the kids.
Don didn’t want
to get on the man’s bad side.
As the day wore
on, Don found himself watching the clock, eagerly anticipating returning home
so he could play with his toys and watch cartoons. He and Nick weren’t allowed
to play too much during the week because it interfered with homework, and
Nick’s mom was pretty strict.
Besides, Don
was grateful for the brief time he had to himself after school. Ethan was in
daycare and Mom didn’t get off of work until five. Maybe Don could even sneak a
soda from the fridge. His mom had forbidden him from drinking more than one a
day, but he doubted she knew how many they had, so one wouldn’t be missed.
When school finally
let out, Don ran out into the bus area, looking for his transportation. What
was the number? As he quickly made his way along the row of yellow buses, he
located one numbered “31” and quickly got on. He was breathing hard as he took
a seat close to the front, wondering why he felt uneasy. He didn’t recognize a
single person, and the driver was a woman. After nearly five minutes, he
realized he was on the wrong bus.
He jumped from
his seat just as the driver began closing the door. He made it out onto the
sidewalk and ran to the front of the row, knowing none of the buses behind him
were 13. The buses near the front started taking off, and he panicked.
Finally, he
located his bus and pounded on the door just as it started to move. The bus
quickly halted and for a moment, the driver stared at him with a look that
could melt ice. Then, he opened the door. Don walked up the steps and stared
back at the driver, who had dark wrinkled skin and bad teeth. White beard
stubble stuck out on his cheeks.
“Take your seat,
damn it!” he shouted in a thick Southern accent, and Don sat next to a boy in
the third row. He already hated the driver and didn’t like sitting that close
to him, but it couldn’t be helped—all the other seats were taken.
Gazing out the
window as they left the school parking lot calmed Don a bit; the scenery was
beautiful. The bus turned left onto Windsor Meadow Road and chugged up a very
steep hill. A small grassy mountain separated the main road, and Don caught the
oncoming traffic on the other side just before the grassy landmark cut off his
view.
The school he
attended may not have been all that nice to look at—it was no Woodcrest—but the
area in which it was located was pleasing. It was hard for Don to believe he
had always lived right down the street from this valley and never knew it.
After the bus
dropped him and Nick off at the end of the street, they said goodbye to one
another and headed to their respective houses. Since Don lived at the very end
of the street, it took him longer and he was out of breath again.
Maybe he would
skip that soda after all.
He unlocked the
door with the key he prayed he would never lose, and walked into the living
room on his right. Before settling down on the couch, he turned on the
window-mounted air conditioner and basked in its icy goodness.
He thought
about calling Grandpa but could think of nothing to tell him about Mom and
Ethan. They hadn’t really done anything strange in a while. Don still wanted to
talk to him, to talk to someone.
He never got
the chance to talk to Grandpa again, however.
In November of
’89, William Scott passed away in his sleep. The funeral had been held in
Destin, and Don cried. He hadn’t been that close with his grandfather, but
still felt an incredible loss. He no longer had anyone to confide in about his
mother and brother, about the curse that may have been afflicting them.
He was alone.
* * *
The Nineties,
Don’s favorite decade, was full of change, some good and some bad. Dad came to
Georgia to pick up Don and Ethan for the summer, then drove them all the way
back to New Haven, Connecticut, where he now lived.
The
sixteen-hour trip had been grand for Don. He lay on the cushy couch-bed in the
van most of the trip and looked
Don didn’t want
to get on the man’s bad side.
As the day wore
on, Don found himself watching the clock, eagerly anticipating returning home
so he could play with his toys and watch cartoons. He and Nick weren’t allowed
to play too much during the week because it interfered with homework, and
Nick’s mom was pretty strict.
Besides, Don
was grateful for the brief time he had to himself after school. Ethan was in
daycare and Mom didn’t get off of work until five. Maybe Don could even sneak a
soda from the fridge. His mom had forbidden him from drinking more than one a
day, but he doubted she knew how many they had, so one wouldn’t be missed.
When school finally
let out, Don ran out into the bus area, looking for his transportation. What
was the number? As he quickly made his way along the row of yellow buses, he
located one numbered “31” and quickly got on. He was breathing hard as he took
a seat close to the front, wondering why he felt uneasy. He didn’t recognize a
single person, and the driver was a woman. After nearly five minutes, he
realized he was on the wrong bus.
He jumped from
his seat just as the driver began closing the door. He made it out onto the
sidewalk and ran to the front of the row, knowing none of the buses behind him
were 13. The buses near the front started taking off, and he panicked.
Finally, he
located his bus and pounded on the door just as it started to move. The bus
quickly halted and for a moment, the driver stared at him with a look that
could melt ice. Then, he opened the door. Don walked up the steps and stared
back at the driver, who had dark wrinkled skin and bad teeth. White beard
stubble stuck out on his cheeks.
“Take your seat,
damn it!” he shouted in a thick Southern accent, and Don sat next to a boy in
the third row. He already hated the driver and didn’t like sitting that close
to him, but it couldn’t be helped—all the other seats were taken.
Gazing out the
window as they left the school parking lot calmed Don a bit; the scenery was
beautiful. The bus turned left onto Windsor Meadow Road and chugged up a very
steep hill. A small grassy mountain separated the main road, and Don caught the
oncoming traffic on the other side just before the grassy landmark cut off his
view.
The school he
attended may not have been all that nice to look at—it was no Woodcrest—but the
area in which it was located was pleasing. It was hard for Don to believe he
had always lived right down the street from this valley and never knew it.
After the bus
dropped him and Nick off at the end of the street, they said goodbye to one
another and headed to their respective houses. Since Don lived at the very end
of the street, it took him longer and he was out of breath again.
Maybe he would
skip that soda after all.
He unlocked the
door with the key he prayed he would never lose, and walked into the living
room on his right. Before settling down on the couch, he turned on the
window-mounted air conditioner and basked in its icy goodness.
He thought
about calling Grandpa but could think of nothing to tell him about Mom and
Ethan. They hadn’t really done anything strange in a while. Don still wanted to
talk to him, to talk to someone.
He never got
the chance to talk to Grandpa again, however.
In November of
’89, William Scott passed away in his sleep. The funeral had been held in
Destin, and Don cried. He hadn’t been that close with his grandfather, but
still felt an incredible loss. He no longer had anyone to confide in about his
mother and brother, about the curse that may have been afflicting them.
He was alone.
* * *
The Nineties,
Don’s favorite decade, was full of change, some good and some bad. Dad came to
Georgia to pick up Don and Ethan for the summer, then drove them all the way
back to New Haven, Connecticut, where he now lived.
The
sixteen-hour trip had been grand for Don. He lay on the cushy couch-bed in the
van most of the trip and looked
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