Bully-Be-Gone (7 page)

“Tonisha?” asked Millicent, panicking. “Did you use Bully-Be-Gone?”

“Two days ago,” said Tonisha.

“Two days ago!” Millicent almost shouted. “Has anyone else used it?”

“I don't know,” said Tonisha.

“Think hard, Tonisha,” said Millicent.

“I talked to Leon yesterday,” said Tonisha. “But I don't know if he's used Bully-Be-Gone. He's got the flu. Bad. Stuffed-up nose and everything. He won't be back to school for a few days. Why are you interrogating me?”

“I think,” said Millicent, “I think there's something wrong.”

Tonisha continued as if she hadn't heard Millicent. “It's funny how a simple tune can change your outlook. A few melodious notes embroidered on a shawl of lovely lyrics
and, well—I think I may be speechless. Imagine that.” She stared at Millicent, but it seemed she was looking right through her. “I won't be able to do lunch today. I have plans,” she added with a crazy smile, then walked toward the main building, though it seemed she could have flown she was so giddy.

Oh, this is not right,
thought Millicent as she watched Tonisha disappear through the school's massive oak doorway.
Not right, not right at all.

S
tudents filed into the Winifred T. Langley Memorial Auditorium, huddled in groups, talking and laughing. Student assemblies generated a light mood; most kids were happy to be anyplace other than a classroom. However, Millicent trailed behind the cheery crowd, not sure if she wanted to be there or not.

She almost walked past Pollock's painting display in the foyer without noticing.

“Oh, Pollock,” a deep voice said. “You're so talented. What is this one called?”

Millicent turned to see Nina Kwaikowski swooning over Pollock.

“Ming Dynasty Vase with Irises from a Sharpei's View,”
said Pollock, scooting away from Nina, who followed him as if she were on a leash.

Millicent ducked behind a door and watched.

“What's a sharpei?” Nina asked, inching toward Pollock.

“A wrinkled dog,” Pollock said, taking a step backward.

“Pretty colors,” Nina said, her nose jutting upward. “And you smell pretty, too.” She circled him like a shark, her face a happy, twisted jumble of features.

Pollock caught sight of Millicent. “This is all your fault!” he shouted. He tried to bolt, but Nina grabbed his collar. “Get off me!” Pollock yelled. He wriggled free of her grasp and ran out the front door.

Nina ran after him, calling, “Pollock, Pollock!”

Oh, boy,
thought Millicent.
Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy.
More statement than question, she added aloud, “Am I in trouble.”

M
illicent waited until most of the students found seats before she entered the auditorium. She snuck into the very last row, where there were only a handful of vacant chairs. Around her, the creaking of chairs and the hum of voices gradually subsided into silence.

Huge, floor-to-ceiling windows lined the auditorium walls, and the heavy drapes that were normally drawn were
tied open. Millicent looked out a window and wished she were far, far away. She saw Pollock run past with Nina at his heels. Millicent did a double take, then buried her head in her hands.

Mr. Pennystacker lumbered onto the stage, grunting as if he'd eaten a disagreeable breakfast. He adjusted his glasses and ran his fingers through the five hairs atop his otherwise bald head. Externally, his youthful angles had been rounded over time, leaving a soft, large figure. Internally, he was all sharp edges. “Welcome, students of Winifred T. Langley Middle School and good morning,” he boomed.

“Good morning, Mr. Pennystacker,” a few students responded.

“In celebration of a brand-new school year, I've asked some of Langely's finest students to share their talents. As you probably saw when you entered, our very own Pollock—I mean, Everett—Wong's artwork is on display. If you haven't seen it, please take the opportunity on your way out. Personally, my favorite painting is
Upside-Down Upside-Down Cake, a.k.a. Right-Side-Up Cake.”

“Whatever,” someone shouted.

“That will be enough,” said Mr. Pennystacker. “Unless you'd like to meet me in my office, whoever you are.” He scanned the room. Of course, the person in question didn't volunteer. “All righty, then,” he stated.

“To open our festivities, Juanita Romero Alonso will
perform a selection from
Love for Three Oranges
…by whom, Juanita?”

“Prokofiev,” said Juanita from the wings.

“Like I said.
Love for Three Oranges
,” Mr. Pennystacker said. “Please welcome Juanita Romero Alonso.” He gestured for Juanita to enter.

Someone sitting not far from Millicent gave an exceptionally loud cheer, but she couldn't see who it was.

Juanita strode onstage wearing a flouncy yellow dress, which garnered a few snickers from the audience. “Yellow marshmallow,” someone yelled. Juanita ignored the remark and tucked her violin under her chin. She raised her bow, then started to play. Immediately, the most gorgeous sounds exploded from her violin, sending most of the kids into a quiet reverence.

A few rows from Millicent, some kids sat talking among themselves, unimpressed by Juanita's performance. Suddenly, one of the talkers was pushed from his seat onto the floor.

“Shut up!” his attacker shouted. “My Juanita's playing.”

Millicent stood up to see who'd done the pushing. It was a red-faced Pollywog Jones.

Pollywog leaped over the kid who'd been pushed and ran up to the stage, as if he were at a rock concert and Juanita were a rock star. He propped his arms on the edge of the stage and rested his head on his arms, watching Juanita the whole time. Juanita stared at him and moved
over a few feet, not missing a note. Pollywog moved, too, swaying his wide hips to the melody.

It was then that the laughter started. At first, Millicent didn't know why they were laughing. Then she saw it. Pollywog Jones had written with a big, fat, black marker on the seat of his faded jeans
WONITA, WONITA, I
WONITA
. The laughter grew to a deafening pitch. Juanita looked puzzled at first, but kept playing while she ran from one side of the stage to the other. Pollywog shadowed her, which only made the crowd laugh louder.

Millicent slapped her hands over her mouth.

Thoroughly annoyed, Juanita threw her arms down, her violin swinging at her side like a dead chicken. She scanned the room as if she were looking for someone. She locked eyes with Millicent. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her bow and pointed it directly at her friend. Then she stormed off the stage in a froth of yellow chiffon.

F
elicity stood at the entrance of Pinnimuk City Station, her hands in her coat pockets, her jaw sagging in awe. She'd never been to Pinnimuk City Station before. She never had any reason to go. Now she did.

People on the go from someplace to someplace else shouted orders. Businessmen and women talked on cell phones. Vacationers called to stray children. Couples said good-bye with lingering embraces. She was overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of Pinnimuk City Station and felt terribly out of place. It seemed to her that even the most average person there was more significant than she or better
dressed than she, or both.

Felicity felt conspicuous, like a spot on a white tablecloth. She tidied herself as best she could by removing her hat and combing her dingy hair with her fingers, brushing off her dirty coat, and buttoning both her tattered cardigans.

She walked over to a kiosk that featured a map and fun facts about Pinnimuk City Station and studied it carefully.

“My word,” she said.

The hexagonal station stood four stories high, a wonder made of imported green marble. Two-story, hand-carved statues of otters served as pillars at its six corners. It spanned two city blocks and provided bus, sky tram, gondola, and helicopter service to destinations within the city and outside it.

On the rooftop was the heliport. In the middle of the roof was a very pricey, revolving glass-domed restaurant. The fourth floor housed a So Much Stuff, So Little Time department store. Skyway Central, on the third floor, was skewered by glass tunnels. Like spokes of a wheel, they fanned out to key points in the city. Through the tunnels ran the quietest electric trams you'd ever not heard.

Felicity had seen the trams darting above her throughout the city. She'd thought that riding them would be similar to being shot from a cannon. She scratched her head. She couldn't find the bus terminals on the map.

A man stepped up to the kiosk.

“Pardon me, sir,” she said to him. “Can you tell me
where the bus terminal is? I'm going south to Masonville.”

The man covered his nose. “Past the river,” he said, his voice muffled by his hand, and pointed to Pinnimuk River before scurrying off.

Pinnimuk River flowed through the first floor, dividing the station in half with a swath of chocolate-colored water. Gondolas bobbed on its surface and took tourists, who favored leisurely, touristy transportation, to a number of docks in the city.

Felicity looked back at the map and found Pinnimuk River. Two spectacular green glass bridges connected the north and south bus terminals. Fishing, according to the regulations posted on the map, wasn't permitted from the bridges. This didn't stop occasional sightings of mischievous kids sitting on the railings with fishing lines tied to their big toes.

A porter in a red suit and white gloves approached Felicity. Huge gold epauletts perched on his shoulders like affectionate parakeets with braided tail feathers, and he had a heavy gold whistle hanging from a cord around his neck. He seemed to be of medium age; old enough to be a father, perhaps, but not as old as she. He looked regal and well-informed.

“Sir?” she asked politely yet loudly enough to be heard over the din.

“Ma'am,” he replied coldly.

“I must get to Masonville,” said Felicity. “Can you tell me exactly how to accomplish that?”

The porter's eyes scanned Felicity from her splitting shoes to the tattered knit cap in her hand. She stuffed the ratty thing in her coat pocket.

“Ma'am,” he said, “I'm afraid you won't be able to board the bus in that condition. Regulations, ma'am.”

“Regulations?” asked Felicity in a sad and panicked tone. “But I must get home. I've got the fare.” She presented her crumpled five dollar bill, ironing it flat with her palm so he could see it clearly. Money, she knew, was a language spoken by most people. She assumed her five dollar bill spoke the correct dialect.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” he said. “You'll have to move along now.”

She frowned and bit her lip. She heard “move along” nearly every day—move along from the park, move along from sidewalk coffee shops, move along from the shopping mall. She was tired of it.

“I must board a bus to Masonville, young man,” she said loudly.

“Please, ma'am,” he said, pursing his lips. “Try not to make a scene.”

He was so condescending! She stomped her foot. Rather than making the commanding thud she'd hoped for, it slapped helplessly on the marble floor as if it were a trout that had leaped from the Pinnimuk River into the station.

He grabbed her by the elbow, tugging gently.

“Where are you taking me?” she wailed. “I've a bus to catch! I came from the sky and I've been twenty years for
getful. Just yesterday I remembered my address.”

Felicity worried she sounded loony, but she was beyond upset. She had not gone through all she'd been through—forgetting her identity, surviving on the impossible streets for decades, then remembering who she was—only to be kept from finally returning home. This was not how her story was supposed to end!

The porter pulled her through the bus terminal, past gawking folks without the sense to mind their own business. They came to the large, glass front doors.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” said the porter with no trace of sincerity as he opened the door and pushed her outside.

Felicity began crying. The porter was the approximate age her child would have been, had she had one, but she'd never have raised an innocent child to be so dour an adult.

“You know,” she said, wiping her nose on her sleeve, “when you were just a boy, I was famous; a human cannonball. Children for miles around came to see me soar across the circus tent's red-and-yellow-striped sky, to applaud me, to ask for my autograph. How is it that lovely children can become such ugly grown-ups?” She raised her hands to her face and sobbed into them.

The porter's eyes widened.

“You were a human cannonball?” he asked.

“Yes, son.” She sniffled.

“With the circus?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, adding, “only institution I know of that
has 'em.”

“The Sprightly Sisters All-Woman Circus?” he asked.

Felicity looked up. “Why, yes,” she answered, drying her eyes.

“You're the Fabulous Flying Felicity!” he nearly shouted.

“Yes, yes!”

“Come back inside,” he said quietly.

He ushered her past onlookers toward a side room in the terminal. Once there, he unlocked the heavy wooden door and heaved it open.