Lake Overturn Read Free Page B

was ruddy and usually fixed in a grin that exposed his one false incisor that stood straight and white as a piano key in the jumble of chipped, coffee-stained teeth.
    There was tension now in his voice as he laughed, gripped the wheel, shook his head, and whispered, “Son of a bitch.” This wasn’t an expression of anger any more than his laugh was of amusement; they were both tics.
    Coop’s route took him out toward Lake Overlook to drop off the rich kids first, before it headed back into town, passing the schools again, for the town kids. This irked him, but it wasn’t his decision, so all he could do was laugh a little. Also, the kids were beginning to act up. The ones up front were quiet as usual, but farther back a couple of sixth-grade boys were playing a game—not much of a game, really—of flinging themselves across the aisle on top of a few girls, who would scream and kick them off but who weren’t so bothered as to change seats. A few bits of paper had sailed through the air, and when you had driven the bus as long as Coop had, you could read the signs that it would be a hard ride. Paper in the air before you even reached the subdivisions was like thrushes chattering in the treetops: a storm was brewing. He might have to stop on the empty stretch and do his little song and dance, but he’d wait and see.
    Close behind Coop sat Gene and Enrique, the only seventh-graders who rode the bus on sunny days. “C’mon, Gene,” said Enrique, “help me think about this. What could we do? Something about outer space? The Challenger explosion?”
    The idea must have been sour, for Gene’s face puckered. Despite his obsession with space travel, Gene had shown little interest that January when the space shuttle exploded over Florida. Enrique suspected this was because coverage of the disaster pushed the space probe Voyager 2 from the papers, just as it passed Uranus and sent back detailed pictures of its moons.
    “The environment, then,” Enrique went on. “Acid rain, solar power, erosion—”
    “Hey, Gene. Hey, Gene.” A boy tapped Gene on the shoulder, a sixth-grader, younger than Gene and Enrique, but tall.
    “Yes?” said Gene.
    “What’s Gene short for?”
    “Eugene.”
    The boy and his friends broke out in loud, barking laughter and ran back to their seats.
    Enrique was quiet for a moment, then said, “Why do you tell them, Gene?”
    “He asked and I answered. I can’t help it if he thinks it’s funny.”
    “Next time just tell them to bug off.”
    When Coop reached the empty stretch, he braked hard, causing a couple troublemakers standing in the aisle to stumble forward. Coop had only two speeds: laughing patiently and putting his foot down. He pulled the lever to put out the stop sign, just to make it legal, and stood. The children were all quiet now.
    “Listen up, kids,” he said. “I’ve had enough of your screamin’ and runnin’ around. We’re a long ways from anything. See that silo? That’s the closest little bit of civilization. I’m perfectly happy leavin’ you all here if you’d prefer to walk clear acrost all those corn fields to that silo and see if whatever grumpy old goat roper lives out there wants to give you a ride rest of the way home. You ever done corn toppin’? Well, I have, and this time of year those corn stalks are good and dry and’ll give you plenty of cuts ’long the way.
    “This is the first time I’ve had to stop this year. I was under the impression a few of you was growin’ up, but I guess I was mistaken.
    “Well, do I have any takers? . . . No? . . . It looks like you’re dependin’ on me to gitcha home, then. I want you to sit there like little ladies and gentlemen until I let you off this bus.”
    Coop stood there for a long moment looking at their contrite, downturned faces before he sat down, took in the stop sign, released the brake, and drove on.
    The bus was quiet for a minute. Then, starting at the back, there began a soft chant: