I press my face against the glass, the froth of scarlet fury still bubbling in my throat. The rumbling of the floor beneath me rattles my legs, and I clutch my sports bag protectively to my chest. My mind churns with the rhythm of the engine, and I kick nervously at the bars beneath the seat in front of me. Trying to calm the violence in my mind, I check my watch. The hands inform me that it is 1:53AM, though I know that the stupid timepiece is fast by about six minutes. Either way, it has been about six hours since I began this mad quest. Even now, I am unsure of my precise destination, though I have a stable idea. The bus driver is eyeing me with increasing suspicion in the mirror. I try to keep my eyes off him, for my eyes are always the stool pigeons to my guilt. A man who has recently left the seat nearby has forgotten his newspaper, I realize. My boredom gets the better of me, and I reach across the aisle and seize it. The front page is chock-full of woe, and I absentmindedly lose myself in the tale of a young man murdered by a gang in a shopping mall. Only half of me is interested; the other half is still dwelling on my own sad events, all now past. An angry sort of depression befalls me whenever the last month crosses my mind, and I try to fight the thoughts away. With the sound of steam being released from a valve, the bus wails to a halt, and the doors are drawn open. I look over the edge of the seat, wondering which other nighthawks might require the bus at two o’clock. An aged man ambles up the steps, coughing into his hands before paying the toll. The next and only other newcomer is a girl about my age. She is African-American, with a long wool coat and a knapsack slung haphazardly over her shoulder. The older man, probably her grandfather, sits in the seat across from mine, and the girl follows. When they notice I am watching them, my eyes flick back to the newspaper. A sudden shudder and a moan beneath my feet tells me the bus has started up again. I sigh, folding up the paper. None of the stories can hold my attention. Remembering I have missed supper and have not eaten for thirteen hours, I withdraw a wallet from my pocket. It is not mine, but my mother’s. She does not know yet that I have it, or that I have her ATM code numbers memorized and could easily refill my supply. I count out five dollars; that should be enough to get me a few slices of pizza and a soda from Pizza Palace. Replacing the wallet and slipping the money into my jacket sleeve, I wait for the bus to approach a cluster of restaurants. “Are you done with that?” The voice startles me, and I look up. The girl across the aisle is looking at me. “The newspaper, I mean,” she adds. “Oh. Well, in that case, yes.” I lift the newspaper and hold it out across the aisle, and the girl takes it, thanks me, and flips through it to the film reviews. I hear her tell her grandfather that the new Spielberg movie sounds good, but the words make no sense to me. My brow is knit, and I have my head leaned against the window again. A crushing headache has overtaken me. About ten minutes later, a neon sign catches my eye, marking the Pizza Palace nearby. I hook my fingers on the stop line and pull. A small bell rings toward the front of the bus, and the driver pulls over. I collect my belongings, make my way up the aisle, and thank the driver as I exit. I have to bite my lip to hide my wince. The icy look on the driver’s face as he nods to me is all too familiar; I recognize it as the look in my parents’ eyes whenever they set their gaze on one another. It is 2:11 AM now. As I approach the Pizza Palace, I shudder in the cold of the night. I chose a bitter time to make this endeavor. Snow is falling, and I estimate that it is below zero outside. Around the outdoor vents, the snow is gray and slushy, but it is immaculate where I am standing. Reverting to a childish habit, I put out my tongue and catch a feather of crystal ice. The very air smells of snow, and there is a certain surreal aura about the wind as it whips the flakes around like debris in a cyclone. The blast of heat as I open the door to the restaurant is a shock after the chill I suffered outdoors. Like the bus, it is sparsely populated on the inside. I head up to the counter, ordering three slices of pepperoni pizza and a Coca-Cola. The cashier takes my money and her companion hands me my food, which I carry to the table farthest from the counter before seating myself. I barely taste my meal, but at least it does not disagree with me. The waiter gives me an odd look, but I ignore him. I head up to the counter, ordering three slices of pepperoni pizza and a Coca-Cola Reaching into my duffel, I extract a novel. This, I quickly discover, holds me about as well as the newspaper did. Nonetheless, I pretend to read it in hopes of masking my true thoughts to the two people at the counter. My true thoughts, I know, are nothing to share. The fiasco repeats itself in my mind, making me shiver. The sound of a fist upon the table . . . angry voices, inescapable even in the farthest-off corners of the house . . . those five words from my
March/April 2001
The Bus Ride
It was Wednesday afternoon. I sat waiting anxiously at my desk. It was almost time to leave school. That meant it was almost time to go on the bus. I hated the bus. Big sixth-graders sat in the back. They always bullied us third-graders. Butterflies began forming in my stomach as I quickly jogged to my locker. Today, I was late. It was my turn to clean the chalkboard. I grabbed my books out of my locker and shoved them into my bag. The halls were deserted except for a few kids hurrying to the door. As I walked out into the warm May sunshine, my fear ceased for a moment as I enjoyed the beautiful afternoon; but it left as soon as it came when I spotted the bus. When I climbed the big, black steps onto the bus, I prayed that there would be an empty seat left up front; but there wasn’t. Every single seat was filled with two people. I walked toward the back hoping to find an empty seat. The kids around me were happily talking; I wished I could be one of them. Why, why wasn’t there an empty seat? It wasn’t fair. Suddenly I spotted an empty seat. The only problem was, it was right smack in the middle of the sixth-graders. I tried to look around me for another place to sit, but there was none. The bus started moving so I had to sit down. The radio was playing “Bye, Bye, Bye” by ‘N Sync. All of the sixth-grade girls around me started singing, while the boys were groaning. Happily, I sat back in my seat. None of them had noticed me yet. She gave me a big hug and said, “You can stop crying now, it will be OK” As we were getting off the highway, the boy sitting in front of me turned around. He had one green eye and one blue. His blond hair hung over his eyes as if to hide them. “Hey, what are you doing back here? The back of the bus is for sixth-graders only.” At first, I didn’t know what to say. Then, I realized I should just tell the truth. “I had to stay after school and clean the chalkboard, which made me late, and there was nowhere else to sit by the time I got here.” “So, you’re a teacher’s pet? I don’t like teachers’ pets; in fact, I hate teachers’ pets!” I wished that someone would help me, that the bus driver would hear what was going on; but he didn’t. By now, everybody in the back of the bus was quiet, waiting for the boy’s next move. Or perhaps, they simply did not want to get involved. “I like your little baby overalls and your pink flowered shirt. Who picked them out for you? Your mommy? I bet you wish she was here right now, don’t you, don’t you?” That was the last straw. I had been so nervous for so long that I started to cry. Tears were streaming down my face that reminded me of a warm spring rain. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to stop and fight back but I couldn’t. Just when I thought I couldn’t cry anymore, a tall blond-haired, blue-eyed girl wearing practically the same outfit as me sat down next to me. She gave me a big hug and said, “You can stop crying now, it will be OK.” She turned to the boy and said, “Stop picking on innocent little girls. She told you why she sat back here; I’m sure she would have sat up front if she could have. As for her outfit, I’m wearing practically the same thing and I don’t look like a baby, do I?” The boy just sat there stunned. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. People around us started cheering for this mysterious girl sitting next to me. The boy slumped down into his seat. The rest of the bus ride home the girl (named Hannah) and I became quick friends. When I got off the bus that afternoon I was on top of the world. Christine Nichols, 13Concord, New Hampshire Jill Cooley, 13Burlington, Massachusetts
Tiger Prey
The thick, tall grass sways as the tired wind barely strokes it. Its soft movement quietly brushes against the face of the sleeping antelope. She breathes softly in and out, farther away from the herd than any of the others and one of the smallest members, too. In the middle of a large clearing, she lies there. Passing predators would take advantage of a weak sleeping animal like her. The wind blows northward, in the face of the poor sleeping creature. No one and nothing except for the wind and the darkness of night see him, the dark, ghostly, almost invisible figure that is moving silently through the tall grass. Slinking steadily and stealthily closer and closer, the nocturnal hunter is north of the small antelope. From the scent she gives him, the experienced predator attains a better position to attack. He is only a few yards north of the sleeper, when suddenly, the wind shifts directly south, carrying his scent with it! In the dark, he despairs, flattening himself down in the thick grass. Awakening, she smells him and stands cautiously, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. Terrified for her life, she flexibly spies in every direction, but he has ducked out of sight. No one and nothing except for the wind and the darkness of night see him Immediately, she darts away to wake and warn the herd! Waiting long for this moment, he leaps from the tall grass in a flash of lightning followed by a roar of thunder as he pounces upon the now sprinting, panting antelope! The roar wakes the herd, and they instantly scatter in fear while the predator pulls its prey to the ground with his huge paws and claws. With the rupture of her jugular, the antelope dies instantly and the whole night is silent again, except for the diminishing whisper of a hundred antelope hooves in the distance. With Tiger’s first kill in days he rests and eats. * * * Tiger continues his meal of antelope, after a short swim in his favorite pool to clean himself from the bloody kill. Sitting there under his tree in the thick grass, tearing slowly and getting his fill for quite a while, he basks in the afternoon sun. After hiding the rest of his kill in the dirt and grass for a later meal, Tiger then sleeps in his lazy way, proud of his unbeatable strength. He is a cautious and vigilant tiger, not about to allow anything to get his hard-fought-for food. After his small nap, the wanderer goes on a walk, marking the trail behind (as always) so he can get back very easily and finish the antelope later on. Tiger walks up to a short, lonely tree about a mile through his regular stroll. About to scratch a personal mark in its side, he is reaching out his claws when BANG! BANG! Startled, Tiger jumps from the tree trunk and dives into the grass for cover. He has no idea what the loud sound is or what it is coming from. Tiger only knows that whatever made those sounds is far away, and he thinks that it would take a long time to reach him, especially if he heads back to his kill. Then the strange barking beast would go away rather than do battle with Tiger. He is a strong and experienced tiger. Being a predator, he is not afraid, for tigers are incapable of complete fear. He is merely concerned as he warily heads back toward his food. When he arrives at his domicile, Tiger discovers that his food is exposed and has been tampered with, half of it gone! He smells it and then jumps away. There is a different, new and strange smell. Almost a mixture of smells though. Tiger is more confused now than he ever has been in his life. Sparked by a newly found curiosity, Tiger searches, examines, observes, and finds only a few yards away, a puddle. Though not like the puddle of an occasional heavy rain. A crude, black, nauseating substance, the liquid is also somehow clear and shiny. Tiger nudges the puddle with his paw quickly and the black covers his paw. He then licks his paw once nervously and “GRR!” He begins growling and shaking because of the revolting taste. Immediately, he jogs to his watering hole to wash his mouth and paws vigorously. When Tiger returns to the cloudy puddle, he finds that its scent marks over a long distance in a line. Captivated, he follows the scent, at first ignoring its disgusting smell. Using his curiosity more than his experience, Tiger is growing in bewilderment. The sun slowly begins to set behind him as he walks, trudges and lumbers along. Along the trail, he sees more of the liquid and tries to stay away from it. But nothing will stop him, and he continues his journey. About to rest and nap until night for the first time on his trek, Tiger sees over a mile away, a large thing a little less than the size of an adult elephant. With round, black feet the shape of the full moon, it looks like an oddly shaped boulder. Getting closer, Tiger sees that on the top of the bizarre structure sit creatures, silhouetted in the setting sun. Animals like nothing he has seen before. They have heads, four legs each, and some other physical features like his. Except that they stand on their hind legs and hold long pointed objects that look like small branches. Tiger does not know what to make of all these new sights, sounds, and scents. What he may never know is that these strange things threaten his very existence. He does not know it, but he is becoming more the hunted than the hunter. Pace Ellsworth, 13Burke, Virginia Ayla Reynolds, 12Juneau, Alaska
