gasped — she’d touched my skin. She pulled her fingers back like they’d been in an electric socket. I jerked my face back too.
All of us buried our heads in our work as if we’d done something terribly wrong.
I don’t know where the money came from or whose idea it was, but a bus appeared not long ago. I use the word
appeared
on purpose because we knew nothing about it before it just . . . came. Like magic. It is slow, and it smells strongly of oil and smoke and gas, and it seems to cough and wheeze like it smokes old cigarettes, but it does save a powerful lot of steps if you are tired. I don’t often ride it, to be frank. Mr. Fielder, the driver, doesn’t like us black kids, that’s clear — he told us the first day, “I don’t care what Rosa Parks said. You’re sitting at the back of the bus and that’s final, got it?” We all just nodded — a ride is a ride — but sometimes I just don’t want a ride that bad. Plus, there’s this kid from high school, Tommy Street, who always trips every kid who walks down the aisle (don’t worry, he doesn’t discriminate — he does it to
every
kid, any color). I hate being tripped. Finally, if I ride the bus, I don’t get to walk with Shag. The only good thing about the bus is that Mr. Fielder likes Shag. He’d apparently heard about Shag’s experience with the copperhead, because the second time I got on the bus, when Shag came all the way close enough with me for him to see her, he said, “Hey, I heard about that dog, that’s the one saved a girl from a snake — you that girl?”
I nodded. He stuck his bottom lip out, thinking. “Ride tomorrow, here.”
The next day, when he pulled up for me, he stepped off the bus before I could get on. I backed up, as did Shag. Mr. Fielder, his suspenders drooping over his sagging tummy, knelt down in front of my dog, put his hand out for her to sniff him, and looked up at me. “Gotta let a dog smell you. They don’t just trust ya automatically.”
I nodded.
Got that right,
I thought. I prodded her to sniff his old white hand.
Shag looked up at me, then reluctantly sniffed the hand. Mr. Fielder turned it over slowly and opened it so she could see the good-size bone he held for her.
“Still got some meat clinging to it,” he explained. “Always had me dogs, till the last few years. Miss ’em bad. Nothing like a good dog.”
After I nodded to her, Shag eased the bone out of his hand and then ran off quickly. Mr. Fielder ignored my offer of a hand to help him up, held on to the side of the bus to steady himself, and got back on. I followed. “Got you one fine pup there, girl,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
If I ride any other day, Mr. Fielder mutters something rude to me, but every Wednesday, we do this thing with the bone for Shag and him telling me I got me a good pup. He says exactly the same words every time. He tells me how the wife makes stew or roast every Sunday, then he launches into the good pup speech. It’s gotten so Wednesday is the only day I reliably ride. I know I’ll feel differently when it’s really cold, but for now, I just can’t do it more than Wednesday.
All I meant to do was return some library books (and I admit, I was going to see if she had some books on makeup). Miss Anne Spencer has due dates, but she’ll allow you to keep books longer if you’re really using them. Otherwise she considers it hoarding, which she says is a form of stealing — you’re holding on to knowledge just to be holding, and that takes it away from others. Doesn’t matter if no one checks that book out for ten years — if you’re not using it, if you’re not reading it, you are a hoarder. I didn’t want to hoard.
I deposited the books at the desk. Miss Anne peered over her little reading glasses. “I expected you next Saturday,” she said.
“I came today.”
“But the books are not due until next Saturday,” she said. “I was going to have you meet a man.”
Puzzled, I looked at her.
All of us buried our heads in our work as if we’d done something terribly wrong.
I don’t know where the money came from or whose idea it was, but a bus appeared not long ago. I use the word
appeared
on purpose because we knew nothing about it before it just . . . came. Like magic. It is slow, and it smells strongly of oil and smoke and gas, and it seems to cough and wheeze like it smokes old cigarettes, but it does save a powerful lot of steps if you are tired. I don’t often ride it, to be frank. Mr. Fielder, the driver, doesn’t like us black kids, that’s clear — he told us the first day, “I don’t care what Rosa Parks said. You’re sitting at the back of the bus and that’s final, got it?” We all just nodded — a ride is a ride — but sometimes I just don’t want a ride that bad. Plus, there’s this kid from high school, Tommy Street, who always trips every kid who walks down the aisle (don’t worry, he doesn’t discriminate — he does it to
every
kid, any color). I hate being tripped. Finally, if I ride the bus, I don’t get to walk with Shag. The only good thing about the bus is that Mr. Fielder likes Shag. He’d apparently heard about Shag’s experience with the copperhead, because the second time I got on the bus, when Shag came all the way close enough with me for him to see her, he said, “Hey, I heard about that dog, that’s the one saved a girl from a snake — you that girl?”
I nodded. He stuck his bottom lip out, thinking. “Ride tomorrow, here.”
The next day, when he pulled up for me, he stepped off the bus before I could get on. I backed up, as did Shag. Mr. Fielder, his suspenders drooping over his sagging tummy, knelt down in front of my dog, put his hand out for her to sniff him, and looked up at me. “Gotta let a dog smell you. They don’t just trust ya automatically.”
I nodded.
Got that right,
I thought. I prodded her to sniff his old white hand.
Shag looked up at me, then reluctantly sniffed the hand. Mr. Fielder turned it over slowly and opened it so she could see the good-size bone he held for her.
“Still got some meat clinging to it,” he explained. “Always had me dogs, till the last few years. Miss ’em bad. Nothing like a good dog.”
After I nodded to her, Shag eased the bone out of his hand and then ran off quickly. Mr. Fielder ignored my offer of a hand to help him up, held on to the side of the bus to steady himself, and got back on. I followed. “Got you one fine pup there, girl,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
If I ride any other day, Mr. Fielder mutters something rude to me, but every Wednesday, we do this thing with the bone for Shag and him telling me I got me a good pup. He says exactly the same words every time. He tells me how the wife makes stew or roast every Sunday, then he launches into the good pup speech. It’s gotten so Wednesday is the only day I reliably ride. I know I’ll feel differently when it’s really cold, but for now, I just can’t do it more than Wednesday.
All I meant to do was return some library books (and I admit, I was going to see if she had some books on makeup). Miss Anne Spencer has due dates, but she’ll allow you to keep books longer if you’re really using them. Otherwise she considers it hoarding, which she says is a form of stealing — you’re holding on to knowledge just to be holding, and that takes it away from others. Doesn’t matter if no one checks that book out for ten years — if you’re not using it, if you’re not reading it, you are a hoarder. I didn’t want to hoard.
I deposited the books at the desk. Miss Anne peered over her little reading glasses. “I expected you next Saturday,” she said.
“I came today.”
“But the books are not due until next Saturday,” she said. “I was going to have you meet a man.”
Puzzled, I looked at her.
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