He sniffles. “They took it.”
“Took what?”
“Your present. The boys took it.”
I look to see if the driver has any idea what he is talking about. Because if someone fucked with my brother, I will go ballistic. The driver gives her head a shake, letting me know it wasn’t like that. Evan . . . he gets upset sometimes. I don’t blame him—kids can be dicks. But one small comment could equal disaster.
The bus driver nods toward the road, and I can see she’s growing anxious. She has to get the other kids home. If I don’t get my brother off the bus, she’s going to have to call it in.
“Evan,” I tell my brother seriously. “Get up now.” I try to grab him by the arm.
“No,” he screams, ripping away from me and banging my wrist into the metal bar below the seat. Vibration races up my bone, and I growl out my pain.
“Fuck,” I curse, pulling back. Damn it. If I don’t get him in the house, not only will the driver call the school, the school will then call my dad. They might even call my aunt. I can’t give them another reason to take him from me.
“Evan,” I repeat, keeping my voice low and controlled. A red mark with a blue center has already started to appear on my wrist bone. “Let’s go.”
“I don’t want to.”
He’s not going to budge—at least, not in the next thirty seconds. With tears pricking my eyes, I reach in and take him by the pant leg. I knot the loose-fitting denim and drag him out from under the seat, wincing as he kicks hard at my shin, but I don’t let go.
“Leave me alone!” he screeches. The kids around us will probably be traumatized. Tell their moms about this terrible girl on the bus. The thought makes me sick. I hate making Evan this upset. I hate that I have to.
When I get my brother out into the aisle, I scoop his little body off the floor and lock his arms around him like a straitjacket, holding him close to me. Evan’s screams fade into heavy sobs as the violence passes, and I back him toward the exit.
Another little boy grabs Evan’s backpack and brings it to the driver. My brother is able to walk down the bus stairs on his own, clinging to my side. The driver follows us out and sets the worn backpack on the sidewalk in front of us.
“Thank you,” I whisper, barely able to look at her. When I do, her expression tells me that this is the last time she’ll do this for me.
My eyes itch with tears, and I turn away quickly to walk Evan into the house. I slam the front door behind us and lock it, and then lead him to the couch.
Evan climbs across the sofa and curls into a ball at one end, whimpering softly to himself. He’s hurt and angry—confused, probably. I shouldn’t have pulled him from under the seat. I should have just waited for him to calm down.
I sit on the arm of the couch and let myself breathe for a moment. My muscles are knotted up, and my wrist hurts. My leg aches where Evan kicked me. It will bruise. It always bruises.
I turn to Evan and see that he’s finally stopped crying. “So are you going to tell me what happened on the bus?” I ask him. “Why are you so upset?”
He opens his eyes and looks at me. “It wasn’t on the bus,” he snaps as if I’m purposely getting it wrong. I’m frustrated, impatient. Sore. But I try not to let him see that.
“Okay,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “Then where?”
“At school,” he says, sniffling hard. “I was waiting for the bus just like I’m supposed to. But the big kids came and took the present I made you.”
My fists clench fiercely and I lower them to my sides. “What big kids? Where was your teacher?”
Evan shakes his head. “I don’t know, Savvy,” he whines. “I don’t know where Miss Malloy was. But the boys called me stupid, and they took my backpack.” His voice pitches up, starting to shake. “They dumped my stuff on the ground and they took your present.” He starts to cry again. “It didn’t belong to them. They shouldn’t have took it.”
“It’s okay, Evan,” I soothe, sliding down onto the couch cushion next to him. “Big boys are idiots most of the time. Besides, I don’t need a present.” My brother makes me gifts at least once a week. Anything from pictures to macaroni necklaces to bottle tops he glued to a frame. I’m running out of places around the house to put them.
Evan sniffles and looks up at me. “But I made it for you,” he says. “You should get presents.”
His blue eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. I lean my face close to his and kiss his nose. “Hey,” I whisper. “I told you I don’t give a shit about presents. You’re my present.”
The corners of his mouth twitch before they pull into a smile. I brush his too-long blond hair. “I’m a good present,” he says.
“The best. Now, are you hungry?”
Evan nods that he is and wipes his face with the back of his shirtsleeve.
