The Bus Alone

Simone had been waiting for this day for three whole weeks.

Ever since her mom said, "I think you're ready to ride the bus home by yourself," Simone had practiced everything. She memorized the bus number — forty-four. She memorized her stop — Oak and Maple, right by the mailbox shaped like a rooster. She even memorized what the bus driver looked like: Mr. Dennis, who wore a blue cap and always said, "Watch your step, superstar."

And now, finally, it was Friday. The day.

Simone walked out of school with her backpack bouncing against her shoulders and her chin held high. She had her house key tucked inside the secret zipper pocket of her jacket. She had her bus pass in her left hand. She was ready.

The pickup lane was noisy and crowded, the way it always was. Buses lined up like a parade of big yellow caterpillars, rumbling and hissing their doors open. Kids pushed past each other, laughing, shouting, dropping lunch boxes.

Simone looked at the first bus. Number twelve. Nope.

She looked at the second bus. Number thirty-one. Nope.

She walked a little farther. There — a bus with a four on the side. The rest of the number was blocked by a fifth grader's giant science project, but Simone could see the four. That was enough. She climbed on.

"Watch your step," said the bus driver. But it wasn't Mr. Dennis. This driver was a woman with curly red hair and glasses shaped like cat eyes.

Maybe Mr. Dennis is sick today, Simone thought. Maybe this is the substitute. She had substitute teachers all the time. Why not substitute bus drivers?

She found a seat near the middle, right next to the window, which was her favorite spot in the entire universe. She pressed her forehead against the glass and watched the school get smaller and smaller as the bus pulled away.

For the first few minutes, everything felt wonderful. The afternoon sun made golden stripes across her lap. She watched a dog chase a squirrel in someone's yard. She hummed a song she'd been making up all week, one that didn't have words yet but sounded like adventure.

Then the bus turned left on Birchwood Lane.

Simone stopped humming.

Bus forty-four never turned left on Birchwood Lane. Bus forty-four went straight, past the pizza place and the laundromat with the neon sign that always flickered.

She looked around. The kids on this bus were not kids she recognized. A boy across the aisle was reading a book about volcanoes. Two girls in the back were playing a clapping game she'd never seen before. Nobody looked familiar. Not one single person.

Simone's stomach did a slow, icy flip.

She turned and looked at the number posted above the driver's seat. It said, in clear black letters: Bus 42.

Not forty-four. Forty-two.

Simone's fingers tightened around her bus pass. Her heart started thumping so loud she was sure the volcano boy could hear it. She looked out the window again, but nothing outside made sense anymore. She didn't know these streets. She didn't know these houses. She didn't know that park, or that church, or that bright orange fire hydrant.

Okay, she thought. Okay, okay, okay.

Her eyes started to sting, and she blinked fast because she did NOT want to cry on a bus full of strangers. She was supposed to be ready. She had practiced.

But practicing at home with Mom, pointing at a map on the kitchen table, was very different from sitting on the wrong bus watching the wrong streets slide past the wrong window.

The bus stopped, and three kids got off. Then it stopped again, and two more got off. Each time the door opened, Simone thought about jumping up and running out, but she didn't know where she'd go. That seemed worse — being lost on a sidewalk instead of lost on a bus.

So she stayed in her seat and tried to think.

What would Mom say?

Mom would say: When you don't know what to do, find someone safe to ask for help.

Simone looked at the bus driver with the curly red hair and the cat-eye glasses. A bus driver was a safe person. Bus drivers were in charge. They had radios and clipboards and those big mirrors that could see everything.

But walking up to the front of the bus meant admitting she was on the wrong one. It meant saying, out loud, to a stranger, I made a mistake.

Simone chewed her lip.

The bus stopped again. More kids got off. Soon there were only six kids left, then four, then just Simone and the volcano boy.

The volcano boy got up at the next stop, tucked his book under his arm, and waved at the driver. "Bye, Mrs. Ramirez!"

"Bye, honey! Tell your dad I said hello!"

And then it was just Simone.

The bus was quiet now. So quiet she could hear the engine rumbling under the floor like a sleeping dragon.

Mrs. Ramirez glanced up into her big mirror. Her eyes — behind those cat-eye glasses — were kind.

"Hey there," she said. "I don't think I know you. What stop are you waiting for?"

Simone opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She tried again.

"I think..." she said. Her voice came out small and scratchy. "I think I got on the wrong bus."

She waited for Mrs. Ramirez to gasp. Or frown. Or say something like How could you do that?

Instead, Mrs. Ramirez smiled. Not a teasing smile. A real one.

"Oh, sweetie, you would not BELIEVE how often that happens. What bus are you supposed to be on?"

"Forty-four," Simone said quietly.

"Forty-four! That's Mr. Dennis's bus. He's just one route over. Okay, here's what we're gonna do." Mrs. Ramirez picked up her radio and pressed a button. "Hey, Dennis, it's Ramirez on forty-two. I've got one of yours. A young lady. Over."

The radio crackled, and then a familiar voice came through: "Ha! Tell her I saved her seat. I'll swing by the Elm Street loop. Over."

"Copy that," Mrs. Ramirez said. She looked back at Simone in the mirror. "We'll have you on the right bus in about five minutes. Sound good?"

Simone nodded. Her eyes were still stinging, but this time it wasn't the scary kind of sting. It was the kind you get when someone is really, really nice to you exactly when you need it.

Mrs. Ramirez started driving again, humming something low and warm. After a minute, she said, "First time riding alone?"

"Yeah," Simone said.

"You know what? I got on the wrong city bus when I was about your age. Ended up twelve blocks from my house, standing outside a shoe store, crying my eyes out."

"Really?"

"Really. A lady who worked there let me use the phone to call my mom. I'll never forget her. She gave me a butterscotch candy, too." Mrs. Ramirez chuckled. "Point is, you're doing great. You stayed calm, you stayed on the bus, and you spoke up. That's three things right."

Simone sat a little taller.

When they reached the Elm Street loop, bus forty-four was already there, parked and waiting. The doors opened, and there was Mr. Dennis in his blue cap, grinning.

"There she is!" he called. "Superstar! Come on aboard."

Simone stood up, grabbed her backpack, and walked toward the front of bus forty-two. When she reached Mrs. Ramirez, she stopped.

"Thank you," she said. And she meant it with every single piece of herself.

"Anytime, sweetheart. And hey — now you know two bus drivers instead of one. That's not a bad deal."

Simone laughed — a real laugh — and stepped off bus forty-two and onto bus forty-four.

She found her favorite seat, right next to the window. The bus rumbled forward, and in just a few minutes, she saw the pizza place, and the laundromat with the flickering neon sign, and then — there it was. Oak and Maple. The mailbox shaped like a rooster.

She thanked Mr. Dennis, hopped down the steps, and walked to her front door. She unzipped the secret pocket, pulled out her key, and let herself in.

Mom wouldn't be home for another hour.

The house was quiet. Simone set down her backpack, poured herself a glass of water, and sat at the kitchen table.

Then she pulled the map toward her — the same one she and Mom had practiced with — and right next to the line she'd drawn for bus forty-four, she drew a new line.

Bus forty-two.

Just in case she ever needed it.