Young Writers Society

Saturday, 19:00, route 38

Much to Everett’s surprise, Mr. Bartram’s wife is one of the office ladies at Franklin High School. He hadn’t recognized the last name when he started working, but Mrs. Bartram’s overall daintiness and extravagantly large nose are hard to forget. Her distinctness is a sharp contrast to Mr. Bartram’s bland face, so Everett wonders what their daughters look like.

“Everett Avila!” Mrs. Bartram exclaims as she steps onto the bus. “It’s lovely to see you again. I had no idea you were my husband’s new protégé!”

Gulping, Everett smiles and swallows back his guilt for not remembering her as well as Mrs. Bartram remembers him. Still grinning, she motions for her family to follow and shuffles around to let them pass. Both of the little girls are decked in heavy winter coats, and thick, fleece scarves in blue and purple wrap around their faces, keeping Everett from discerning which parent they resemble more strongly.

“I’m a bit surprised though,” Mrs. Bartram continues. “I never thought you’d pick bus-driving as your temporary job, not when the hours are so long. You’re basically a full-time employee and a full-time student, aren’t you?”

Mr. Bartram nudges his daughters further onto the bus, and Everett watches to see when he can close the door on his giant can of sardines.

“Pretty much,” he says, “but I do get paid more than I would in the food industry.” He pulls a lever, and the door hisses, shutting out the frigid night air. “How’s the old alma mater?”

Crossing her arms, Mrs. Bartram sighs. She leans against one of the lower handrails near the door, considering how to proceed, and shoots a glance at her family. “I don’t know. We’ve had five exorcisms in the past week, two of them performed by one student on another without adult supervision, and when I call up student information to excuse absences, it seems like half the kids missing are blonde girls. This messiness in town is hurting the school more than you’d think.”

Everett pushes the gas pedal and stares out at the road. Several blocks away lies the longest street in town, and a wall of tail and headlights glitters in the intersection. As he draws closer, Everett hears the faint honking of a car horn.

“I didn’t even think most high school kids would know about the wackiness going on around them. A lot of people don’t pay that much attention to the news,” Everett says.

The conversation lulls as Mr. Bartram hands off the daughter in all blue to his wife and inches closer to the front of the bus. He leans against the wall separating the driver from the passengers and tilts his head to aim his voice at Everett. “You’ve gotta admit though, it’s hard for most people to ignore something that could result in the death of someone they know.”

“Besides, it’s difficult to ignore poltergeists during morning announcements” adds Mrs. Bartram. “Last year, one of the varsity basketball players died in a car accident, and he started pulling out the bleachers in the main gym during third hour.”

“Not to mention a number of neighborhoods are being haunted now, and it feels like the strangest things happen during the school rush,” says Mr. Bartram. “Kids keep seeing the weirdest things happen on this bus.”

Everett flicks on his turn signal and waits to steer onto the main drag. Cars crawl past, caught in a loop of congestion because of the limited parking at the school. Hopefully he won’t have to stop again before Franklin High.

“Now that you mention it," he says, "I saw a girl beat up a giant bird last night on route 31.” A gap opens in the traffic, and Everett guns the engine to break onto the main drag. A sea of lights blink and shudder ahead of him, and he strains his eyes to see if anyone is standing next to the Catkill Street bus stop.

Mr. Bartram looks out as well, absently flicking the pom-pom atop his daughters pink beanie. “I think you have a person waiting up there. Was the bird a white stilt-legged kind of thing? I saw something like that too, but whatever it was after wasn’t on my bus.”

“Was the girl an Asian-looking teenager?” Mrs. Bartram asks.

“Yes and yes,” Everett says. He leans forward and squints. Sure enough, a woman stands next to the Catkill Street stop sign. Her fur coat shines in the onslaught of headlights, and a scowl darkens her face. Cringing, Everett turns on his signal lights again and pulls over, wincing as cars speed up to take his place in the driving lane.

The Bartrams quiet as the woman stomps onto the bus. She leaves behind a vague footprint with snow and drops a handful of small coins into Everett’s change box before surveying the seating situation for a moment. When it’s clear no seats are available, she attempts to push Mrs. Bartram further back and stand right at the front of the bus. Mrs. Bartram does not budge.

“Move it,” the woman says. Everett pulls back into the driving lane, and she stumbles.

“There is plenty of space further back,” Mrs. Bartram replies, pulling her daughter in close. “Normally, I would move, but I’m afraid I don’t approve of pushing.”

Across the aisle, the pink Bartram girl reaches out with a gloved hand to touch the woman’s jacket. “Daddy,” she starts, “is that leopard fur?”

“It’s not real, honey.” Letting out a nervous chuckle, Mr. Bartram leans to one side and pats his daughter’s shoulder. “Don’t touch people without their permission.”

“But Daddy, what if it’s a real leopard? Do you think Miss Kelly could help it?”

Mr. Bartram’s face turns pinker than his daughter’s clothes. “Miss Kelly has a green thumb; she helps plants, not animals.”

“But Daddy!”

The blue Bartram girl jolts, startled by her sister shouting, and begins to cry. Immediately, Mrs. Bartram flushes as well and bends over to lift the little girl into her arms. She shoots a glance at Everett. “Goodness gracious, Everett. I am so sorry about all this commotion.”

“Yes,” Mr. Bartram agrees, “we probably should have taken the—Emily, what did I just say about touching people? Charlotte, don’t stick your tongue out at your sister.”

Mrs. Bartram slumps against her handrail and sends a pleading look towards the ceiling. “I hope you two don’t act like this during the musical.” She sighs and softens her approach in dealing with the leopard print woman. “Miss, I’m very sorry for—

“Just shut up.” The woman glares at every member of the Bartram family, plus the poor young man sitting closest to them, and adjusts the black beret pinned to her head. Plastic soles clacking on the floor, she shoves her way to the bus’s back door and stands with her head lowered in seething rage.

“Stupid kids,” she mutters. A circle of empty space clears around her; no one wants to stand next to the angry lady if they can help it.

“First the dragon brat, then the alchemist’s son, and now these dumb toddlers. I hate my job.”