But, like my mother did with many things in our lives, she looked at my bussing situation and thought, “Is there a way we could save money on this by making it worse?”
That was the Hofstetter mantra. If there was a way we could spend less but still accomplish the bare minimum of the same result, we found a way. We went to school clad in ugly hand-me-downs. We ate store-brand everything. My father added an hour every day on his already two-hour commute driving the company carpool. And so, my mother set out to save a very little bit of money by risking my life.
First, my mother found a bus service that charged less than the one we’d been using. I’m not sure how she found them—perhaps on a matchbook or a bathroom wall. Maybe out of desperation, my mother dialed 1-800-BUS-THIS, and this company happened to pick up. This was before Yelp. Had Yelp already been in existence by then, I’d assume that my mother had found these people by searching for the bus company with the fewest stars.
The new company my mother found was the opposite of professional, and they had only one bus. If they were a bus company, what was their plan before my mother called? It’s possible that my mother dialed a wrong number and whoever picked up said, “yeah, sure we’ve got a bus,” and, after they’d hung up, scrambled to find one like the RV in Breaking Bad.
Once my mother had locked in a bus “company,” she had to meet their minimum number of fourteen students. Hunter had a student directory with everyone’s address and phone number. So, one by one, my mother called every single Hunter student in Queens to pitch their parents on her bussing plan. Every single Queens Hunter student, regardless of grade, got a call from my mother.
I’m sure she used other words, but what her call meant was obvious: “Hi, this is Steven Hofstetter’s mother. When your parents get home, can you have them give me a call back? I just wanted to see if your family was as cheap as mine is, and to make sure that Steven would be bullied this upcoming year. Also, now you know that we don’t call him Steve, so you don’t have to either.”
My mother found nine other equally cheap families, which wasn’t quite enough. Rather than give up and allow me to continue to travel to school in the least bullied way possible, my mother had an epiphany that would also negatively affect my sister Beth. Perfect.
Geniuses always know where they were when they first had the idea that changed everything. I am sure that Alexander Graham Bell knew where he was when he invented the telephone and the same could be said for Albert Einstein when he first thought of the theory of relativity. When my mother came up with the brilliant idea that could socially stunt two of her children at once, she was sitting on the living room couch with a legal pad.
My sister Beth was also going to be going to school in Manhattan that year. Beth and I could have each taken the subway with some of our classmates, but that was way too dangerous for my mother’s sensibilities. Instead, my mother came up with the idea of combining buses.
Including Beth, there were four kids from our area going to her school, just enough to make the minimum of fourteen. And so, like many other poorly thought-out plans before it, our own little short bus became a reality.
The first week of school that year was brutal. “Your mom” jokes sting so much more when the perpetrator has just gotten off the phone with her.
What made my mother’s bussing-for-bullies plan even more ridiculous is that Hunter has a program where all students get free subway passes. Had my mother not been over-protective, I could have been coolly taking the subway with some of the other students for free. But in her mind, the subway was way too dangerous. So instead, we hired a fly-by-night bus service. For safety.
At first, our driver was the owner of the bus company, a woman in her thirties named Mirta. Mirta was large and loud and LOVED gossiping with the kids. Sometimes she’d be at my house at seven A.M. and sometimes she’d be there at seven-thirty, so we all learned to stay inside until she sent one of the other kids out to knock on our door. Seatbelts were as optional as scheduled pick-up times.
The only benefit of that bus was becoming friendly with another student named Ozzie. Ozzie was much cooler than I was, and the only reason he was bussed in is because he lived too far from the nearest subway station. Under most circumstances, Ozzie and I would not have become friends. But Ozzie was the only other Mirta student in my grade, and we bonded over our mutual fear for our safety. It was like going through war together, complete with an insane general.
Mirta spent most of the drives playing the radio loudly, and whenever anyone took a lane without signaling, she’d roll down the window and yell “Hit my bus, I need the money!” It was very entertaining to see how stupefied the average person was when they saw a school bus driver challenging them to an accident.
And then, things got ridiculous.
Mirta began replacing herself a few days a week with one of her employees, Valerio. Valerio was Mirta’s nephew, a man in his early twenties who clearly couldn’t have held any other job—or this one if he hadn’t been related to Mirta. Valerio often bragged to us about how after he dropped us off he’d have sex on the bus. One morning, we were all picked up super-early and he flew through traffic at insane speeds. We got to school almost an hour before class because there was a nurse Valerio wanted to meet after his shift. Because he was a professional.
One afternoon while we were stuck in traffic, a kid hit our bus with a snowball. Valerio opened the bus door and started yelling at him. Valerio then told us to chase after the kid—and we did. A group of four teenagers stormed off the bus and chased a strange kid into the Grant Houses—projects in Harlem. When we got to the building, we realized where we were, and we raced back to the bus to find Valerio doubled over with laughter.
What a hilarious prank! He had convinced four teenagers whose safety he was responsible for to chase a child into an unfamiliar neighborhood! Oh man, if he could have seen the look on our faces when we realized our lives were in danger! Classic!
My mother was too concerned for my well-being to let me take the subway to school. The way Valerio drove that bus, it would have been much safer for me to take the subway. By myself. Naked. In February.
Despite Valerio and Mirta’s hijinks, they didn’t physically injure any of us. But the driver of the car that hit our bus did.
That day’s ride was otherwise uneventful. Mirta was paying more attention to the radio than she was to any of us, and we stopped at a traffic light. The person coming up behind us didn’t stop until metal on metal forced him to. Mirta finally got her wish. Someone had hit her bus.
Because we were a school bus (and because Mirta needed the money), the cops and paramedics were called. My back was a bit sore, so I spoke up. I was a mix of genuinely hurt and wanting to be hurt, but was relieved to escape my school bus. One of the paramedics spent the rest of that afternoon trying to make me laugh. Once we were on the ambulance, he kept pointing out crazy things that were allegedly going on just outside the window that I could have seen if only I hadn’t been strapped down. That ambulance was great—it was like the nurse’s office with wheels, but funnier. I was too distracted to concentrate on the pain—laughter was powerful stuff.
I wasn’t scared in the hospital because the paramedic continued to excitedly point out things I couldn’t see. According to him, there was a nurse with enormous breasts and a low-cut uniform right behind me—too bad I couldn’t turn my head. “Here she comes! Don’t look now!” he said. I wondered if this was a recurring gag he did or if that paramedic just thought of the bit for me. Either way, I had a pretty wonderful time getting hit by a car. Valerio would have loved that nurse.
The doctor who examined me recommended I take two days off from school. I didn’t protest—four-day weekends were not something I ever argued with.
The other driver’s insurance sent Mirta a check to cover the damage to her bus. Of course, she pocketed that money, which made it easier to find the bus after school—we just looked for the one with the giant dent in the rear fender.
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br /> The insurance company also covered my hospital and ambulance bill. Well, most of the bill. We did have to cover the deductible, which was just about the amount of money my mother had saved by hiring Mirta in the first place.
After the accident, two parents pulled their students off the bus. The following year, my mother couldn’t find enough new students for the bus and had to relent and let me take the subway to school. That didn’t stop her from trying again—she called every Hunter student in Queens to check if their parents also valued money over safety. It was as if my own parents were conspiring against my social standing. My parents were nerds in high school, and they were going to ensure that I was one, too.
“Hey Steve,” a student would say as I walked by in the hall. “Your mom called me again this summer. I guess she just can’t get enough.”
At least they were still calling me Steve.
JUST FOUR DAYS
Hunter believes that you should shuffle the deck every year, exposing students to the largest possible amount of new people. That sounds like a great system—except it takes the little bit of social progress the shyer, quieter kids make each year and erases it like an Etch A Sketch in an earthquake.
Each year, the quiet kids had to start from scratch and try to make new friends like we were starting in a new school all over again. This further cemented the advantage The Clique had over the rest of us, since The Clique was big enough to always have a few members in each class.
I didn’t have many allies in my new classes, but one of them was Lindsay Messner. Lindsay was a small, quiet girl who laughed at my jokes and cracked her own. She didn’t like guitars, and she liked baseball even less. But Lindsay seemed to genuinely enjoy being around me even if our interests didn’t match up. And I realized I felt the same.
Lindsay wasn’t the kind of girl who had most of the grade pining for her. But she had substance and could relate to me about one of the most important issues in my life—she knew what it was like to be bullied.
Lindsay was quiet in class and in the halls, but she was talkative around me without issue. It was clear that she was suffering from the same bully-induced, artificial quiet that I was. Lindsay was smart but kept her humor to herself, lest it get her any unnecessary attention. We were perfect for each other. And one day, I realized it.
When you realize you have feelings for someone, the next step is obvious: You keep those feelings to yourself until they boil up inside and destroy you. Or you can act like an adult and tell the person.
After a few weeks of simmering feelings, I did the mature thing and, by passing Lindsay notes in class, let her know I had something important to tell her that I would explain later.
At this point, I was terrified of rejection. Alexa had broken my heart, and Stephanie had rejected me before I had even asked her out. I was hesitant to make myself vulnerable again. You know what they say—fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, and it’s because I dared to be a quiet kid with a crush on someone of the opposite sex. And please don’t fool me three times; I don’t know if I could take it.
During lunch, I told Lindsay I had a crush on someone without telling her whom. I was hoping she’d figure it out and either tell me she liked me, too, or tell me that she wasn’t interested. That way I could get my answer without ever asking. And if Lindsay said she wasn’t interested, I could pretend that I wasn’t either and she had misunderstood. This scheme was the perfect way for a coward to save face.
Lindsay may have figured out I meant her, but she didn’t make it easy on me. All she did was ask me who over and over again, until I promised to tell her by passing her notes. I thought this was an excellent strategy. Passing a note in class added an extra element of excitement and danger. Also, I would be smart enough not to put all the information on one note. This would both give Lindsay a chance to say something first if she figured it out and allow me to avoid incrimination if one of the notes fell into the wrong hands. Like Scarlet Daly’s hands, for example.
I decided I would pass Lindsay one note per class throughout the afternoon, thus building the suspense. And the annoyance, probably.
My plan was to slowly spell the word Y-O-U on three separate notes. I thought about spelling Lindsay, but by the time I got to the D, it’d be pretty obvious. I didn’t really think my plan through; after the O, Lindsay asked me if I was trying to spell you. Of course, the word you was even more obvious than the word Lindsay. No girl in our school’s name started with Yo. I don’t even think we had a girl in our school whose name started with a Y.
It would be hard to mount a convincing defense.
“You think I was trying to spell ‘you’? That’s ridiculous,” I’d say. “I was telling you that I really enjoy the music of classical violinist Yo-Yo Ma. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
After the O, Lindsay knew how I felt, and I was terrified that she wouldn’t return my feelings. Could I take any more rejection? My heart hadn’t yet healed from being stomped on by Alexa and being completely ignored by Stephanie. Thankfully Lindsay didn’t make me wait long. And that’s how I got my second girlfriend.
Lindsay and I sat next to each other during the last class of the day, which was nothing new. I usually sat with Jacob to one side of me and Lindsay to the other, provided we all got to class early enough that there were three desks in a row available. And since we were all nerds, we usually got to class early enough that there were three desks available next to each other.
Since sitting next to each other was something we already did, nothing really changed. And since my note-passing escapade took place on a Friday, Lindsay and I would have to wait until Monday before we were an official school couple. Or maybe not.
That Sunday, one of our classmates, Marley, was having a birthday party. Marley was from a rich family, so this wasn’t your average birthday party. Marley had a country home on a huge piece of land about an hour from New York City, and her parents chartered buses to bring the entire grade up there.
I didn’t get invited to many parties, so I never missed the few chances that I did have. And this time, I was going with a date. I was going to Marley’s party with my new girlfriend.
On the way up to the party, Lindsay had an open seat next to her, so I sat down. I was her boyfriend, after all. This seating arrangement raised eyebrows. Sure, everyone knew Lindsay and I were friends. But why wouldn’t I be sitting next to Jacob, annoyingly discussing our favorite guitar players? Something was amiss, and everyone knew it.
I spent the party hanging out with Lindsay. We even went for a romantic walk in the woods. Not too romantic—I had been burned so badly by Alexa that I didn’t even have enough courage to hold Lindsay’s hand. But Lindsay and I had a pretty great time as platonic boyfriend and girlfriend, and on the bus ride back, I could see everyone was looking at us. We’d been the talk of the party.
On that bus ride, I still didn’t have the courage to hold her hand, despite sharing an armrest. But as we watched whatever movie the bus driver put on to shut dozens of teenagers up, I leaned as close to Lindsay as I could without making an actual move. I kept my head at the angle it would be while resting on her shoulder, only without actually touching her. Other classmates were losing their virginity and my big move was a head-tilt. I was a coward, but at least I was a happy coward.
The next day, I was pretty thrilled to get to school. This time when I sat next to Lindsay in class, it’d be different. She wouldn’t just be my ally in the fight against the bullies. She’d be my girlfriend. But when I got to class, Lindsay wasn’t waiting outside the room like she usually was. I could only save a seat for her so long before someone else grabbed it. Lindsay got to class just before the period started, grabbed an open seat across the room, and took out her notebook. I didn’t think much of it—Lindsay was studious and class was starting. She just showed up late. Maybe she missed her bus or walked the long way to class to avoid the bullies. No big deal.
As the day passed, this pattern continued. Lindsay would
show up late and grab the open seat across the room or a few rows down and immediately take out her books. I’d occasionally catch her eye from across the room. Lindsay would smile at me but quickly go back to burying her head in her notes. When lunch came, Lindsay told me that she had plans with her girlfriend and asked if it’d be okay if we caught up later. “Sure,” I said, realizing that, between the two of us, Lindsay was the only one spending time with a girlfriend.
Meanwhile, the rumor mill was still focused on us. Students I didn’t even know stopped me in the hall to ask if Lindsay and I were dating. I told them that we were—in fact, we’d been dating since Friday. This was our fourth day as boyfriend and girlfriend, so it’s not like we were brand-new.
Finally, we had a free period before the last class of the day, and Lindsay and I had time to catch up. I was excited to finally spend some quality time with my girlfriend. Too bad I didn’t still have one.
Lindsay used that free period to break up with me. Lindsay explained that she couldn’t handle the rumors going around about us, that too many people were talking about us, and that she didn’t realize the attention that being a couple would bring. She explained that she liked it better when the bullies just ignored her and she couldn’t take them speculating on her personal life.
“What’s so bad about people paying attention to us?” I asked. I was happy to answer people’s questions about us. I certainly preferred this kind of attention to the attention I usually got.
“You don’t understand,” Lindsay said before leaving me perplexed. She was right. I didn’t understand.
Over the next few days, I still didn’t understand, but I began to know. The attention I got from our “relationship” was much different than the attention Lindsay got. Lindsay was being called horrible names, most of them some form of or synonym for slut. In case you’re wondering who started these rumors, you should go back and reread the story about Scarlet Daly.
Ginger Kid Page 5
