“And don’t your chest be greasy after she do it?” Joey asked.
“I mean…”
“Exactly.” Joey gave one single hard nod.
“Not the same, Joey.” Candace’s face was somewhere between amused and annoyed.
“How was I supposed to know he was gonna treat it like pudding!”
“Burning, guys. Burning, burning, burning,” Gregory panted. Candace and Remy began fanning Gregory’s mouth too.
“Just imagine it’s the burning sensation in your heart for Sandra.” Joey pinched the bag closed inch by inch.
Remy leaned in to Gregory’s ear, almost whispering in a fake hypnotic voice, “Sannnnnndra.” Then, because he couldn’t help it, he added, “Sorry, man.”
And with that, they continued on, down Portal Avenue, until they got to Rogers Street, the whole way gassing Gregory up, trying to take his mind off his fire lips by telling him how much they believed in him and how Sandra will too.
“What’s not to love?” Candace said, doing everything she could to keep a straight face. And when they finally got to Sandra’s house, Remy, Joey, and Candace hung back.
“You ready?” Remy asked Gregory.
“I… think so,” Gregory said, his lips still tingling. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, walked up the steps to Sandra’s house, rang the doorbell, then ran back down the steps because Candace had been telling him how girls don’t like when you’re all in their space.
“You don’t gotta be this far away, fool,” she muttered, nudging him forward.
The door opened. Sandra poked her head out, looking confused. She still had on the sweat shirt she’d worn to school. Light blue. Yellow rectangles. A pattern that through Gregory’s watery eyes (from his burning lips!) looked like a bunch of school buses falling from the sky.
“Wassup y’all?” she said, cocking her head, clearly trying to figure out what was going on. Gregory said nothing. Just stood there, shiny, shaking.
“Greg,” Remy prompted, put his hand on Gregory’s back. Another nudge.
“Greg got something to tell you, Sandra. Right, Greg?” This was from Candace.
Gregory nodded. Unfolded the paper. Started reading.
“Sandra, you always get questions right in class, and I think that’s… good. And you never say nothing bad about me, at least not to my face, and so, I just wanted to know if I could have your phone number.”
Candace looked at Joey. Joey at Remy. Remy at Joey at Candace at Gregory. They couldn’t believe he’d done it. They couldn’t believe he’d just asked her.
Sandra walked down the steps, came right up on Gregory. Twitched her nose, squinted as if the light bouncing off Gregory’s shiny forehead was blinding her. He kept pursing his lips and blowing.
“What you doing?” Sandra asked. “You ain’t… trying to blow no kisses, are you?”
“No, no!” Gregory’s voice jumped an octave. Maybe two. Almost whistle-high. “I wouldn’t… It’s just… um… my lips are burning.”
“Oh… uh… why?”
“VapoRub.”
“Why you put that on your lips?”
“I don’t… It’s hard to explain.”
“Why you so greasy?”
“That’s hard to explain too.”
“Why you smell like that?”
“That’s—”
“Hard to explain?” Sandra finished for him. Gregory nodded. “Can you try?”
Gregory’s hands started shaking, the paper vibrating like dry leaves in the wind. He looked down and started reading his note of compliments again.
Halfway through, he glanced up. Sandra was smiling. And Gregory thought maybe it was the kind of smile that came just before laughing.
Then Gregory thought, But maybe not.
THE BROOM DOG
A SCHOOL bus is many things.
A school bus is a substitute for a limousine. More class. A school bus is a classroom with a substitute teacher. A school bus is the students’ version of a teachers’ lounge. A school bus is the principal’s desk. A school bus is the nurse’s cot. A school bus is an office with all the phones ringing. A school bus is a command center. A school bus is a pillow fort that rolls. A school bus is a tank reshaped—hot dogs and baloney are the same meat. A school bus is a science lab—hot dogs and baloney are the same meat. A school bus is a safe zone. A school bus is a war zone. A school bus is a concert hall. A school bus is a food court. A school bus is a court of law, all judges, all jury. A school bus is a magic show full of disappearing acts. Saw someone in half. Pick a card, any card. Pass it to the person next to you. He like you. She like you. K-i-s-s-i… s-s-i-p-p-i is only funny on a school bus. A school bus is a stage. A school bus is a stage play. A school bus is a spelling bee. A speaking bee. A get your hand out my face bee. A your breath smell like sour turnips bee. A you don’t even know what a turnip is bee. A maybe not, but I know what a turn up is and your breath smell all the way turnt up bee. A school bus is a bumblebee, buzzing around with a bunch of stingers on the inside of it. Windows for wings that flutter up and down like the windows inside Chinese restaurants and post offices in neighborhoods where school buses are spaceships. A school bus is a book of stamps. Passing mail through windows. Notes in the form of candy wrappers telling the street something sweet came by. Notes in the form of sneaky middle fingers. Notes in the form of fingers pointing at the world zooming by. A school bus is a paintbrush painting the world a blurry brushstroke. A school bus is also wet paint. Good for adding an extra coat, but it will dirty you if you lean against it, if you get too comfortable. A school bus is a reclining chair. In the kitchen. Nothing cool about it but makes perfect sense. A school bus is a dirty fridge. A school bus is cheese. A school bus is a ketchup packet with a tiny hole in it. Left on a seat. A plastic fork-knife-spoon. A paper tube around a straw. That straw will puncture the lid on things, make the world drink something with some fizz and fight. Something delightful and uncomfortable. Something that will stain. And cause gas. A school bus is a fast food joint with extra value and no food. Order taken. Take a number. Send a text to the person sitting next you. There is so much trouble to get into. Have you ever thought about opening the back door? My mother not home till five thirty. I can’t. I got dance practice at four. A school bus is a talent show. I got dance practice right now. On this bus. A school bus is a microphone. A beat machine. A recording booth. A school bus is a horn section. A rhythm section. An orchestra pit. A balcony to shoot paper ball three-pointers from. A school bus is a basketball court. A football stadium. A soccer field. Sometimes a boxing ring. A school bus is a movie set. Actors, directors, producers, script. Scenes. Settings. Motivations. Action! Cut. Your fake tears look real. These are real tears. But I thought we were making a comedy. A school bus is a misunderstanding. A school bus is a masterpiece that everyone pretends to understand. A school bus is the mountain range behind Mona Lisa. The Sphinx’s nose. An unknown wonder of the world. An unknown wonder to Canton Post, who heard bus riders talk about their journeys to and from school. But to Canton, a school bus is also a cannonball. A thing that almost destroyed him. Almost made him motherless.