by Brian Tacang
Boom! The bus jolted and wheezed to a stop.
The passengers scarcely had a millisecond to regain their wits before the creaking and tilting began. It was as if the bus were a giant seesaw, whining as it tipped forward and back, tottering on the edge of the most notorious Curmudgeonly cliff: Consternation Precipice.
The name was inspired by the granite wall’s anxiety-causing shape. From its base, it sloped outward and upward for five hundred feet. At the top, it jutted out, forming a twenty-foot extension. Anyone unfortunate enough to be standing—or in this case balancing—on the ridge would be mortified to find he or she could not see the bottom of the cliff.
“Everyone to the rear of the bus!” yelled the driver. People scrambled toward the last row, panting and yelping. The bus skidded a foot toward the ravine. “Slowly, slowly,” she hissed. “For Pete’s sake, slowly.”
In her human cannonball days, Felicity had not been afraid of heights, but this was different. There was no net to catch her, no crowd applauding her now; only a whole lot of sky, the green valley hundreds of feet below, and Pinnimuk River threading its way through the valley. She thought she was going to be sick. She tried to climb over Boris who was himself struggling to get into the aisle.
“Get off me,” complained Boris, swatting her away. “I have a bad back.”
Felicity clambered instead over the seat behind them in a flurry of wedding dress.
As each person made it to the rear, the bus slowly righted itself until it was tenuously level again. The seven passengers and the bus driver huddled together in a nervous mass. The cowboy twiddled his handlebar mustache. He took off his hat and wiped his brow with a red handkerchief. The thin woman patted her heart, exhaling noisily, her lips rounded into an O. The man in the suit sat in the corner, clutching his briefcase, his heels tapping a nervous rhythm. The twins sat quivering, their arms lashed around one another. Felicity squatted on the floor, glaring at Boris, and the bus driver had her head between her knees.
“Well,” Felicity finally said, “that was close.”
The bus driver raised her head, looked out the window, and gasped. “You spoke too soon, ma’am.”
Their troubles weren’t over. Outside, sniffing the tires, was the bear who’d caused the accident. It rocked to and fro, its glistening black coat catching the light and quivering in bluish waves. It sniffed its way up the side of the bus until it was standing on its haunches, then smushed its nose into the window, licking the glass. The bus driver recoiled, gagging on a suppressed scream.
“We can shoot it with our slingshots,” offered the twins in unison, pulling wishbone-shaped weapons from their back pockets.
“No,” Felicity whispered. “It can’t see.”
“How can you be sure?” asked Boris.
She pointed at the creature’s smoky gray eyes. “Cataracts,” she said. “Had ’em once myself. The Sisters of Routine Kindnesses and Involuntary Thoughtfulnesses removed them—with the help of an eye doctor.”
“I do believe you’re correct,” said the wispy woman, squinting at the bear while keeping a healthy distance from the window. “The word ‘cataract’ means curtain of water, which aptly describes the absorption of water on the eye’s lens—a common occurrence among the elderly. This results in a clouding of the vision—”
“A blind bear?” asked the cowboy.
“It would be inaccurate to say it can’t see us entirely, although it is possible the disease has advanced that far. I’d have to get a closer look—which I won’t.”
“What are you?” asked the man in the suit, twisting his tie. “An optometrist?”
“An eye doctor?” the wispy woman asked. “No. A modest librarian.”
“I feel so much safer,” Boris said.
“As to whether the bear is hungry or not,” the librarian said, ignoring him, “we are nearing winter. In order to survive an extensive hibernation, it would have to consume ample amounts of food.”
“In other words, an eight-person dinner,” said the bus driver as she inched away from the window.
“All righty, missy,” said the cowboy. “Let me recap in plainer terms: we’ve got an old, visually impaired bear who wants to eat us.”
“Precisely,” the librarian said.
“Could we be lucky enough to have a big game hunter on this bus? A soldier? A wrestler?” asked Boris. “Nooooo. We get a librarian.”
“This, coming from a man in a pink leather suit embellished with pork advertisements,” said the librarian, folding her arms.
“You—” threatened Boris, wagging a finger at her. “You have ‘bear appetizer’ written all over your face.”
“Stop it!” shouted Felicity. “We’re all frightened. Frightened people say stupid things. We need to be smart.”
“The bride is right,” said the man in the suit. “Does anyone have a phone?”
Both the librarian and bus driver raised their hands.
“Problem solved,” said the man in the suit. “We’ll just call the police. Where are your phones?”
The librarian and bus driver looked at each other.
“It’s in my purse,” said the librarian, “which slid over there.” She pointed to the front of the bus. Lying near the driver’s seat was a floral-print handbag that matched her dress.
“Mine’s up there, too,” the bus driver said quietly.
“Oh, great,” Boris grumbled.
“Then the lightest, thinnest person will fetch it,” the man in the suit said, “or else we’ll go crashing into the valley.”
“That would mean either the librarian or one of the twins,” said the cowboy, stating the obvious.
“Waaaahhh,” Clay and Cleon bawled upon hearing they’d been volunteered for the dangerous mission, their faces going bright red. They pounded their fists on their thighs, stomped their feet, and started yelling over each other. “We don’t want to! You can’t make us! We want to go home!” Felicity tried to calm them by talking reason to them. She explained that everyone’s lives depended on their courage. She told them it would be a very simple matter of crawling slowly and gently to the front of the bus, getting a phone, and coming back as slowly and gently as before. But her soothing, persuasive tone wasn’t helping. They screamed louder. They screamed so loud, in fact, that the noise seemed to annoy the bear, who’d begun hitting the bus with its paws. Afraid the animal would dislodge the vehicle and send them plummeting hundreds of feet, Felicity stopped trying to persuade the small boys. They sniffled themselves quiet.
“Well,” said Boris, “I guess that leaves the librarian.”
Everyone turned to see her reaction.
“Oooohhh, no,” she said flatly.
“Why not?” asked the man in the suit.
“I’m verminophobic.”
“What-a-who-zic?” asked Boris.
“Verminophobic,” she replied. “Afraid of germs. Just look at that floor—old gum, dark splotches, sticky spots of unknown origin. Ugh. I can’t even tolerate thinking about what microbial vermin are lurking there.” She quivered in disgust.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” said Boris. “I think you’re making it up.”
“It’s a valid ailment,” she said. “I have proof. A medical diagnosis, written by one of Pinnimuk City’s most respected physicians. It’s—uh—in my purse. Over there.”
“Now what do we do?” asked Felicity, wringing her hands. She’d been patient, but now she was getting anxious. She had to get home.
“We wait,” said the bus driver. “We wait until someone finds us.”
Eighteen
On her drive home from school, Millicent thought about her desperate afternoon. Each tree-root crack in the sidewalk she drove over jolted a friend’s face into her mind. Thunk. Juanita. Between classes, when Juanita saw Millicent coming down the hall, she had veered in another direction. Thunk. Pollock. In the library, Millicent tried to approach Pollock, who was sketching the Winifred T. Langley Memorial Fountain. He slammed
his sketchbook shut and marched away. Thunk. Tonisha. Millicent had walked in on Tonisha applying her makeup in the girls’ room. When Tonisha saw her, she immediately left with only one eye done. Millicent had been unable to get any of them to tolerate her long enough to hear her out.
I’ve got to find a way, she thought.
When Millicent reached her house, she went straight to the lab. She inserted her lab-door key, but it didn’t fit in the lock. That’s weird. She jogged around to the front door and went to the kitchen, where Uncle Phineas stood preparing tea.
“No doubt you tried the lab, yes?” he asked, not turning to face her.
“My key doesn’t work.”
“I thought to myself,” said Uncle Phineas, pouring hot water into a mug, “what appropriate penalty could be served upon my dear, misguided niece?”
Millicent stopped and let her backpack drop to the floor. “Penalty? For what?”
Uncle Phineas turned toward her. “Despite my vow not to get involved in your private affairs, I unintentionally saw the formula for this creation you call Hooky Spray.” He produced the notepaper on which Millicent had scribbled her formula for Hooky Spray and handed it to her. “Inventors must take care not to leave their secrets in plain view.”
“Oh,” she said, taking the paper. She’d forgotten she’d left the lab a mess, her notes strewn across a lab table.
“Oh’ is one word,” he said. “So is ‘unethical.’ So is ‘unprincipled.’ So is ‘wrong.’”
Millicent felt her face tingle and her throat become tight.
“Yes, wrong,” he continued. His features became stern, an out-of-the-ordinary expression for his otherwise cheerful face. “Inventors have a solemn duty to improve people’s lives through their creativity and cunning. They do not make people’s lives more uncomfortable. They do not give people phony illnesses. They do not clog people’s noses. Yes?”
“I…can explain,” Millicent said. Before she could stop herself, the events of the past two days began to spill from her mouth all mixed up and run together. “But first there was Tonisha and Fletch and I went to the principal’s office because I was in the sink and before that Pollock and Juanita were mad at me and after that Pollywog had a love note written on his butt and I didn’t know who to tell about the robbery and I sneezed really loud in English class and Tonisha isn’t speaking to me and Roderick asked me out for pizza—yuck—and there’s going to be a wedding and—” She grabbed the hem of his lab coat and bawled into it.
Uncle Phineas bent down and patted her head. “Sinks and robberies, pizza and sneezing and weddings—you’ve had quite a couple of days.”
“I have,” she agreed, sniffling.
He straightened himself. “However…”
Millicent’s heart sank.
“As nail-biting as it all sounds, these mishaps are not sufficient to prohibit a punishment for inventing this concoction you call Hooky Spray.”
“But—” Millicent groaned.
“I thought about it for a good, long while,” he continued. “As much as it pained me, I happened upon three ideas, a triumvirate of punishments, if you will. Number one: your access to the lab has been denied for a full week. This will afford you time to consider the import of what you invent in there. Number two: you are grounded—no after-school activities and no friends. Number three: you are to hand over this Hooky Spray immediately.” He held out his palm.
Millicent plunged her hand in her pocket and paused. If she gave him the Hooky Spray, how would she keep the bullies from smelling Bully-Be-Gone? She eased the bottle from her pocket, handing it to him with a near-silent huff.
“I hate doing this, Millicent,” Uncle Phineas said. “Truly.”
She’d never been mad at Uncle Phineas before, but he’d become more unfair than she’d ever remembered him to be. Her blood curdled in her cheeks, growing hot with each mental tally of the punishments he’d lined up for her. How could he take away her favorite things? How could he not see that she’d only created the Hooky Spray to help her friends? She could almost feel steam jetting from her ears. Just as she opened her mouth to protest, she detected the faint aroma of her mother’s blueberry scented Blue Be-Hairy Hair Spray and her father’s Loco for Cocoa Shaving Cream. Memories of her parents ran slide-show fast through her brain. Her heart softened, her face slackened into a sloppy grin. Her hands, previously clenched, unwound like balls of yarn. She realized that, of course, Uncle Phineus was right to punish her; he always knew what was best. She really should listen to him more often and be more helpful—
Hey, wait a second! Her reaction bore a similarity to the result of smelling Bully-Be-Gone. She shook her head.
“That other creation,” Uncle Phineas said, “the packet you left on the lab table. Now that’s an invention with a nobler objective, though the plausibility of warding off bullies with cologne is dubious. Yes?”
He had tried Bully-Be-Gone! “Uh-huh,” Millicent managed to squeak.
“Nevertheless, your goal was a decent one.”
“Decent goal.” Millicent nodded. “It—it…” she stuttered, trying to think of a way to find out if he’d had any extraordinary experiences lately.
“Doesn’t do anything, I’m sorry to say,” he answered.
“Yeah,” she said, silently relieved.
“Besides, I don’t know any bullies,” he added, “unless you count that disagreeable clerk at the market downtown. She actually said good morning to me today and gave me the sappiest grin.”
Millicent froze.
“Inexplicable,” Uncle Phineas said. “Anyway, your punishments will now commence. To your room.”
Millicent thought about begging for her freedom, but decided against it. She went upstairs, already thinking up a scheme to get her Hooky Spray back.
Nineteen
Two 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.”