Bully-Be-Gone (13 page)

T
wo hours later, the sun was setting upon the bus passengers. The sky transformed into a yellow mass, brilliant as pollen. The clouds went poppy orange edged with rose-colored fringe. The whole sunset looked like the inside of some fantastic flower. Within the bus, however, the passengers were unappreciative of its beauty. They grew more and more anxious as the bear stalked around the bus; sometimes sitting, sometimes standing to smell the windows. Incredibly, they'd seen no cars pass by. To while away the wait and to ease their tensions, they told each other about themselves.

It turned out the man in the suit was named Mr. Wayfersson. He was a snack-and-cracker salesman. His briefcase was full of cracker and cookie samples—Nibblies, Chompies, and Gnaw-Do-Wells, to name a few—which he guarded nervously. Dallas Cheval, the cowboy, was on his way to Masonville's annual ropers' show. He even demonstrated his lasso skills, but very carefully, so as not to upset the balance of the bus. Clay and Cleon were expected at their aunt's house. Permitted by their mother to bring only one toy each, they'd chosen their slingshots. The librarian Miss Dewey was going to Masonville to help christen a new wing of the library. Anne had driven buses for forty years. If she ever had a question about retiring before, she'd become unquestionably sure she would “hang up her driving gloves” in the very near future and settle down in the plains, far from the mountains. Boris told them about his piggyback racing career.

By the time Felicity finished her own extraordinary tale, nightfall had come and the bear was napping against the bus in a furry heap.

“We're hungry,” the twins whimpered.

“We all are,” said Anne, “but there isn't any food—unless…” She raised her eyebrow at Mr. Wayfersson's briefcase.

“No way,” he said, clutching the satchel to his chest. “These are my samples. I need them to sell my brand-new product line.”

“We're starving,” Dallas said.

“Yeah, we're starving,” complained Boris.

Felicity knew hunger better than any of them, but she said nothing. They were being such big babies.

“No,” growled Mr. Wayfersson.

“No?” asked Miss Dewey curtly. “Let me put it to you this way. We'll probably be eaten by a bear or go careening down a cliff. In either case, you'll be kissing your crackers good-bye soon.”

Mr. Wayfersson thought about it. He sighed. “Tough logic to argue,” he said at last, unlocking his briefcase. “Just open the wrappers carefully. Maybe I can sell them off the pretty packaging.” He popped the lid of his briefcase, revealing an array of bright, cellophane-wrapped goodies. Cleon reached out to snatch a snack. “Ah, ah, ah!” exclaimed Mr. Wayfersson, raising his palm as if he were going to smack Cleon's hand. “Not so fast with those grubby little digits.”

Cleon recoiled and started weeping. “I don't have g-g-g-grubby d-d-d-digits,” he said. “What are grubby digits?”

“Dirty fingers,” said Miss Dewey.

“Oh,” said Cleon, sniffling and examining his fingernails. “Okay. I have those.”

Mr. Wayfersson swiveled the briefcase so that its opening faced him. He pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “Let's see,” he said thoughtfully. “To whom shall I give which snack?”

“Does it matter?” snapped Boris.

“And who will go snackless?” Mr. Wayfersson responded.
“Aside from Nibblies, Chompies, and Gnaw-Do-Wells,” he continued, “I have a wide assortment of delectables. There are Chocolate and Marshmallow Bunk Beds, ‘Piled high for the mouth with little floor space' Encyclopedia Saltines, ‘A fun fact on every snack' Pony Puffs, ‘One herd is never enough'—”

“Must you run down the entire list? And who cares about the slogans?” huffed Boris. “My stomach is fluttery.”

“I also have Auto Mall Crackers,” said Mr. Wayfersson, paying no heed to Boris. “There's a little jingle to go with them,” he added, then cleared his throat. “Auto Mall Crackers in my coupe,” he sang, “diesels and sportscars loop the loop.”

“Good heavens,” said Boris, burying his head in his hands.

“Last, but not least, I have Pork Clouds, ‘You'll give 'em up when pigs fly,' and a small box of Engagement Bagel Rings, “One bite and you're committed.' See?” he asked, holding the box for them to view. “They have rock salt diamonds on them. Now, who shall get what? That's the question.”

“Isn't it obvious?” shouted Boris, moving his rubber pig nose to his forehead with a snap of elastic.

“No,” said Mr. Wayfersson, truly puzzled.

“For crying out loud. The Chocolate and Marshmallow Bunk Beds should go to the twins because they have small mouths and because twins often sleep in bunk beds. Am I not right?” Boris asked.

“You are right,” Clay and Cleon said in unison. “We do have small mouths and sleep in bunk beds.”

“There,” Boris said smugly. “Furthermore, the Encyclopedia Saltines should go to Miss Dewey because she's a librarian. The Pony Puffs should go to Dallas because he's a cowboy. Anne should have the Auto Mall Crackers because she's a driver. You can pass the Pork Clouds to me because I am the very essence of porkness. And the Engagement Bagel Rings should go to Felicity because—well, look at her.” Boris repositioned his pig nose over his real one. “Some salesman you are,” he added.

“No need to get nasty,” said Mr. Wayfersson, pursing his lips. With tremendous care, as if he were handling ancient relics, he passed the appropriate snack to the appropriate person and took for himself a Gnaw-Do-Well. Everyone, except Mr. Wayfersson, began to tear into the packets greedily. “Hey, hey, hey,” he scolded. “Gently, please. I want the wrappers when you're done.”

The passengers ate slowly, savoring each nibble as if they wouldn't ever see food again.

Life as a homeless person had taught Felicity to save food. She opened her box of Engagement Bagel Rings and automatically placed two inside her jacket pocket before consuming the bulk of them. Storing food in her pockets was a habit bound to stay with her for a while.

They were nearly finished when they felt a thump against the side of the bus. It was the bear again, aroused by the smell of snacks.

“Quick,” said Anne, “stuff 'em in your traps.”

Everyone did as advised, cramming the remaining food into their mouths. Then they sat there, in the indigo-blue night, their cheeks as bloated as squirrels' full of nuts, their eyes pale moons of terror. The bear harrumphed and sauntered around to the other side of the bus, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing. They chewed as fast as they could and swallowed.

They sat as still as trees, for as long as they were able to keep their eyes open, but eventually, one by one, as the night went from blue to black, they drifted off to sleep.

M
illicent listened at her bedroom wall, a drinking glass to her ear, waiting for the telltale sound of Uncle Phineas sleeping. She didn't have to wait long. Soon, his snoring reverberated through the wall. She went to his bedroom door and opened it as carefully as she could. The door creaked. Uncle Phineas snorted loudly as if he were saying Who's there? Millicent froze. A full minute passed before she was satisfied he wouldn't awaken. She tiptoed into his room.

In the corner, piled on a chair along with other clothing, she spied his lab coat. He'd kept it on all afternoon and,
she'd noticed, he'd left the bottle of Hooky Spray in its pocket. She crept over to the coat. Uncle Phineas snorted again, a loud, walrusy sound that made her heart pound. With the stealth of a snake, her hand slid into the pocket of his coat and clasped the bottle of Hooky Spray.

A pang hit Millicent in the stomach. She looked at Uncle Phineas sleeping soundly and unaware of her misdeed.
I'm sorry
, she thought before gliding out of his room as silently as a breeze.

A
short time later Millicent sat at her desk, under the warm glow of a desk lamp. She'd hooked up the lamp to her chair some time ago, so that when she sat down, her weight would light the lamp.
Keeping
the lamp lit was another problem altogether—she had to rock back and forth to keep it on.

She thought about the Hooky Spray.

How was she going to get close to the bullies? She decided she would catch them first thing in the morning at the bike racks, where they'd be locking their bicycles. While she was there, she'd be able to check their bikes to see if they were indeed from the Mega-Stupenda Mart as she suspected. If her assumptions proved correct, she would tell Juanita, whose father, Officer Romero Alonso, was a policeman. She could spray the bullies and send them to jail at the same time. It felt like a plan, until she remembered that Juanita wasn't speaking to her.

Just then, her phone rang, startling her out of her chair
and causing the lamp to turn off. She picked up the receiver promptly so that Uncle Phineas wouldn't wake up. It was ten o'clock and he'd already been asleep for an hour. She turned the ringer volume as low as it could go.

“Millicent?”

She recognized the voice on the other end of the line as Roderick's. She rummaged through her desk drawer for a hanky. She found one and put it over the mouthpiece. Lowering her voice as much as possible, she answered. “Uh, Millicent's not here,” she said, sitting down.

“Who is this?” asked Roderick.

“A very old friend of the family,” she said.

“Well, could you tell Millicent that Roderick called?” he asked.

“Uh, sure. Bye-bye,” she said.

“And that I'd still like to go out for pizza with her,” he said.

“Gross,” she squealed, then lowered her voice. “I mean, okay. Bye-bye.”

“And that I miss her?” asked Roderick.

“Blechhh,” said Millicent. “I mean, okay. Bye-bye.”

“And that—” Roderick said.

Millicent hung up before he had the chance to finish. Her desk light was still off because she wasn't rocking.

The phone rang again. She padded the mouthpiece with the hanky, assuming it was Roderick.

“Hello?” she said in her deepest voice.

“Is Millicent there?” It was Tonisha.

“Oh,” said Millicent, removing the hanky. “It's me.”

“Humph,” Tonisha grunted. “I'm calling to tell you to keep away from Fletchie.”

“Oh, oh, oh,” Millicent muttered, “I, uh, I, uh, I, uh.” Millicent felt suddenly nauseous. “I have to tell you something.”

“You have nothing to tell me,” Tonisha shouted.

“B-b-but—” stammered Millicent.

“But nada,” said Tonisha. “Do me a favor: stay away from me—from all of us. I don't even want to see you at the extravaganza tomorrow.”

A sharp beep pierced Millicent's eardrum. She had another call coming in.

“Wait, wait,” she said. “Tonisha, there's a call on the other line. Please don't hang up.”

She clicked over to the second line.

“Hello?” she said, her voice high and squeaky.

“Is that you, Millicent, honey?” asked Roderick.

“Yuck!” she screeched.

She plucked up the hanky and jammed it onto the mouthpiece.

“No,” she said in a mannish tone. “Millicent isn't back yet.”

“It's Roderick. Can you tell her I called?” he asked.

“Glad to, glad to,” she said. “Gotta go.”

She clicked back to the main line, hoping to explain it all to Tonisha, but she'd hung up.

M
orning light came slicing between the mountain peaks, beaming laserlike onto the faces of the passengers. Clay and Cleon were the first to awaken. Rubbing their eyes, then stretching, they whispered to each other.

“Is it still there?” asked Clay.

“I don't know,” Cleon replied.

They stood up on the seat and peeked out the window. The bear was asleep against the left rear tire.

“I wish I had a rock,” said Clay.

“I'd shoot it,” said his brother.

“That would only aggravate it,” said Felicity, rubbing
the sleep out of her eyes and staring out the window.

“What will we do, then?” Clay asked.

“I intend to figure that out.” Felicity was already in deep concentration, staring out the window. “Let me see one of those slingshots.”

Cleon handed her his. “They shoot stuff really far,” he said. “Far, far, far. I once shot a hard-boiled egg across our yard and our neighbor's yard and our neighbor's neighbor's yard.”

“Yeah,” said Clay. “I once shot a chicken drumstick across the street into an open mailbox. You shoulda' seen the neighbor's dog chase it and jump up and down trying to get at it. So funny.” He shook his head and flapped his arms, imitating the bumbling leaping of the dog.

Felicity wasn't amused. “I'm sure you've been told this, but you shouldn't play with your food,” she said. Given her experience living without a home or the luxury of regular meals, she found the wasting of food unforgivable. She examined the slingshot and tugged on the rubber strap.
Food is a precious necessity and taken for granted by most folks
. She snapped the rubber strap.
Food should not replace toys for entertainment and it should not, without a doubt, be shot with a slingshot
. She pretended to aim the slingshot.
Much less, food should not be used to make an animal run clear across a busy street where—That's it!
“Never mind my previous comment. You've given me an idea,” she said. “Let's wake everyone.”

When the other passengers were all awake and over the
initial, hazy-minded realization that they were still on a bus, on a cliff, with a bear outside, Felicity put her scheme into action.

“Mr. Wayfersson,” she said, “of the snacks you have left, which is your heaviest and smelliest?”

“Excuse me?” he asked. “I take offense at the implication I have smelly snacks.”

“Most fragrant,” Felicity corrected. “Which of your snacks is most fragrant?”

“Let me look,” he said, lifting his briefcase. He rummaged in it for a minute. “I suppose the Swiss Cheese Moon Rocks would qualify for both the heaviest and most aromatic categories.”

“You didn't tell us you had Swiss Cheese Moon Rocks,” grumbled Boris.

“They were discontinued,” replied Mr. Wayfersson. “Too hard.”

“But perfect for my plan to get us out of this mess,” said Felicity.

She went on to explain her ingenious idea. Clay and Cleon would lure the bear away from the bus by shooting one Moon Rock at a time farther and farther up the road through the emergency roof hatch. The bear, being dependent on its sense of smell, would be enticed by the cheese snacks and would, Felicity surmised, follow its nose. Clay and Cleon would carry on discharging Moon Rocks until the bear was at a safe enough distance that the bus occupants could climb through the bus's emergency exit and
make a run for it. Felicity waited for everyone's response, smiling so hard her cheeks tingled.

“Risky, but I think it will work,” said Miss Dewey.

“I think so, too,” Anne said. “How exciting.”

“Hot dang, little lady,” said Dallas. “You're a smart one!”

“Thank you,” Felicity said, her eyes bright.

“There's one huge problem,” said Boris in a somber yet simpering tone. “Let's say the twins are able to coax the bear to a reasonable distance from the bus. And let's just say we are graced with enough time to leave the bus. Has it crossed your mind that, with every person who exits, the bus will grow lighter and lighter? Have you considered the inevitability of the bus falling hundreds of feet to the valley below? Did it occur to you that some of us will not make it to freedom—that, instead, you would be sending some of us to certain death? And what criteria, pray tell, would you use to determine who shall live and who shall perish? Did any of this enter your noggin?” He tapped his temple with his forefinger, sneering at her triumphantly.

Felicity's happy expression sunk into a dismal pout.

“I didn't think so, Miss Hot-Dang Smartypants,” he said.

“There must be something we can do,” whispered Felicity, on the verge of tears. She had to make it home. She was so close, so very close. Visions of her husband's handsome face sailed across her mind, powered by a wind of memory. By now, he surely looked different.
Time has a way of doing that to people
, she thought. He probably had fragile lines on his face, like fine, cracked china. Maybe his hair
was gone, maybe not. But she would still love him because she had never stopped, despite her memory loss. She had to make it home.

She looked out the window while everyone talked. Behind the bus, across the two-lane highway, was a boulder. Its base, as big around as a small house, rose ten feet to a hooked tip. She studied it, almost absentmindedly, her eyes sparkling with tears. Then she was struck with another brilliant idea.

“Dallas, can you rope something bigger than a bull?”

“Sure,” said Dallas. “Why?”

Felicity beamed, clasped her hands together, and said, “Here's what we're going to do….”

D
allas was tall enough to push open the trapdoor in the roof and tall enough to stick his head out, but not his torso.

“I need to sit on someone's shoulders,” he called quietly to the others, careful not to wake the bear.

Everyone looked at Boris.

“Don't look at me,” he said.

“But you're a professional piggyback racer,” Miss Dewey said. “You make a living carrying people on your back.”

“Perhaps he's a fake,” Felicity said in a cool voice.

“I am not,” growled Boris.

“Why did you say you had a bad back?” asked Felicity.

“I said no such thing,” Boris answered hotly.

“You did so. When we were scrambling to the back of the bus.
I have a bad back
,” she said, imitating his sniveling tone. Boris's eyebrows quivered. “And you're afraid of speed,” Felicity continued, remembering how inconsistent he seemed to her when they'd met. The pieces were falling into place. “And your uniform doesn't fit you. It appears to have been tailored for someone else.
And
you don't have any publicity photos. Why, I don't think you're a real piggyback racer at all.”

Boris glanced out a window. “I am, too,” he said softly.

“What are you, really?” asked Felicity.

Boris was silent. He bit his lower lip and twiddled his thumbs. “Promise you won't laugh?” he finally asked.

“Promise,” they all replied.

“I'm a shoe changer,” he said so quietly they couldn't hear him.

“A what?” asked Felicity, cupping her ear.

“A shoe changer,” Boris said, a little louder this time.

“A shoe changer?” reiterated Felicity.

“Yes. I work in the pit. During a race, when piggyback racers need a change of shoes, they pull over and I unlace their racing boots and put new ones on them.”

An uncomfortable quiet filled the bus.

“That's a very nice job to have,” Felicity said, suddenly sorry she'd exposed him.

“I wanted to be a piggyback racer,” Boris said, sitting down and resting his elbow on his knee and his chin on his upturned palm. “I trained and trained, running the track
with an actual-sized dummy on me. I was so close to becoming a pro, but instead of strengthening me, the rigorous training gave me a herniated disk.” He went on to explain that, because of the bad back he'd gotten from training, he was unable to carry a rider and was therefore withdrawn from racing contention. Because of his injury, he was forced to give up his dream of piggyback racing glory and was hired on as a member of the pit crew. “The truth is,” he concluded sadly, “I'm a fraud. I'm not famous at all.”

“Unfulfilled dreams tend to make a person bitter,” said Miss Dewey. “I read that someplace.”

“Miss Dewey, not now,” scolded Felicity. She sat down next to Boris, her wedding dress enveloping the two of them in their own confidential cloud. “As a human cannonball, I was famous,” she said to him gently. “It's not a big deal.”

For the first time on the trip, Boris smiled a real smile. “Truly?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Felicity answered. “You have no privacy, reporters go through your garbage searching for publishable tidbits of your personal life, and having a peaceful dinner out is unthinkable.”

Boris seemed to be contemplating her observation. “Nevertheless, I'd like to be famous, if only for fifteen minutes,” he said.

“Well, if you truly want it, it can happen,” Felicity commented.

“So, is someone going to help me or not?” asked Dallas, his head still sticking out of the trapdoor.

At Anne's urging, they all pitched in, with the exception of the twins who stood in wait for their part in the plan. The adults created a platform of their linked arms: hand to wrist, hand to wrist. Dallas hoisted himself onto their makeshift scaffold, clutching his lasso and apologizing for his pointy boots.

“I see the boulder,” he said to the people below.

There was a whooshing of rope. Felicity watched the looped end of the lasso glide through the air and neatly catch on the boulder.

“He got it,” she said, trying to keep her voice down.

They cheered as quietly as they could, then eased Dallas down until he was able to stand. “That was easy,” he said.

“Twins,” Felicity whispered, “are you ready?”

“Yes, ma'am,” they replied.

“Cheesy nuggets?” Felicity asked.

“They're called Swiss Cheese Moon Rocks,” said Mr. Wayfersson, handing the twins a fistful of the hard, pungent biscuits.

“Whatever,” said Felicity.

While the twins were being elevated, Dallas tied the other end of his rope to the legs of two bus seats in a complex series of knots, completing his part in Felicity's plan. The seats were bolted to the floor and Felicity thought this would be a secure enough anchor to keep the bus from going over the cliff. At least it would be secure enough for
them to make a neat, fast escape—she hoped.

“It's still asleep,” Cleon called down.

“Cleon and Clay,” Felicity said, “you must never, ever, ever, ever again do what I am about to ask you to do—to any animal at any time in your futures. Promise?”

“We promise,” they replied.

“Swear?”

“We swear.”

“Good,” Felicity said. She cleared her throat. “I want you to aim for the bear's head.”

“What?” they asked.

“That's not nice,” said Clay.

“I think our mom would be mad if she found out,” said Cleon. “We could get into trouble.”

“I know, I know,” Felicity agreed. “But your mother won't find out, number one. Number two, we are in much more serious trouble presently. In predicaments such as ours, rules can be suspended. Safety, in this case, supersedes decorum.”

“Huh?” they asked.

Miss Dewey piped up. “In other words, this time, it's okay to be slightly naughty to save our lives.”

“Grown-ups are confusing,” mumbled Clay to his brother.

“Yeah,” said Cleon. “Do this, don't do that, do what I told you not to do and never do it again.”

“Yeah,” whispered Clay, “I guess getting older means getting dumber.”

“Promise you won't tell our mom?” they asked in unison.

“We promise,” said Felicity.

The twins popped their heads out the trapdoor. Lying on its back, snoring, was the bear. With every exhale, its lips looked like two fluttering pieces of bologna. Clay, who was the better aim of the two, poised his slingshot and loaded it with a Swiss Cheese Moon Rock.

“Not too hard,” said Felicity.

Clay let the Moon Rock fly. It hit the bear square on the nose, then bounced off, landing a few feet away. With a roar, the bear shuddered awake.