Date: Mon, 8 Dec 2008 13:00:44 -0500
From: Sean E <ekidky@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Bully and the Bullied - Part I

DISCLAIMER: I won't say anything more than just the usual - if you
shouldn't be reading this, then don't.  This is a short story that involves
boys coming-of-age, containing things that boys get into, including sexual
situations, feelings, etc.  It is my first attempt at fiction, having
written only one other series based on my personal life's experiences
growing up, titled "Lifes Road Of Discoveries" (also found here, posted
early in 2008).  This series has no basis in truth, whereas all characters
and situations are fictional.  Any resemblance in real life is purely
coincidental.  The era is based in the mid-1970's.

This story will spread across 9 or 10 parts of varying lengths, and I hope
that those of you who take to it and read it through will enjoy it.  As
always, any feedback is welcome (to EKidKy@hotmail.com).

I hope you like it.  :o)



The Bully and the Bullied Part I - The Incident

-------------------------

As he looked out over fields rapidly passing by, Michael listened to the
steady chatter coming from around him.  It was a mixture that included kids
of all ages, laughing and cutting up with one another, some shouting,
others just trying to be heard above the noise of their companions.
Interspersed with each came the sound of the old school bus, its engine
revving down as it ground to a halt depositing someone safely at their
stop, or revving back up as the engines strained to reinvigorate themselves
when accelerating.  The massive frame of the vehicle would creak,
especially when it turned in some new direction, yet it still held together
soundly, snug - a firmness that belied its age.

    On this particular overcast day, the countryside lay barren, dry and
dusty.  There was chalkiness in the terrain, and anyone or anything -
whether man, man-made or beast - that disturbed it found a fine dust cloud
billowing in their wake.  To say it had been dry was an understatement; it
was not unheard of having periods of drought that brought conditions such
as these in the past, especially in the late summer months.  Now though, it
was well into the middle of October, and autumn was well underway.  The
rains that normally came this time of year had - for whatever reason - had
disappeared of late, and in their absence whole regions were left dry and
barren for weeks on end.

    The temperature was holding well into the 60's during the daytime,
which was not all that unusual, with the nights dipping into the mid to
upper 40's.  Students were beginning each day at the coldest moment, but
few wore jackets or coats; given the pattern of the last weeks, each knew
the day would bring the warmer weather ahead, and almost no one wanted the
responsibility of lugging a jacket around in the afternoons by the time
they were going home. To top it off, many were still highly active in the
late afternoons. Having had the press of their bodies congested together
throughout the day, by the time most of the younger kids were on the bus
heading home they were wound up, in need of releasing energy that had been
stored for far too long.  The older ones may have not exhibited the pent-up
energy as their younger peers, but getting out of school still gave them a
sense of release. By the time everyone was gathered, many were sweating or
generating heat that served to envelope others around them, and that
contributed to maintaining their overall comfort.

    The usual routine of heading home, however, was about to change.
Outside hopefully - for the better - clouds had been rolling in from the
west for the better part of the day, and thus far the outlook looked
promising. A welcome storm front was approaching from the northwest, and it
would not only affect their immediate weather, but it brought the promise
of more seasonable temperatures to follow.  As was with most kids and
teenagers, Michael didn't really care much about the weather, not in usual
terms anyway; leave those musings and discussions to the grown-ups, he
figured. Normally to him, if it rained then it just rained, and if not,
then it didn't.  Today, however, he looked across the farmland flying by
the window and noticed the change that was coming, and it was enough that
it made him stop the tune he was humming and silently kick his head into
gear.  He had to clear his head to think for a second, but he frowned as he
realized how so very close the rain was now.  Close enough, in fact, he
figured he was going to have a very wet trek from the road to his house,
some half a mile or so.

    They were about a third of the way into their route when it happened.
One of the high school kids, a tall, muscular kid well known to the gang
circles of the school by the name of Jeremy Riddle, grabbed the attention
of the day.  As far as Michael was concerned he was a prick, a true bully
if there ever was one that used both his physical skills and sharp tongue
to dish out misery to anyone less fortunate to be in his path.  He
generally hung out with a group of buddies, most of whom represented the
school's "rougher" crowds.  Most partnered with Riddle not so much as a
gang leader - for there were no true "gangs" to speak of - but instead
either out of fear of retribution or from curiosity, wanting to ride the
coat tails (so to speak).

    He was normally found riding in the back seat with this group, and
probably one of the loudest occupants of the vehicle. He was constantly
taking advantage of those less fortunate around him, regardless of their
age or status, belittling, prodding or embarrassing them in any way he
could.  The only exception to that rule came when he wanted something that
bullying wouldn't afford.  He turn on and a sweet charm that was so
indifferent and backward for his personality, at times it was stunning -
until he got it, then would just as soon stab them in the back.  Although
he was a sophomore, a 10th grader, he lacked any certain level of maturity
befitting for his age.  Even older, it seemed, because Jeremy had already
failed a grade somewhere in his past, and that made him older than most of
the kids in his classes.  He never wore clothes that were ragged or
discontented, but his wardrobe did suggest he was no different than most
other families in the neighborhood that were finding it difficult to make
ends meet.

    On this particular afternoon, Jeremy had somehow chosen a new victim to
taunt, and as usual chose to impose some essence of superiority against
their free will.  In the back of Michaels' mind, he heard and registered
the loud taunts and laughs that came from the back of the bus, but it was a
routine so common place now that at first he ignored it for the most part.
Eventually he heard someone shout, "Hey, give it back!" and of course the
accompanying jeers that followed it, but the tone was changed, and the
atmosphere around him with the other kids was even more astute.  It felt as
if the air itself acquired a temperament amongst them that chilled as for
an instant it got quieter, followed by an explosion of shouts.  As he
turned around, Michael focused his eyes and found a dense mixture of bodies
staring and working their way toward the event unfolding before their eyes.
A fight was underway, being egged on by the surrounding audience, some
choosing to side with the bully or underdog, but most because it was a rare
occasion to have such ring-side seats.  Michael did not have to guess who
at least one of the kids was involved, after catching the briefest of
glimpses of a figure moving in the back. Jeremy Riddle was well known for
the verbal abuse and general antics he could use to make life miserable,
and he employed many of them right at that moment.

    As the fight got underway, the bus ground to a sudden halt.  Many
students, already out of their seats or in the aisles, were thrown off
balance and jerked forward at the sudden change of inertia.  A few of the
smaller kids were forced back into their seats, but most caught themselves
either by a nearby seat or a fellow student nearby.  Once the stop was
completed, however, many of the kids began to chant, as if taunting the
unsung heroes of some "Main Event" somewhere back toward the floor.  Shouts
of "Hurry!" and "He's coming!", and "Wow you guys are in deep shit now!"
could be heard.  As the driver hauled himself out of his seat he started
yelling back into the crowd, "Break er up! Break er up I said!"  Michael
grimaced, more to his self than anything, but decided he might as well take
an interest at least to see who the latest casualty of the Riddle reign
was.  He stood and turned around, watching the sideshow with everyone else,
as if they were in for the main act of a long theatrical production.  It
was soon to be determined they would not be disappointed.

    The bus driver, a middle-aged black man named Stan, was stocky with a
belly that protruded over his belt. Students began backing into their seats
as he worked his way down the aisle, as they had little where else to go
given his size.  He could be heard muttering under his breath as he worked
his frame between the seats and crowd, maneuvering into the melee of the
main event.  As he arrived he hooked an arm into that of the sophomore, who
was on top drilling feverish punches to someone down on the floor.  Stan
grunted as he hauled backwards pulling Riddle off of his victim, and then
braced himself to bear the full weight of the other, in case he had to
reassure him the fight was indeed over.  He continued shouting "Break'r Up!
Break'r up I say, now!" as he grabbed the other's wildly flailing fists,
finally coming into control of situation.  Before anyone could react, Stan
straddled his legs around the kid in the floor to protect him against
anyone who might get second ideas of adding their own countenance into the
melee.  When everyone had stilled, he looked down to see the boy underneath
him, then murmured quietly, "Good lord!".  One of the victims' arms had
been pinned around a seat support, and his body was jammed into the opening
in such a way as he could never have been freed to even partially defend
himself, his other hand busy deflecting what he could of the blows that had
been raining down on him.  In short, the driver realized this fight was
over before it had even begun.

    It was more than just a fight, however.  Michael stretched, raising his
neck higher along with 30 or so other kids that were standing, trying to
get a look at the new focus of attention below.  Riddle, still pumped and
bouncing wildly with hands bloodied but clinched into tight fists, had to
be restrained by a friend as the driver turned and screamed at him "I
say-ed dat's enough!".  A smirk of triumph skirted the bigger kid's face,
as he finally fell back into the rear seat, listening to the taunts and
laughs made by the few friends he had there.  That is, until he and they
noticed that everyone else in the bus seemed to go strangely silent.

    Riddle was still hyper, reeling himself in but finding it hard to
completely withdraw - that is, until somebody quietly muttered, "Oh shit
Jermz...".  His smile faded away as he finally looked down upon the scene
everyone else was now viewing.  The driver looked up into the older boys
face only once, an clouded expression clouded masked as cold as a winter
landscape, and pointedly told him in no uncertain terms not to move.
Michael could not see because the big man's backside was turned toward him,
but he could tell when the driver reached down and gently began pulling the
victim underneath him loose, he was doing it with uttermost care.  The boy
appeared to be wedged under the seats some way, and Stan had to help him
slide out and maneuver in order to get free.

    Eventually he was able to slip free and sit up, gathering his legs
beneath him.  As he stood with considerable effort, the driver had to back
up as he offered a helping hand of support.  Michael heard the driver hiss
at Riddle once again: "You move and your ass is mine, you understand me?"
There was a low whistle that cut loose, and as if on cue, others joined in
as they observed what had happened.

    Several backed away all at once, and as they did the view between
Michael and the kid became unobstructed.  Michael drew in a sharp breath,
startled: the boy's face was covered in blood and grime that stretched and
masked from his eyes to his chin.  His nose leaked a slow stream of blood,
causing it to mix with the cut where his upper lip was split.  Both eyes
were swollen from bruises, and it would not belong before they darkened,
creating the infamous black-eye effect.  The kid's hair was a disheveled
and skewed, and the whole side of his face looked as if it had been dragged
through the dirt and grime associated with a machine shop. The severity of
the appearance was what was horrifying, however; in the short amount of
time the fight occurred, this kid looked like he had been on the receiving
end of a punching bag for hours.  He held his head at an angle, probably to
help limit the flow of blood steadily pouring from his nose, and parts of
his neck showed scrapes and minor cuts among the grime.  His shirt was torn
from just below his collarbone to his left side, exposing the rib cage it
hid underneath, and it hung loosely in front in places where buttons had
been ripped.

    As the kid stood steadying himself, one remarkable trait stood out: he
did not cry. Though try as he might to hold the anguish of the pain he was
undoubtedly suffering, his face did betray a mixture of emotions, but not
once did he moan or utter a sound.  When Michael got over the initial
shock, he was startled to recognize that the boy was none other than a
young man his age named Thomas, who had lived close by for years.  They
both attended 7th grade, some of them as shared classes, but they had never
interacted with one another much.  Both boys were shy to a certain degree,
but to Michael it seemed that Thomas was more timid than usual.
Nevertheless, Michael began to feel a deep well of anger building in him at
the fact one of his own classmates had been the victim in the brutal
assault.  Thomas had been outclassed by Riddle easy in both size and
weight.  The older kid had a good 20-30 pounds against the younger, and
domineered in both physical size and strength.  Although both Michael and
Thomas had began an incessant growing spurt the summer before, classifying
them both amongst the tallest boys in their grade, it still did not match
up to Riddle's 6-foot height.

    Michael winced as he began to imagine what it must have been like,
having Jeremy's weight pressing him down, pinning him underneath the seats.
With only one arm free, trying to deflect the blows raining down on you,
being beaten and having no recourse but to take it blindly, he couldn't
have had even a fair chance.  Inwardly he raged, thinking about all the
taunts and jeers that had been called out, egging the violence further on.
The thing was this wasn't a fight, not a normal school-yard (or in this
case, bus-yard) event; this instead was a massacre, and it sickened him
with disgust that the older ones hadn't even tried to intervene.  Riddle
had lost control - that much was obvious.  Everyone knew full well that
behind the mask of pain and discomfort, Thomas was in for a painful night,
the bruises and swelling already beginning to show up across his features.

    Thomas stood resolutely as the driver checked him over, oblivious to
the stares garnered from everyone else.  He continued to say nothing,
refusing to shed a tear or even moan aloud, although his discomfort was
easy to distinguish.  He darted his eyes here and there, looking at the
various faces on the bus, until he came across one in particular, a fellow
classmate only a few rows ahead of them, showing a surprised but masked
expression.  Michael felt the contact, felt the look of pain behind the
other's expression as he hesitated before moving on to others nearby.

	It disturbed Michael to think he had never taken a real interest in
this kid.  It was hard enough living in their rural part of America, to
even find kids close to your own age living close by - yet alone end up in
the same grade as yourself.  As already noted, both were similar in height,
and the similarities didn't stop there.  They were healthy Caucasian boys,
skinny, not so much to be scrawny but at least physically fit for their
age.  The only thing that denied that fact was that Michael wore glasses
over bright blue eyes, compared to other's hazel brown color.  They were
not geek-ish in any sense of the word, but instead a thin wire frame that
held a light prescription lens to correct a stigmatism.  It caused him to
be near sighted, but not as bad as some kids he knew.  The frames were
easily lost in the features of his face, adding a natural balance to his
overall appearance.

	Although much could be said the same for Thomas, his appearance
differed; in contrast to Michael's brown hair, he had blondish,
sandy-colored hair with dark roots that fell across his features.  His eyes
were the type that normally looked sharp and alert, although his face still
held much of its boyish youth.  The cuts and bruises now sustained were
more highlighted because of this, and the swelling building underneath made
one side of his face slightly out of proportion to the other.  As the
seconds passed more and more people began to realize how bad it must have
been; it was so quiet you could hear people breath.  Even the little kids,
especially the kindergarten and first graders, looked on in silence.  Each
was awed, many probably seeing the outcome of their first real fight in
school.  At one point the older man pulled what appeared to be a clean
white handkerchief from his back pocket, one that seemed overly highlighted
against his darkened frame, and put it to the side of the younger boys'
face and nose to help stop the trickle of blood that still dripped.

    After only what had to be seconds - but seemed much longer - Stan moved
aside and guided Thomas past him toward the front of the bus.  The younger
kids' face was still wrought with emotion from the hurt, humiliation and
pain as he started up the aisle.  Moving forward he took the offered
handkerchief and held it in place himself, and after stumbling only
slightly he rounded the bigger man, regaining his momentum and moving
slowly.  Stan pointed a finger at the bigger Riddle and motioned for him to
follow, before turning and following the younger charge.

	As he watched the three of them approach, Michael came to an abrupt
decision.  Being almost at the front, he knew that both of the boys were
going to have to find a new seat, and glancing between his own and the
driver's, he saw it was filled with assorted boxes and other paraphernalia.
He removed his own backpack beside him, sliding it underneath and out of
the way so it would create an empty place which he hoped would suffice for
Thomas.  As he glanced up, it dawned on him in a panic that the driver
might sit Riddle with him instead, and he visibly gulped and chided himself
for not having thought of it sooner.  Now was too late to do anything about
it however, and he would just have to see what happened.  His eyes met the
older man as they neared, and Stan gazed back briefly before nodding.  He
guided Thomas by the shoulder, gently pushing and seated him in the now
vacant position next to Michael before continuing forward, causing the
other boy to sigh with relief.  When Stan reached the front, he cleared a
place across the aisle next to the door and pointed, silently indicating
Riddle should take his new place.  Neither said a single word, but the
silence between them spoke volumes in itself.

	Michael reflected, looking upon his new seated companion, unsure
what had motivated him.  It was no secret that he was mostly a loner - as
had been the other boy for most of their elementary school life.  Neither
was known for reaching out or making friends, each coming from homes that
isolated them and shielded them from much of the social interactions of
society.  Still, for his part at least, Michael felt that somewhere inside
he could sympathize with this kid.  He hated being bullied and being picked
on for little or no reason.  At an early age, he discovered that by
enclosing his world around him, spending his time in relative solitude gave
others little excuse to single him out, or use him for the brunt of their
jokes.  He was beginning to realize maybe Thomas was the same way, and
perhaps that was what made him abruptly change his mind and offer his
haven, somewhere away from the obvious that would have put him front and
center and alone.  The fact that the other kid was sitting near the rear
did not change Michael's view or opinion of him.  He knew that some of the
kids came from the far side of the school when the last bell rung, thus it
was more difficult to get a seat of your choice in the afternoons.  Thomas
was one of those less fortunate, having to suffer at the whims of other
kids moods as to where he would initially sit or settle down each day on
his ride home.

	The driver returned to Thomas's side, having reached under his own
seat and extracting a first aid kit. As Stan began using some cotton swabs
dipped in an old bottle of rubbing alcohol, he cleaned first the dirt and
grime that had accumulated in the most sensitive areas of Thomas's face.
Grimacing a few times and clicking his tongue, he knelt into the narrow
space on one knee, a considerable feat given the size of his bulk.  Most of
the kids had returned to sitting down by now, and a low mumble of hushed
voices and whispers began drifting into the air.  Some of the little kids
began actively moving about, trying to get a better view or watch the
episode with more clarity.  One in particular, directly across and their
seat, began to audibly whistle as the swabs wiped away more blood and
grime, so much so that Michael looked up, caught the youngsters eye and put
a finger to his lips, telling the kid silently he should be quiet a little
while longer.

	The entire bus sat on the side of the roadway for several minutes
while the driver looked after Thomas, cleaning him up as best he could.
When he arose, he handed the handkerchief back to Thomas and told him to
keep it in case he needed it, then turned his attention back to the front,
moving forward and climbing back into his seat.  He looked up into a long,
rectangular mirror over his side of the window, and gazed back at everyone
that was now returning their own seats.  After a brief pause, he called
out, "Y'all jest sit er back down, it's ova now.  What say we jest keep it
down for the rest of the day, huh?"  With that he started the bus's diesel
engine and began maneuvering the vehicle back onto the road.

	As the kids got off the bus at the various stops, some by
themselves and others as a family, each made no hesitation to observe
Thomas as they walked by, getting a close-up view of the "damage" that had
been done.  For the most part he ignored them, instead concentrating on
some nonexistent point somewhere ahead, occasionally dabbing at his nose or
such when he felt the need, although the trickle of blood had long since
stopped.  Instead his face was left with the swelling and bruises typical
the ordeal he had just endured.  When Michael glanced, he winced, and as
time progressed he heard and saw the little changes in the kid beside him.
Thomas was in pain, and it became evident he was making every effort he
could to not let it show.  Michael did not want to humiliate or add to his
discomfort, so the both of them sat in close quarters, silence seemingly
the golden rule of the moment.

	At one point, however, Michael began watching Riddle again, now
sitting diagonally across from them; the older boy's face was like stone
for the most part, almost featureless.  Perhaps he realized now that he had
gone too far, Michael thought; perhaps he would finally understand that the
anger welled inside was out of control, in more ways than one.  Riddle had
been a bully to most of the kids Michael knew for years - always smart
enough though to stay out of trouble, just out of reach of being caught.
When he was involved with heated fights and arguments, he almost always won
- if not visibly, then because he had a crowd of followers that carried his
ego for him.  Few crossed his paths that were not in his inner circle, and
those who did were mostly discarded afterwards.  Even teachers found
themselves weary of having to deal with him in times of need, and some
simply bowed out in order to avoid a conflict.  Today though, at this hour
and moment, Michael saw not so much someone who thought he dominated his
world around him so supremely, but instead someone who did have a weakness,
making him just as human as everyone else.

	They were nearing the end of the route when they reached Riddle's
house first, and although the most everyone had remained subdued, their
arrival here was punctuated by the fact that - instead of stopping at the
end of the driveway as usual - the bus turned and entered it instead.  You
could not see the sophomore's house from the road, but most knew it lay
just over the short hill looming in front of them.  As they topped the rise
and began to descend on the other side, they immediately came to a dusty,
circular pathway at the bottom, which edged the outline of a barren,
unkempt yard that backed up to a house beyond.  The farmhouse, aged and
cluttered, had a rusted metal roof and although it looked structurally
sound, a rickety looking porch sagged across the front on one corner,
giving the whole building an odd twist.  The yard was littered with odd
machinery and tools, tall grass and weeds mixed underneath, giving the
impression they had been resting in their places for quite some time.
Various beer cans were scattered about the scene as well, both on the porch
and in the yard, adding to an uneasy feeling to Michael about what
lifestyle probably existed here.  Any other time he would have wrinkled his
nose at the thought; his mother, a devote Christian and church attendee,
had raised him in a faith to believe drinking was wrong, and true to form
he had seen firsthand what it had done to some of the families they knew
over the years.

	As they pulled up and parked, an older man - probably in his late
40's or early 50's - appeared from somewhere in the house and began walking
across the yard toward them.  He looked hot and sweaty, and as he walked
his sagging shoulders and slowness suggested he was tired, perhaps worn
from some long task he had been doing for the day.  As he neared the bus,
Michael could see his expression was one of curiosity, but also of one who
may already have had an idea of what to come was not going to be pleasant.
The driver parked the bus and unsnapped his belt buckle, getting up and
motioning Jeremy to stay where he was while he proceeded to get off and
move out, coming around and intercepting the elder Riddle in front of the
bus.

	The conversation was held in low tones, and each of them who were
still inside tried as they might to catch the words being exchanged
outside.  One of Jeremy's friends sneaked forward at this point and sat
down in the now vacated seat directly behind him.  When all of them saw the
elder Riddle's expression changing outside to one of anger, the kid leaned
forward and whispered loud enough most everyone nearby could hear, "Shit
Jeremy..."  Tension and an uneasy feeling swept over them, as clearly the
elder Riddle was making every effort to maintain a cordial rapport with
their driver.  Finally, both speaking in low tones as they turned, they
retraced the drivers' steps back to the doorway, where the elder Riddle
separated and stepped up inside, climbing onto the platform.  Each kid saw
the man's face as a controlled mask of stone fury as he surveyed the
remaining crowd, until his eyes fell on Thomas, scrutinizing him with
minute detail.  The tall man's lips grew thinner, his face taking on a calm
expression.  Thomas stared forward defiantly; saying nothing, he ignored
the older man's attention. The man finally shook his head and grimaced
after a moment, then turned and looked down to his son, now sitting
directly beneath him.  Jeremy was looking forward as well, a calm
expression over his face - and it was that look that got to Michael when he
noticed it.  Like father like son, it was cold, uncalculating, unfeeling.
When the father spoke, the words were hardly above a whisper, and the tone
was as isolated and unforgiving as one could have ever expected.  Only two
words escaped him, but they were filled with a vision that sent ice down
Michael's back: "Let's go."  As he left the bus, Jeremy slowly rose to his
feet and stood - hesitating only for an instant - and then ignoring
everything around him, he exited the bus quietly.

	Outside everyone could hear the elder man thank the driver and
assure him it would not happen again.  The words could still be heard as
they were delivered inside: cold, emotionless.  He watched as the man
separated and started walking across the yard, and they all could see
Jeremy following some steps behind, but instead of turning to the house,
they both walked past it heading for what looked like a barn or shed
behind.  As the driver got back on board and started the bus, turning it
around and heading back toward the road, they all watched both of the
Riddles disappear around the corner beyond sight.  The driver himself
grimaced and shook his head, his own thoughts betraying what he was
thinking, and it all but confirmed in Michaels' mind of what was probably
going to happen next: Jeremy was going to get his due.  It left Michael
feeling queasy inside; although he had been spanked before, when he was
younger for the little ordinary misdeeds most kids encounter while growing
up, he felt this was not going to be ordinary.  For a moment, he actually
felt sorry for the older kid; as rough and as much of a bully as Jeremy
could be, the punishment probably fit the crime, but somehow Michael
suspected the crime was going to be much softer in comparison to what was
coming.

	He returned his gaze to Thomas, who now sat with his eyes shut,
oblivious to the world around him and the remaining kids now being dropped
off.  No whimpering, no real groans - nothing audible came from him to
belie his condition.  Although Michael thought the kid beside him did not
look good, he also knew the swelling and bruises could be deceiving.  He
could not help but wonder what this little guy, like him, especially when
compared to the much bigger and stronger mass that Jeremy packed, could
have done to spark Jeremy off.  Jeremy had lost control - but why?  Michael
knew from his own experience that there were just some things worth
fighting for - period.  It didn't matter if it was physical or verbal, or
personal - for some kids it was just a right-of-passage, to show they will
stand up to anyone or anything.  But this went beyond that point - Riddle
was hitting and beating on the younger kid with a passion, an almost
rage. What sparked it Michael did not know, but he was sure it would be a
hot topic of discussion in the days to come.

	The last of the kids were delivered to their homes without
incident, coming down to the just the two of them remaining.  The three of
them sat in silence as they pushed forward, the sky beginning to open up
into a light shower, signaling the oncoming weather in a very profound way.
Inwardly Michael had forgotten his earlier musings of the weather, but
groaned as it came back to him, realizing he would probably be walking the
half-mile or so from the road in the rain.  'Oh well' he thought, sighing,
bemused but not looking forward to it.

	Thomas' house was the next stop, but before arriving the driver
once again pulled the bus over to the side of the road, rounding a bend and
making sure they were stopped in a place where no danger was presented to
anyone else who might be travelling the narrow stretch.  Curious, Michael
watched as the man motioned for the both of them to come up and sit in the
front seat recently vacated by Riddle.  Getting up, Thomas at first turned
behind him, only to realize someone had already brought his backpack and
set it on the seat behind them.  Grabbing it, he turned and worked forward,
Michael close behind him, where they both plopped down in the indicated
places.

	When they both were situated, Stan turned around from his seat
without getting up, and just sat looking at Thomas with a careful eye.
"Okay, spill it young man, what was all dat about?"  He said it in a gentle
way, no real gruffness, despite the slur of his language.  Michael realized
then that maybe he wasn't supposed to have come forward, and as he started
to get up and go back, the driver stopped him, motioning as he addressed
the other.  "Naw, stay there Mike, t'is okay.  So, hows bout it?"

	Unsure, Michael looked at the person sitting next to him, and
noticed that the two were staring at each other.  Not just once, but at
least twice Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but no words escaped his
lips, and the older man just sat patiently, not pushing, giving the
youngster time to sort out what he was going to say.  When Thomas finally
did find his voice, it was shaky; speaking in a tone barely above a
whisper, it betrayed the conflict of emotion that was coursing through him
at that moment.  "W-why d-does it m-matter? I-I'm s-suspended, anyway,
right?"

    The eyes that looked back locked onto his. "Well naw, dat depends, don
it?  What happn'd?"

    Thomas just stared back, and after a moment lowered his eyes. "They
t-took my stuff."

    An incredulous expression crossed the drivers face.  "All dat cause
... he took your stuff? Your what, your bag??!!"  When he didn't get a
reply, his voice rose sharply.  "In all my days, are you shure you didn't
get them marbles of yourn whacked loose or something? What the shittin
tarnation happened back thar!!  He would not let loose on you like that for
some stupid prank as that, and don't think you can smart-ass me about tit
either!  I may not have some of the ed'cation you pups do, but I wasn't
born yesterdy, you hear me!"

    A note of annoyance seeped into the small voice that answered. "You
w-wouldn't understand," was all that came back.

    Michael would have thought that would do it - the tone, the defiance,
the lack of excuse - but to his surprise, Stan only smiled and when he
spoke again the voice carried more understanding than what he would have
expected.  "Listen to me, I know youse, both of youse... you are not
trouble makers like that Riddle kid. I know hes got a big mouth and a
school record a mile long, but something ain't right here.  And right now,
I gotta knows somethin, or else I gotta go to the boss in the mornin and
then yes, both of you gets throwed off the bus, but I don't want to do
thats, you see? Not without knowing what happened..."

    Thomas looked back into the eyes scrutinizing him, then quietly
repeated, but in a more firm voice, "They took my bag and wouldn't give it
back, then they opened it and found my journal and started trying to read
some of it and I got mad and got up and started grabbing it out of his
hands, calling him a shitty dickless spineless wimp, and he got mad, and
called me something or other so I called him a faggot and the next thing I
know I was pushed out into the floor by the creep I was sitting with and
then the shithead pinned me down, and right now to be honest I don't care
if you believe me or not, that's what happened."

	Michael remained still, afraid to move or even twitch as he looked
at the exchange between the two of them.  The elder driver rarely allowed
the use of foul language, but he himself had swore a few curses when the
exchange began, and it magnified the seriousness of the situation when a
student was throwing it right back at him.  To his amazement, though, Stan
suddenly grimaced and looked at the floor as if trying to decide not the
truthfulness of the act, but what he was going to do afterward.  When he
spoke again, he spoke slowly and clearly, annunciating each point to drive
it home.  "Aw, right, if you say its that, I'll believe it unless I hear
different.  That Porter girl, she said something to me along those lines.
You say you tried to git er back, huh? Yeah, sounds like them and their
horse ..."  He stared outside for a moment, then turned back and started
the bus again, pulling them momentarily up to the house where Thomas lived.
As he stopped the bus yet again, this time he parked it and, releasing his
seat belt, he got out of his seat slowly, looking at Thomas as he got up.
""No wunz has any right to mess in other peoples stuff, I understand that.
You need ter be careful who you pick on though, someone twice your size and
build is not a very healthy habit to get into, not over something like
dat."  He stepped off and started across the yard, Thomas's mother clearly
already coming from the house.

	Thomas grimaced upon seeing her as he slowly stood up.  Before
exiting though, he looked down at Michael and for the first time it felt
like he even noticed or acknowledged him being there.  "Thanks," was the
quiet word, again barely above a whisper.

	Michael was startled, but when their eyes met something connected,
and although he really didn't do anything, he acknowledged it with a short
nod.  "Sure, see ya," was all he could think of in reply. With that Thomas
grabbed his bag and walked off the bus, into the arms of his mother, who
had rushed from the porch to check out what had happened in more detail.
The falling rain was ignored by everyone except the driver who sheltered
himself on the porch until they returned, and Michael could see a lively
discussion ensuing between the adults as the story unfolded. Momentarily
she shook her head, but unlike the elder Riddle, her reaction was
different, more subdued.  It looked to Michael like she thanked the driver
as they separated, putting her arm around Thomas and guiding him inside the
house.  The man returned to the bus and proceeded to take Michael home.

    "Sure is shames you boys have to live all the way tout here," Stan
called back as they finally neared Michael's driveway.  The remark startled
him as he had been staring out the window at the barren fields and shrubs
around them, old fences and clumps of trees in the distance.  He picked up
his bag as the bus came to a halt at the end of their driveway.  "Well,
well, looks like you gonna be saved a mighty wet walk from here!"  Michael
looked, then smiled as he said goodbye, bolting from the bus and heading
for a parked vehicle at the end of the road waiting for him.  As he climbed
in, he heard the big hydraulic brakes of the bus disengage and the big
vehicle pull away.  Closing the door, his mother was sitting there as if
she had suddenly come to from a nap.

    "Easy young man, don't slam the door so hard!"  She sat up and looked
at her watch.  "What happened to you guys?  Get kidnapped at school or
something?"

    Michael told her everything as she started up the car and they headed
down the long driveway toward the house.  As they got closer, her eyes
widened at hearing the details, and every now and then she steadily shook
her head in disbelief.

    To Michael, it had been an interesting event, if not an annoyance...

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