I was online again.
Hidden away in my room after begging off Hamburger Helper and a rewatch of Die Hard with Chan. All in the name of a raging headache. (Which wasn’t a lie.) Accelerant Orange episode 22—one of my favorites—played in the background. Facebook was also open. There was a new message from Rudy.
I’m not sure how I would handle a fake bomb threat. Sounds like you took it in stride. Amazing. Even more amazing, you’re thinking about going to New York.
A surge of pride hit my gut. I was, wasn’t I? Gran wanted me to go. Even Becky seemed to think I should. If the bombing of Bus #21 had happened just to me instead of Chan and me, this would be simpler. As it stood, his feelings were grafted to mine. Going to New York would scare Chan. Going to New York with Rudy—maybe even having this conversation with Rudy—would betray him.
Thud. Shuffle. Shuffle. Thud. Shuffle. Shuffle. I smiled, marveling at Gran, who always knew when to appear. She’d been watching some crime drama with my folks and was now tapping her cane on my bedroom door. The world righted a little.
“Just checking in,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“Any”—she lowered her voice dramatically—“New York news?”
Mom and Dad were bound to be on their way to bed, and if they—they was Mom—caught us mentioning the bombing of Bus #21, they’d overreact. Because New York! Terrible things happened in New York! Mom trended toward “You’re our baby” in a tone that meant You in pain tortures us as an excuse to avoid the topic.
“Not really,” I said.
“Is that episode twenty-two?”
I nodded. She took her chair and an earbud.
Carter Stockton was in his garage, reattaching a crushed mirror to the bus. The blowtorch was off, the protective shield propped on his forehead. He rubbed the sweat off with the back of his hand, a dozen beads instantly replacing the ones he’d wiped away. He said, “Now, let me tell you about the bus driver. His name was Oscar Reyes. I spent a few hours with his widow last Saturday, so you’ll get to meet her later in the episode. This amazing lady is writing a memoir about her husband called Life on the Bus.”
The camera cut away to a photo of Mrs. Reyes seated at a computer desk, pen in hand.
“He wasn’t supposed to be the driver on his last trip. Winston Alden, who was scheduled to work that trip, had a baby come two months early, and Oscar volunteered so Winston could stay with his wife at the hospital. All proceeds from Life on the Bus will go to the preemie’s medical bills. You see, folks, these are people who need to be remembered. Every seat on that bus had a story, and I’m making it my job to tell them all.”
“I love that man,” Gran said.
“The first time we watched we thought he was crazy as a loon.”
“He’s the good kind of crazy.”
He must be. This video had been downloaded 1.3 million times.
I traced a circle in the plywood desk where I’d left a glass of ice water sweating for too long. I made a third round, a fourth. Carter was still talking in the background. “Gran, I found one of the other survivors.”
“Oh, Go, that’s fabulous.” She saw my face. “Is it not? Fabulous?”
“Do you think I’m betraying Chan by talking to him?”
Gran worked her glasses off her face, chewed the earpiece. “Well, dear, that depends on what you say to this boy.” Gran patted my arm and stood. She bent toward me. “You know I love Chan, but I think he’s betraying you by refusing to talk. And, dear, it bears some advice, there are no equilateral triangles when it comes to love. Do you understand?”
I nodded that I did, but it was quite a revolutionary thought. She left me thinking. Thud. Shuffle. Shuffle. Thud. Shuffle. Shuffle. All the way down the steps. Rudy didn’t give me a chance to ignore him. He was there, complimenting me, and right or wrong, I caved to the conversation.
Rudy: I think you’re brave. I have zero interest in being some broken dude.
Golden: Same.
Rudy: Do you know how to get past this?
Golden: Not exactly.
Rudy: Ride a bus again?
Golden: Have you tried?
Rudy: I bought a few tickets in town.
Golden: And?
Rudy: Chickened out so far. One of these days . . . I’ll go cross-country.
Golden: Good for you.
Golden: I tried to ask Chan to take me to “Accelerant Orange,” but I chickened out.
Rudy: Chan, the other survivor? Your boyfriend?
Golden: Yeah. And yeah.
I rocked back in my chair, stretched for the ceiling, and rubbed my eyes.
Rudy: He won’t go with you?
Golden: He won’t talk about Bus #21.
Minutes passed. I took out my contacts, brushed my teeth, and washed my face. He didn’t reply. I crawled under the covers and my phone lit with a message.
Rudy: I wrote something about Bus #21. I’m attaching, in case you want to read or write something too.
I opened the document.
a journal entry by Rudy Guthrie
I boarded the bus outside the Green-Conwell. Our tour group had 9/11 Memorial/Wall Street/Battery Park/Ellis Island on the agenda. Ellis Island was a curiosity for me. My great-grandfather came through on November 9, 1919. I was born November 9, 2001. I’m named after him, so I wanted to find a remnant of him there. That’s a micro-moment.
That day was made of micro-moments and mega-moments.
Micro-moment:
I was listening to Ryan Adams cover Taylor Swift and drowning my hangover under a gallon of water. Someone in close proximity had his shoes off. I don’t know who. Maybe Neil.
Mega-moment:
Simon Westwood rocketed down the aisle, his hips bumping against shoulders as he went.
“THERE’S A BOMB ON THIS BUS! ANYONE RECORDS ME AND I’LL BLOW THE BUS IN A HEARTBEAT.” He lifted his sweatshirt. There was the vest. Like something I’d seen on television.
Micro-moment:
Someone shrieked.
Someone said, “Is this for real?”
Someone said, “Simon, calm down, dude.”
How did no one notice he was wearing that sweatshirt in June? Except the bus had been cold the entire trip. It wasn’t cold now. The first symptoms of pandemonium were interior. Hearts raced; blood thundered through veins; oxygen caught in throats. Words stopped. Everyone checked with one another. Is this really happening? our expressions asked.
The consensus: yes.
Two seats in front of me (three seats from the exit), the girl I met in the bathroom last night scanned the bus.
Mega-moment:
Simon yelling, “STAND UP, BABY.”
Nothing happened.
Simon’s iron grip squeezing Caroline’s shoulder. I see the flesh turn pink, red. “I SAID, ‘STAND UP, BABY!’”
She stood.
“HERE’S WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN. CAROLINE IS GOING TO TELL EVERYONE THAT SHE SCREWED JIM LAST NIGHT. AND THEN JIM IS GOING TO PUT ON THIS VEST.”
Micro-moment:
Down Yonder bar last night. Jim Conner, who I don’t really know, walks to the jukebox. Caroline walks by. She stretches her index and middle fingers out. They brush Jim’s thigh. She disappears down the steps to the bathroom. Three seconds later, Jim has selected a song, and he’s following her, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone noticed.
Mega-moment:
Simon wrestled another vest like his from a duffel bag.
“OH, JIM. CALLING JIM CONNER.” His finger curled in a come-here motion.
“YOU’RE THE NEXT CONTESTANT ON ‘NO ONE SCREWS MY GIRLFRIEND BUT ME.’”
Micro-moment:
I have to say something, do something. Who sits here and lets this happen? Simon is five feet away. I’ve side-tackled guys from much farther. None of them were in suicide vests.
Mega-moment:
“Easy, Simon,” I said.
“Sit down, Superman. I don’t need your help.”
Simon sounded calmer when speaking to me.
Micro-moment:
The dude across the aisle from me, Neil Johnson, shrank to the floor. He was fourteen, and his rich grandma had bought him a ticket. A small puddle of urine spilled onto the floor.
Others were panicking. I examined the exits. Front door. Was there a back door? An emergency release window? Maybe a window in the bathroom?
Mega-moment:
Jim Conner walked bravely to the front.
Simon zipped the vest to his Adam’s apple. Taunted Jim with a simple remote. Taunted us all with how easy it had been to rig the dynamite to a wireless fireworks control system.
“YOUR TURN, BABY DOLL. TELL THE BUS YOU SCREWED THIS LAME DICK.”
Caroline was incapable of words. Or standing. Or breathing. I worried she might pass out.
Mega-moment:
I was not Superman.
The bus blew.