Somebody on This Bus Is Going to Be Famous by J. B. Cheaney

song—”
    â€œOh no, you don’t,” Mrs. B cuts in. “Time to motor. Sit!”
    Everybody sits, but Spencer is so hot you can almost see steam coming off him. Bender grins to himself—it looks like an interesting ride for a change. He waits until the bus has reached the highway before raising his hand. “I have an announcement too: my vote is for sale.”
    Kaitlynn turns around to tell him he doesn’t have a vote because he’s in seventh grade and junior high kids don’t have anything to do with middle-grade youth court, blah blah—and he says, “Didn’t you ever hear of voter fraud?”
    Spencer spins halfway around and points at Shelly. “That’s exactly what I mean! She’ll turn this campaign into Entertainment Tonight !”
    â€œChill, dude,” says Jay beside him.
    Shelly turns her head and flutters her eyelashes at Bender. “Just for you, a special solo.”
    â€œSee? She doesn’t even care!” Spencer yells.
    They continue the argument, Shelly insisting she’s always cared about justice and Spencer demanding she prove it, all the way to Farm Road 152 and down the hill. The bus backs up as usual, the three mailboxes scroll by—
    Wait a minute.
    The center mailbox has something tucked between the flag and the box: a large sheet of white paper or maybe poster board, rolled into a cylinder that sticks out about fourteen inches from the mailbox, like a giant cigarette or—
    Bender feels a sting on his neck and claps his hand over a small, damp lump. A spitwad ? From where? Across the aisle, Matthew is staring out the window, Alice-or-Alison is buried in a book, and Igor is bouncing in his seat, calling out, “Vote for Shelly! No, vote for Spencer!”
    Igor owes Bender one—actually several. But so does Matthew. Which of them blew the spitwad? The bus makes a jerk and pulls forward, redirecting his attention to the back window. That tube of paper stuck in the mailbox looks like a giant blowgun.
    Everybody knows his habit of rolling up pieces of paper after writing on them, but nobody knows why. He writes numbers he sees, like the mileage from St. Louis to Chicago or the capacity in gallons of a ten-foot-diameter wading pool. Then he invents word problems for them (in his head) and solves the problems (also in his head). But nobody knows that. Or do they?
    The paper is stuck on the mailbox exactly like he sometimes tucks the rolls of paper over his ear. What if it’s a sign? What if there were special numbers written on that paper that only he could understand? Or is that totally crazy?
    Bender’s thoughts come thick and fast as the bus climbs toward the highway. Who put—Why is it—What is it—Could it be for him?
    Vote for Shelly! Vote for Spencer!
    The faster his thoughts come, the more they jab at him like tiny bat claws. He can’t just sit here. He can’t let this go by—it might be really important! The bat claws dig into his brain until he can’t stand it: Out! Out! they tell him. Get off the bus, check it out. His eyes lock on the rear door.
    Emergency exit. Do not open. Yeah, yeah. Alarms will go off, all that. No way can he sneak off the bus. But if he hits the ground running, he’ll be all the way to the mailbox before Mrs. B backs up; he can grab the paper, and if there’s anything on it, he might even have time to stuff it in his jacket.
    The bus is at the highway, right blinker on. Bender eyes the handle of the emergency door; it’s actually no stranger to him. He’s imagined opening it many times, just to see what would happen. He’s even checked out the mechanism and located the safety latch underneath the handle. But now that he has a reason to open it, his nerves are jittering: does he dare? Does he have the nerve to act on some of the crazy thoughts he’s had? Nobody’s looking. Mrs. B’s head is turned to the left, waiting for