The Bus on Thursday

by Shirley Barrett

  Would it be running away? By which I mean, am I running away from my problems?

  Yes. That’s exactly what I am doing. And it wouldn’t be the first time.

  Oh, fuck it. I’m going.

  I actually packed. I packed up all my things and I was sitting on my suitcase trying to do up the zipper when I heard a knock on the front door.

  Hope springs eternal, as my father used to say. I was, of course, predictably, hoping it was Gregory. Hence the eagerness with which I threw the door open. Unfortunately, there’s Ryan standing on my doorstep.

  He’s keen to make cupcakes. Apparently he and Miss Barker used to make cupcakes on a regular basis, and supposedly I’d promised him we’d make cupcakes also. “And don’t forget,” he reminds me by way of emotional blackmail, “I did actually save your life in the Pondage the other day.” I look at him and I think, Okay, well, fair enough. I owe this kid some cupcakes. Nevertheless I’ll hotfoot it out of here just as soon as we yank said cupcakes out of oven. So I let him in.

  We whip up some cake batter and he pours it into the patty pans, then we stick them on a tray and into the oven. I set the timer for twenty minutes. And then Ryan says to me, “Do you want to do it now?”

  I say, “Do it? What do you mean, do it?”

  And he’s like, “You know. Do it. Miss Barker and me used to do it while the cupcakes cooked.”

  I think, Am I hearing the boy correctly?

  “Do you mean … seriously … do it?” I ask him. I am somewhat incredulous to say the least.

  And he nods, with a silly little smirk on his face.

  “Have sex?” I clarify.

  He nods again, more smirking.

  “Are you telling me you had sex with Miss Barker???” I cry in a loud, shrill voice. I mean, I am completely horrified. And obviously my reaction freaks Ryan out, because he stops smirking and he goes bright red. “She made me!” he says.

  And then he starts blubbering, and he’s saying, “You won’t send me to the boys’ home, will you?” And I say to him, “Of course I won’t send you to the boys’ home!” And I’m thinking, Did Miss Barker say she’d send him to the boys’ home if he didn’t have sex with her? So I ask him, and sure enough that’s what she threatened him with. Okay, I threatened him yesterday with a juvenile detention center, but that was pretty obviously a joke. Also, I was not doing it as a way of forcing him to have sex with me.

  So, I think triumphantly, Miss Barker was definitely not the walking, talking, living angel that everybody here thinks she was.

  And yet she has the nerve to criticize my teaching!

  Anyway, so now he’s saying, “I was just trying to help her have a baby!” Sheesh, I think to myself, she must have been desperate. I give him a hug and say, “Listen, Ryan, yes, it was nice of you to try to help Miss Barker, but what she did to you was wrong, very wrong.” And he’s blubbering something else now, and because he has his head stuck in my chest, it’s all muffled but I definitely heard the word fiancé. And immediately my ears prick up. I think, Fiancé?

  Gregory?

  Was Gregory her actual fiancé?

  Seriously?

  Would this account for his strange behavior at the Pondage the other day? Is vomiting, groaning, ripping hand off, etc., perhaps unusual expression of grief?

  So now Ryan looks up at me and in this sad little voice, he says, “Miss?”

  And I’m like, “What?”

  “Could we cuddle at least?”

  And I’m like, “Well, we are sort of cuddling, aren’t we?”

  And he says, “No, I mean could we cuddle on the bed?”

  So I say, “Not on the bed, Ryan.”

  And he’s like, “Please? Miss Barker used to cuddle me on the bed.” And I’m like, “I am definitely not going to cuddle you on the bed, Ryan,” because I can see where this is going and I really need to lay down some ground rules with this kid. So he says, “What about the couch?”

  Long story short, I agree to cuddle on the couch for five minutes. Admittedly this is not a wise decision. There are Education Department guidelines on the subject.

  It’s awkward, to say the least. I sit very upright, with my arms placed gingerly around him, but then he gets frustrated that I’m not hugging him tightly enough so he flings his arms around me and I suddenly realize this kid is immensely strong, stronger than you’d think, because his arms around me are really tight, uncomfortably so, almost crushing me. And meanwhile he keeps leaning his entire body weight against me, almost as if he’s trying to push me into a more horizontal position. But then the oven timer goes off, and I’m like, “Right! Let’s get those cupcakes out!” I try to struggle out of his grip but I’m actually having a huge amount of trouble extricating myself. And then I realize he has actually got himself into a position where his crotch is pressed against my leg and he is starting to literally hump me like a golden retriever, and I am thinking, Oh my God! and I keep saying, “I have to get the cupcakes, Ryan!” because he’s starting to pant quite heavily, and finally I manage to slither out of his grip but fall awkwardly onto the floor in doing so.

  I have a horrible feeling he may have climaxed at that point.

  Not sure, but maybe.

  So I run into the kitchen and pull the cupcakes out of the oven. I’m in complete shock. I have never had an incident like this in my entire teaching career. I have literally no idea what to do. So, true to form when faced with a crisis, I follow my usual course of doing exactly nothing, except vaguely pretending that the bad thing didn’t happen.

  Anyway, he follows me into the kitchen and he says to me: “Okay if I smoke?”

  Because apparently Ryan enjoys a postcoital cigarette. So I put my foot down, and I say to him, “If you are going to smoke, you have to smoke outside.”

  Which again is all wrong. As his teacher, I should not be condoning smoking, postcoital or otherwise.

  So he goes outside for a cigarette. And I think to myself, You know what? I need a cigarette also. Not that I should smoke, of course. I’m the last person who should be smoking, what with Dad dying of lung cancer. But nevertheless I go outside and sit on the back step with Ryan, smoking his cigarettes while he tells me all about Minecraft in excruciating detail. I just nod every now and then like I give a shit, and smoke about six ciggies in a row. He doesn’t care—he’s just happy because he humped me. Finally, I start yawning and saying, “Oh my gosh, look how late it is and school tomorrow.” And in fact, it is late, it’s almost midnight. So I pack him off home with the cupcakes in a Tupperware container, waving goodbye from the doorstep till he disappears into the darkness.

  Then I run into my bedroom, grab my suitcase, and drag it out the front door and into the car. Clothes keep falling out because I haven’t managed to get the zipper done up properly, but I don’t care. I don’t even bother picking them up. I feel like I haven’t got a moment to lose. It seems absolutely imperative, particularly after the humping, that I leave town immediately. Nothing good can come of this, I feel sure. So after a little bit of a panic when I can’t find my keys but then discover them eventually fallen behind the microwave, I jump in the car and—guess what?—it won’t start. It’s been a bit unreliable lately; I’m thinking it needs a new battery. Anyway, I sit in the driveway, cranking and cranking the ignition until finally it won’t crank anymore. I think maybe I’ve flooded the engine, so I sit there in the darkness for a little while, waiting for it to unflood, which is what Dad always told me to do.

  And while I’m sitting there, I start thinking about my dad. I guess that’s because it used to be his car, this little Corolla—I inherited it, so to speak. Well, I needed a car, so when he died I just claimed it. I find it sort of comforting, even though it’s a bit of a shitbox, mainly because I don’t look after it. I feel a bit ashamed about that. But anyway, there are things about it which remind me of him. The faded gray terry-cloth car seat covers, for example, almost worn through—he put those on to protect the seats. His street direct
ory, circa 1993. The Saint Christopher medallion stuck to the dash—not that my father was even particularly religious; I think one of his students from the Philippines gave it to him. Behold Saint Christopher, it says, and Go Your Way in Safety.

  So I’m sitting there, thinking about my dad, and what a good, decent, humble, unassuming man he was, and how well he conducted himself in life and how brave and kind and thoughtful he was right up to his death. And I wonder what he’d think about the way I’ve turned out. If he could look down from his motel heaven and see me right now.

  Somehow, that’s a very sobering, perspective-shifting thought.

  And as I sit there in the darkness, I almost begin to feel like he is sitting there beside me in the passenger seat, the way he used to do when he was giving me driving lessons. He was the only one who could give me driving lessons—if Mum tried, we’d end up screaming at each other. Dad was calmer—he didn’t fuss. If I sideswiped a parked car, he’d just say, “Stay a little wider next time.” We’d go for long driving trips around the suburbs, maybe stopping for a milkshake as a treat. We didn’t talk that much, but it never felt awkward, it just felt sort of quietly companionable. And that’s how it feels now, as I’m waiting for the car to unflood. Like I’m sitting in companionable communion with my father. So eventually I say to him, “What do you reckon, Dad?”

  And he gives me that look he used to give me, that look that seemed to say he’d hoped for better from me.

  Next thing I know, I’m dragging my suitcase back inside again.

  Today the grief counselor came to talk to the children.

  Her name is Mrs. Moran, and from the wary way she regarded me when I introduced myself, I could see that Glenda had already fully briefed her. “You just take a seat,” she said to me with a note of warning in her voice, like she didn’t want me causing any trouble. “I’ll lead the children through this.”

  So I am decommissioned to the back of the room like a failed but still dangerous nuclear reactor while she essentially takes over my classroom. Her idea of grief counseling is to get the kids to yell out anything they can think of to describe Miss Barker, while she writes their comments up on the board in fun-colored markers. Of course, the kids think this is brilliant. Hands shooting up eagerly all over the place. Bright little animated faces.

  “Caring!” someone calls out.

  “Kind to animals!”

  “Beautiful!”

  “Gentle!”

  “Understanding!”

  “Good with cuddles!”

  “Great stuff, keep it coming!” cries Mrs. Moran.

  “Creative!”

  “Funny!”

  “Sexy!” This from Ryan.

  I snort out loud. Mrs. Moran throws me a look.

  “Ryan, I’m not sure that’s the sort of describing word we’re looking for,” she says.

  So Ryan tries again. “Sensual?”

  I am impressed with his vocab. Up till now, I’d thought his literacy skills were minimal.

  “I think you mean sensitive,” says Mrs. Moran, briskly writing “sensitive” on the board. I know what he meant though. He meant what he said the first time. Sexy. Sexy, as in Miss Barker liked to have sex with minors, specifically Ryan. If only they knew, I think with gritted teeth. Frankly, I am finding it all a bit galling being forced to sit and listen to my flawed predecessor being described in such rapturous terms. And as I sit there, I start to ponder random thoughts. Why was Miss Barker so desperate to get pregnant? Did Gregory want her to get pregnant? Could Gregory possibly have been her fiancé? And thinking about all this, about Gregory and Miss Barker and babies, actually starts to make me feel sick to my stomach. Like seriously nauseous.

  Now Mrs. Moran is talking about what song they could sing at the memorial service on Wednesday. The children suggest “Over in the Meadow,” which was Miss Barker’s favorite song, apparently.

  “Oh, how lovely!” cries Mrs. Moran, clapping her hands together while a surge of bile rises up my gullet. “Now tell me, what was Miss Barker’s favorite color?”

  Every little hand shoots up in response. “Yellow!” they cry.

  “What a lovely, happy color,” says Mrs. Moran. “I have an idea. Why don’t we all wear something yellow to her funeral, as a way of celebrating what a lovely, happy person she was!”

  The kids are just about demented with excitement at this idea, but it’s little Rose who offers up the clincher.

  “What if everyone gets a yellow balloon, and after the service, everyone lets a balloon go up in the sky?” she cries. And suddenly I realize that I am going to throw up.

  “Rose, what a beautiful idea,” says Mrs. Moran as I bolt from the room, my hand over my mouth. “And what a wonderful way of expressing our feelings for Miss Barker!”

  * * *

  I throw up in the toilet, to the accompaniment of the children singing “Over in the Meadow.” Luckily it goes for about twenty-nine verses, so it covers the sound of my extended retching. And as I’m leaning over the toilet bowl, hacking up every last bit of bile in my gut, a thought occurs to me.

  Could I be pregnant?

  Could I actually possibly be pregnant?

  Could Gregory have impregnated me?

  It’s entirely possible. We had sex multiple times. I was ovulating (at least he seemed to think I was ovulating, since he was unable to overcome his biological impulses). And, also, I appear to have morning sickness???

  And suddenly, as I’m wiping my mouth with a clump of toilet paper, I am overcome with an enormous sense of personal triumph. Personal triumph is not a sensation I am overly familiar with, but now I feel elated. This will knock Josh’s nose out of joint—let’s see how he likes being on the receiving end of news like this. And perhaps if I Instagram a pic which shows just how incredibly good-looking Gregory is. He is about fifty billion times better-looking than Josh, that’s for sure. Take that, Delores! Ha! And you, too, Miss Barker.

  I wash my face and I hurry back into the classroom—it’s empty, because in all that time I was vomiting in the toilet, it somehow became lunchtime. (I seem to be losing track of time—is that a pregnancy thing? Possibly the hormones do something, make you vaguer or something? I think I’ve read that somewhere.) I run out into the playground, pull Ryan aside, and ask if Gregory is in town. “No,” says Ryan. “He’s gone away for work.” And I’m like, “Okay, but when is he due back?” Ryan doesn’t know, he just shrugs and seems very sour about things. But I refuse to let his mood bring me down—this happens too often with me. I am too subject to other people imposing their stuff on me. Like Glenda, for example.

  I find her and Mrs. Moran muttering about me in the kitchenette. “Where have you been all this time?” she asks me. “I’ve been in the toilet, vomiting,” I tell her cheerfully. I can’t seem to wipe the grin off my face, and then I start giggling because I suddenly think how funny it would be if our baby was actually conceived on Glenda’s desk. (I can’t wait to tell her that at some opportune moment—imagine her face!) “You know what?” says Mrs. Moran. “I think perhaps you should take the rest of the afternoon off. The last thing we need is gastro going through the school, especially at a time like this.” And I’m thinking, actually, what I’ve got ain’t catching, but fine, I’ll take an early mark.

  It’s a nice sunny day, so as I waltz off the school grounds, I think maybe I can drive into Tumut and get a pregnancy test, and also another box of sav blanc while I’m about it. But of course, I’ve forgotten my car won’t start, although I spend a solid twenty minutes attempting to start it anyway. So I think, well, maybe Janelle carries pregnancy tests at the shop? Of course, I wouldn’t want to start gossip by actually asking Janelle straight out if she stocks pregnancy tests, but maybe I could invent a story or perhaps simply shoplift one?

  I go into the shop and, sure enough, there’s Janelle, and she looks at me all judgy as usual, like Why aren’t you in school? I explain that I have gastro, although this is undermined slightly by the fact th
at I am buying three bottles of wine. All the while I’m peering past her to the special “pharmacy” section behind the counter, but all I can see is Nurofen and antacid and cough medicine. So no luck there.

  And then, as I’m walking home, I remember my mum telling me about a homespun pregnancy test that she’d done when she was pregnant with me, and basically it involved urinating on a few dandelion leaves. But where the hell am I going to find dandelion leaves? Do I actually have any idea what dandelion leaves look like? No, I do not. I am not known for my love of Nature.

  I need to get the car started so I can drive up to the Ridge and try to google dandelion leaves on my phone, so I run down to the service station and I’m like, “Can you please come up to my house and jump-start my car for me?”

  There’s this nice young mechanic there, and had I met this guy before Gregory came a-knocking, I would have been spending all my time dreaming up problems with my car, because this guy is actually kind of cute, in a goofy too-tall sort of way. And he’s like, “Sure, I’ll jump-start your car, but if you like I could actually fix it, seeing how that’s what I do for a living.” And I’m like, “That’d be great, but I’m actually in kind of a hurry right now.” And he’s like, “Okay, I’ll get my truck.” And he brings it around from out the back and says, “Hop in,” and we drive back up to my house.

  Can I just say how nice it felt to sit in a normal, healthy, sane person’s car for the seventy-five seconds it took to get to my place? It was heaven. He’s cracking jokes and offering me gum and actually kind of flirting with me. I think to myself, Well, maybe if I am not pregnant with Gregory’s demon love child, I will try to get together with this guy. But at the moment, I’m really just focused on the pregnancy.