the rest of the kids but me get off. We were at that stop. I was watching the bus driver. He was still sweaty, but his face was white instead of red. His eyes were closed. His lips were moving even though he wasn’t saying anything. The last girl was at the top of the steps when he leaned toward the door. I thought he was trying to stand, but he didn’t take off his seat belt. He started throwing up. The girl screamed, and jumped down the steps, but some got on her leg. It was orange and creamy, and there was a lot of it. It made a milky spilling sound. He threw up four times. It dripped down the steps and fell out onto the street.
It looked funny, but then I smelled it and I almost had to throw up, too. I covered my mouth and nose and lay down on my seat. I heard the bus driver cough and spit. Then he threw up a little bit more. I took deep breaths through my mouth, which is good for not smelling, but I could taste it a little. Then I looked up over the seat. He picked up the radio and said, “Eighty-four to base,” and spit onto the stairs while he was waiting.
The guy came on and said, “What now, Eighty-four?”
The driver said, “I just got sick on the bus.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
The driver said, “Yeah, on the steps and everything. It’s a real mess.”
The guy said, “Oh man, Clark,” and he sounded angry. “Is there anyone still there?”
The driver looked up in the mirror and saw me. “One kid.”
“Oh, man,” the guy said. “Wait there. I’ll send someone to get him.”
And then we just sat there. He said I could open my window, and I did. I stuck my head out and I could see the hill my house was on.
“Can I walk home?” I asked.
“I can’t let you.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because of insurance reasons.”
I stuck my head out the window again and breathed the air. A little kid rode by on his bike and asked what happened. “The bus driver threw up five times,” I said.
“Why don’t you get off?”
I said, “Insurance.”
I looked out the window for three minutes, and the little kid kept sitting there on his bike watching the bus. Then I heard the bus driver’s seat squeak. He was standing up. No one had ever seen him stand up before. He looked at me and said, “You mind if I come back there? The stench is killing me.”
I said okay, and he walked past me and sat in the very back seat with his legs out in the aisle, because he wouldn’t fit the regular way.
“The other bus should be here soon,” he said. He face was back to being red. He shook his head and said, “I’m very sorry about that.” When he talked there was a string of yellow spit between his lips that stretched up and down but didn’t break.
I looked at the naked pictures on the back of the seat in front of me, because if I looked at him I might have to talk to him more. I wondered if he was going to let me go out the emergency exit in the back—or would I have to walk through the throw-up? I could even jump out the window if they would let me.
I thought I heard a bus coming and I looked up, but it was a truck. When the truck went by it was loud, and when it left I could hear the bus driver breathing. He was taking breaths every second, and his nose sniffled. I thought he was laughing at first, but he kept going for so long, and nobody ever laughs that many times. I was afraid to turn around and look at him. I thought he might get mad or embarrassed. But I turned a little bit and pretended to be looking out the window, and I could see him, because one thing I can do is see sideways. He was leaning forward with his arms crossed and his head facing down. His eyes were closed, but tears were coming out of them. He was shaking a little. I turned back around before he could see me.
Then I heard talking from outside the bus. I looked out and there was the little kid, and also the three kids from that bus stop. The girl had on new pants. They looked at the throw-up on the steps and then ran away, laughing. They came back and walked around the bus and saw the bus driver in the back.
“What’s he crying about?” one of them asked.
“I don’t know,” I said out the window.
“Why don’t you get off?”
“I’m not allowed,” I said. They laughed, and two other kids came on bikes from down the road. Soon there were a lot of kids outside the bus, and some of them were even in junior high. They walked all around the bus and kept shouting to me, “Do you like it in there?” “Does it smell good?” “Are you going to cry, too?”
I didn’t answer, but they kept asking.
The bus driver wasn’t making noise anymore. I looked back and his head was resting in his hands. His fingers were fat and they covered his whole face. He wasn’t shaking. The kids outside started shouting and I looked, and there was another bus coming. It was a little one. It stopped behind us, and the other driver got out. The kids told him that our bus driver threw up, and he said he knew all about it. They showed him the throw-up, and he made a face and said, “That’s disgusting.”
The new driver walked to the back of the bus and opened the emergency door. The kids were around him, looking in. I bent down to pick up my bag from the floor.
“What’s his name?” the new driver asked.
Someone said my name was Nesty and someone said Stevie and someone said Stephen, and the new driver said, “Come on, Stephen, I’m gonna take you home.”
I had my bag on my lap. All the kids were looking at me. Our driver pulled his legs in so I could get by. But I didn’t get up.
“Let’s go. Hurry up!” the new driver said.
“Maybe he died,” a kid said.
Another kid said, “Maybe it’s past his bedtime, and he went to sleep.”
They all laughed. I turned around and looked at the seat in front of me.
“What’s your problem?” the new driver asked. “Don’t you want me to take you home?” I didn’t answer, so he asked our driver, “Clark, what’s this kid’s problem?” Our driver didn’t say anything. The new driver said, “Stephen, are you coming out or not? It really doesn’t matter to me.” He waited a long time and said, “Okay,” and the door slammed and all the kids cracked up.
The little bus drove away. Some of the kids left and some sat down on the side of the road and watched the bus. I could hear the bus driver moving around. His seat squeaked until he stopped moving. Then it was really quiet. We just sat there together.
Soon it started to get a little bit dark out. I turned and looked right at him. He looked at me. It was the first time I ever saw him smile.
Ellen Yeomans
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED
STANDING UP ON THE BUS
Halfway through my third-grade year we got a new bus driver. Our old bus driver, Mike, was reassigned to the high school routes, and instead we got—well, I’ll call her Belinda. I liked our old driver and I assumed I’d like Belinda, too. But while Mike was relaxed and friendly, Belinda was anxious and snappish. As the months went by, she became downright mean.
According to Belinda, we lived in a “horrible neighborhood.” She mocked our parents and called us names. She began by calling us “animals.” I had no idea that grown-ups could be so mean to kids. This was my first experience of someone not liking me without actually knowing me. The more Belinda tormented us, the more the kids on our bus acted up, until every day was nerve-racking. Students on her other runs, the kids who lived in “better” neighborhoods, never knew her to be cruel. I was a quiet, shy girl—at least
on the bus, and at school—and I felt this injustice to my core.
As the months passed, Belinda added more names and more insults. And she became more creative with the way she made fun of our parents, our small houses, and the “trashy” neighborhood she had to drive in to pick us up and take us home. I hated the bus ride. By the time we got to school each day I had a stomachache. Daily, I wished Belinda would get transferred, or we would move, or I’d be allowed to quit school. Of course, none of that happened, and a couple of years with Belinda went by.
This was a small town with a small school district. Just about everyone knew everyone. My brothers and I complained to our parents about how Belinda treated us. At first, we protected our parents from that other truth: that she made fun of them and all the parents in our neighborhood. Later, we would share this, too. But I don’t think our parents ever believed us. My mother dismissed our complaints, saying Belinda was a “good person,” just a “nervous sort” and “overly sensitive.” Our mom insisted we behave on the bus and not cause trouble.
One winter day, I’d had enough. I couldn’t bear being called any more names or hearing again about our “good-for-nothing” parents. Just before my stop, on that full and rowdy bus, I put aside my fear of being noticed and stood up in the aisle. I shouted at Belinda that she was cruel. I told her she was an adult and should have better manners. The bus went absolutely silent. And then, I heard some kids behind me whispering that now I would be in big trouble. I was shaking, and I’m sure my face was red. I could feel it burning. Would I be kicked off the school bus forever? How would my parents drive me to school? Driving me would be impossible with their work schedules. And just how angry would my parents be when they found out what I’d done? What would be my punishment?
But Belinda said nothing as my brothers and I got off the bus. I was never called in to see the principal. My parents never knew. Things got a little better for a little while. Belinda continued to drive our bus, and the less she insulted us the more the kids behaved. But eventually, the shock of my outburst must have worn off because she went back to mocking us. However, it was never as bad as it had been before. It’s possible Belinda uttered the worst insults under her breath or decided we weren’t worth the energy to torment. A few years later my brothers and I moved on to middle school, and my younger sister never endured the same terrible treatment from Belinda.
Been There, Done That Page 14
