by Bob Krech
I wave back and walk over. “Hey, guys. What’s up?”
And then we all start hanging out together, play on a fantastic Scottish travel soccer team, go on to star at the University of North Carolina, and become lifelong best friends.
That’s how it goes in my dream plan, anyway. The one where I talk smoothly and easily and ride buses by myself into cities.
In real life, I was a little scared about taking the bus by myself, just because I had never done it before. Anyway, it didn’t matter about being scared because I needed to do it. It was the only way.
I begged my parents for an hour last night to let me take the bus by myself into Dunnotar to go to Boots today and make this little scene a reality.
Dad smiled and shrugged. “No need. I’ll drive you in.”
“No! I want to”—I needed a reason—“I want to meet some of my new friends. They all—everyone—takes the bus in.”
My parents did the sideways glance at each other. My dad was obviously delighted to hear the word friends, but he tried to stay cool. “All right, then. But be back by noon.”
The problem now that it’s Saturday morning is—it’s pouring rain. Like they say in books, teeming—sheets of rain slamming the windows and all that. I know to get the okay I have to wear my rain jacket—a monstrosity that is huge, rubber, and yellow like a school bus. I look like the Nerd of the North, but I can put it in my backpack later when I get in front of real people.
At first, Mom looks like she’s going to try to talk me out of it, but seeing my total state of preparedness, she taps me on the shoulder and says, “Okay, but remember—noon.”
“Thank you! I love you!” I call. And I’m out the door and into the pouring rain.
It’s 9:30. Right on time to catch up with Lynne and Becky. Maybe we’ll be on the same bus! But then what will I say if I see them? Don’t worry, just say hi. I hate these arguments I have with myself. Do normal people do this, too? I slog down the hill to the bus stop shelter. I huddle inside.
Ten minutes go by. No bus. I know you have to take either a number 18 or a number 15 bus to Dunnotar. An old lady comes walking up the road. The wind is blowing and the rain is pouring, but she has no hat or umbrella. She stops next to me. I study my rain boots. I start a mental chant: Don’t talk to me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t talk to me.
“Hwr’ye?” she says.
I nod. She is peering at me through thick glasses that make her eyes look huge and blurry and wild.
She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a dented pack of cigarettes. She sticks one in her mouth. Then she jabs the pack at me and nods. “Help yerself.”
I can’t take a cigarette! But I don’t want to say no. She might be crazy walking around in the rain with no hat and wild eyes.
“Go on now.” She jabs it at me again.
I carefully pull a cigarette out of the red-and-white plastic pack. She’s watching me. I can’t just stand here holding it like it’s a worm, so I put it in my mouth. She whips out a blue plastic lighter. She lights hers and then before I can move she reaches out and lights mine.
I freeze. My cigarette is burning.
“Where ye gwin t’day?”
The smoke smells and tastes awful. It’s like putting your head in the fireplace and taking deep breaths. I start coughing.
She looks at me carefully. “Where?”
I choke out, “D-D-Dunnotar.”
She cocks an eyebrow and looks at me like I’m some kind of insect she can’t identify. “Yer ’merican, arn ye?”
“Um, yes.”
She grins. Yikes! Her teeth are decrepit. There aren’t a lot left, and the ones that are, are a dark brown. “Tha’s fine. Tha’s fine that is.”
Meanwhile, I am smoking a cigarette, or more accurately, the cigarette is smoking in my mouth. I take it out and hold it down at my side. I can’t throw it away in front of her.
Thank goodness a bus finally pulls up. I let her get on first. She pays and heads upstairs. I put the cigarette back in my mouth so I can pay my fare and sit down right behind the driver.
The driver turns completely around in his seat and looks at me. His face is pinched and red. He speaks slowly and loudly. “Up top if yer g’win to smoke, ay?”
“Uh, I’m n-n-not really s-s-s-smoking. I mean—I don’t smoke.” I pull the cigarette out of my mouth to show him.
“Up on the top, will ya?!” He shakes his head, turns, and starts driving. I hoof it up the stairs with the burning cigarette still in my fingers. I don’t see any ashtrays, so I just hold on to it.
Everyone up here is smoking. The old lady who gave me the cigarette is way in the back. She gives me a wave. There are lots of teenage boys with big boots and shaved heads and some punk girls, too. Meanwhile, I’m wearing a yellow raincoat that makes me look like Fuzzy the Chick. I put my cigarette back in my mouth and sit right up front near the stairs.
At the next stop all of the skinheads and punk girls get off. They’re jabbering away and laughing as they go down the steps. The bus makes a turn and goes winding up a big hill.
We keep stopping and people keep getting off into the rain, but we’re not in Dunnotar yet. At least I don’t think we are. We drive around for twenty-five minutes. It’s getting emptier, till finally it’s just me up on top.
We pull up to a Spar store near a group of small houses. Spars are like 7-Elevens. They’re all over the place here. The little houses and the Spar are surrounded by fields as far as you can see. The engine shuts off.
The skinny bus driver pokes his head up the stair hole. “Okay you—tha’s it.”
“What?”
“This is the las’ stop—Colthill.”
Where Colthill is, I have no idea.
10
INCENDIARY
Igniting combustible materials spontaneously.
“OH, okay. Thanks.” Stay calm! It’s not like I’m lost in the Congo.
I get off and Mr. Friendly shuts the door without a glance. As the bus pulls away, I see a 23 on the side. I was so shook up with the smoking and everything I forgot to look at the number when I got on. What an idiot! I walk into the Spar. A round little lady with a flowered plastic apron rushes from behind the counter toward me. “No smokin’ inna store now,” she scolds.
The cigarette! It’s still in my mouth! It went out long ago and I forgot it was even there. I take it out and try to find a place to toss it. The lady is looking right at me. I can’t throw it on the floor so I put it in my raincoat pocket. I don’t want her to think I came in just to hang out so I go up to the counter and buy a Mars bar. As I give her the money, I ask, “W-w-when—is the nu-nu-next—bus to Cults?”
“There’s a boos to Dunnotar from here in ’bout half an hour, then change there for Cults.”
Tongue between front of teeth. “Thank you.”
I go out and stand in front of the Spar. The rain has finally stopped. It’s so windy up here that I’m starting to feel cold even with my rubber coat on. Twenty minutes later, the bus shows up. It’s about empty. I sit downstairs this time.
The bus takes almost an hour to get into Dunnotar. It drives all around to all these little towns before finally getting there. Fortunately, I know where I am. Right by the uniform shop. I hop off and look at this big church clock. It’s already 12:30! It’s too late for Boots. I was supposed to be back by noon! My parents are going to kill me. If I had a cell phone I could call them and prevent my early execution, but no, cell phones are too expensive here or the plan was for fifty years or something stupid. And I can’t use a pay phone, because I have no idea how to work one at home, let alone here.
There’s a bus stop here. I get in the queue. That’s what they call a line at a bus stop—a queue. How do they come up with these words?
Thank goodness a 15 bus pulls right up. I hand the driver a pound note, but he shakes his head and says, “Exact change.”
I step reluctantly back down onto the sidewalk. 12:40 P.M.! I have to get change. I r
un into a little grocery store right across the street—The Green Grocer. I look around for something small and quick to buy. Like candy. But it’s all fruits and vegetables. I’m in the only store in Dunnotar that doesn’t sell candy!
Through the big front window, I see an 18 bus coming. I quick grab an orange and hustle over to the counter. An older guy cashier picks up my orange and says, “Will that be all?”
“Yes.” I hold my pound note out to him.
“They’re five for a pound,” he says, smiling.
“Just one, please.” The 18 bus pulls up to the stop.
He holds the orange in front of me and peers at it like it’s a jewel or something. “Well, we’ve just got a new batch come in, so’s I kin give ye these at eight for a pound. How’s that?”
“No—thanks. I need—”
“Yer mam will be very pleased to get eight Spanish navel oranges for a pound,” he says pleasantly.
The 18 bus doors swing open. People are getting on.
“J-j-just the one, please.” The sweat pours down my sides under the rubber.
He puts his hands on the counter and leans toward me. He lowers his voice. “Okay. Yer a sharp customer and I respect that.” He folds his hands and looks to his left, to his right, and then back to me. “So Ah’ll tell ye what Ah’ll do.” He raises a finger in the air. “Ye can have ’em ten for a pound.”
I start to protest, but he points at me. “Ye couldn’ do better if ye was in Valencia yerself, pickin’ ’em off the tree. And don’t go tellin’ everyone in town about this because it’s only for you and only for today—okay?”
The doors on the 18 bus slowly close. The engine roars and it pulls away. I watch through the big plate glass window as it winds up the street full of lucky passengers. I look back at the grocer with his green apron and white shirt, smiling at me, head cocked, waiting for my answer.
“Okay.”
“Tha’s the lassie.”
1:00 and I’m out on Union Street with my plastic bag full of oranges. It’s raining again. I want to say a curse word. I want to say many curse words. I go into the uniform store. I know they have candy. I buy another Mars bar with another pound note and get my change. I cross the street and get back into the queue.
It’s 1:10. The oranges are heavy as anything, and the cheap plastic bag straps are stretching under the weight. I have to cradle the bag like a baby. I unwrap the candy bar and start to eat it.
1:20. A 15 bus is coming, working its way up the street, stopping every ten yards to let people get on and off. I finish my candy and put the wrapper in my coat pocket.
1:35. The bus is here. I’m first in line. The doors open. I step up. I can already smell the smoke from the top of the bus.
“Ahhhhhh! Ahhhhhh!” A woman is screaming! She is pointing at me. People are backing away. She yells, “Yer on fire!”
What?! I spin around. The driver yells and waves his arms. “Get off the boos! Get off !”
The old lady is jabbing her finger at my pocket. There’s smoke coming out of my rain jacket pocket!!
I drop my bag and whack at my pocket. Oranges go bouncing and rolling everywhere. I rip off my backpack and coat and throw them on the sidewalk. I stamp on my raincoat. The smoke stops.
I reach carefully into the pocket and pull out a charred Mars bar wrapper. Apparently, it ignited with my old cigarette butt. I guess it hadn’t gone out all the way.
When I look up, the bus is gone. The oranges are scattered in the gutter. A little circle of people stand around watching me from a safe distance.
1:45! I pick up my sopping, dirty, smoky, burnt, “incendiary” raincoat. Unfortunately, that’s a great word from Word Power. It means something that ignites spontaneously. Like your raincoat for example. I try to act normal, whistling and looking around like it’s no big deal—like my coat just sometimes catches on fire.
I finally get on the 1:55 number 18 bus and get back to Mr. Dryden’s house, as the police would say, without further incident at 2:15. My parents comes running madly down the drive. “Where have you been?! We have been going crazy! What happened?”
I don’t know where to start. None of this stupid stuff would be happening if we had just stayed in New Jersey. I wouldn’t have to be taking crazy buses into cities I don’t know trying to make friends at drugstores because I would already have friends! I wouldn’t have to live in an igloo with my principal! Or wear a school uniform that makes me look like a Brownie!
I was going to say all this, but I am so wiped out, I just reach in my pocket, pull out the last thing there, and say, “I got you an orange.”
Dad says, “That’s not funny. And why did Mr. Dryden say he thought he saw you smoking at the bus shelter this morning?”
Mom says, “That’s the end of bus riding till further notice.”
I’m not exactly devastated by that news. We all begin the silent, stomping walk of the angry up the driveway. I can see Faith’s brown mop of hair peeking out around the doorway of the freezer hut. She disappears inside as Dad finally speaks again. “By the way. We move into the apartment tomorrow.”
Finally! Some good news.
Then he clears his throat. “Oh, and your teacher called. She said she wants talk to you.”
11
ECSTATIC
Joyful, enraptured.
IT is Sunday after lunch. Mr. Dryden is driving his tuna-can car slowly down North Donside Road. Mom is in the front. Faith and I are in the back. My dad is driving the rental car behind us, packed with our luggage. We are moving out of Mr. Dryden’s and I should be superhappy or, as Word Power would say, “ecstatic,” and I am, except I have this cloud of worry about Mrs. Watkinson. Why would she call me? Is it the laryngitis thing? Did she figure it out? Is she mad?
“It’s right here,” Mr. Dryden says. He pulls over near a black iron gate with the number 483 intertwined with the bars. “This is Ingleside. Mrs. Eversole is a widow who lives in the front of the house. She rents the back out. Sorry it took so long. We’re actually quite lucky to get it.”
I could use some luck. Especially after yesterday’s bus ride from Hades. My parents are talking to me again, but just barely.
Mr. Dryden turns through the gate and down a winding driveway to a big old stone house. As soon as the car stops, Faith skips out her door and starts playing with a dog on the front lawn. Never mind that she’s allergic to dogs.
Mr. Dryden says, “The apartment is ’round the back. You won’t see Mrs. Eversole much. She travels most of the year.” We get out and walk over to a red door with an envelope taped to it that says WELCOME. My mother opens it. There is a note on nice blue paper and another treasure-chest key. Try that in New Jersey and you’ll come home to no furniture.
We walk into a big kitchen and then a living room. It is twice as big as Mr. Dryden’s. Faith and I run upstairs. There are two bedrooms. This means we have to share a room—which is not good after having had my own room all my life, but is a million times better than all of us sleeping in the little refrigerator room at Mr. Dryden’s. The room has a skylight, too, which is cool, and one big window.
There is a bathroom upstairs. I peek in. No shower. Just a big tub. That’s okay because there is something really great about this place. I noticed it the minute we walked in. It is warm in here!
I walk downstairs to see where the TV is. Mom says, “Let’s say thanks to Mr. Dryden.” We all do and shake hands and everything. It was weird living with him, but he is a nice guy. Geez, he found us this place. He’s like my hero.
My mom interrupts my thoughts. “Andrea, there’s the phone. Why don’t you call your teacher now?”
She points at the phone. It’s big and clunky and beige and sitting on a desk by the window. “Here’s her number.” My mom hands me a little piece of paper. She is standing there so I take it and dial. I rack my brain. What did I do?
The phone makes weird noises. Instead of ringing, you hear, like, two buzzes. Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz.Then there is a cl
ick. “This is 446-7290.”
It is Mrs. Watkinson’s voice! “Um, hi. Um . . .”
“Andrea?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Oh, thank you for ringing me up. How’s your weekend?”
“Um, good.”
“Lovely. Listen, dear. Would you be kind enough to bring your football boots into school tomorrow?”
Football boots? I am picturing someone on the New York Giants wearing snow boots.
“Hello? Andrea? Could you do that?”
“Like m-my soccer cleats?”
“Yes. Exactly. Right. Would that be okay?”
“Yeah, I . . .”
“Thank you. I will see you then. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”
It was great last night sleeping in a bed, in a warm room, without Faith snoring in my face. It was a giant step toward normalcy. I feel rested and more like a regular human kid this morning. I have my soccer shoes in my backpack. I wonder if we are going to have a class game or special gym class. That could be very good. I could show people what I can do.
I am in the coat closet when Lynne and Becky walk in together. I look down, which is pretty standard for me when people are around. I notice that they wear regular shoes to school. Their soccer shoes must be in their backpacks, too.
I try to think of something to say. Maybe like, “Hey, I almost made it to Boots on Saturday, but you wouldn’t believe this bus ride I had.” But why would I want them to know about something so stupid? While I’m thinking about it, they walk right out again anyway.
I get all psyched, three hundred words run through my head, but then nothing comes out—because I might stutter. I go to my desk and the only thing I say all morning is “two hundred seventy” during math. As soon as I do, Stewart says, “Good answer, that,” and Joseph immediately laughs. Well, he is rip-roaring hilarious. I just shake my head.
At least Mrs. Watkinson is nice. She’s doesn’t yell. She tells kids, mostly Jasmine, Molly, and Gordon, that she is “disappointed in them” or that they are “making poor choices.” That’s the kind of teacher she is.
