We were pretty surprised when Old Quack Quack—that’s what everyone at Lorne Crest calls the principal, Mr. Mallard—got on the bus.
Kelly, who was drawing a heart on the side of Jake’s neck, dropped her pen. Pierre, who was fiddling with the emergency window on the ceiling, dropped back into his seat.
Old Quack Quack was going bald, but he had a tuft of gray hair that grew up like a bushy island on the top of his forehead. His pop eyes bulged behind his thick glasses.
He cleared his throat. Old Quack Quack generally didn’t have much to do with us students. He spent most of his time on the phone in his office.
Old Quack Quack’s eyes traveled down the bus, starting at the front and working their way steadily to the back. “In August, each of you received a copy of a letter sent to me by the Montreal Transit Corporation. In that letter, the mtc threatened to stop service on the 121 Express because of complaints about bad behavior on the bus. But this time, you people have gone even further,” he said, wagging a pudgy finger in the air. “Even further.”
None of us said a thing. We all just sat there, trying to look innocent.
“I think you know exactly what I’m getting at,” he added.
There was still no reaction. Old Quack Quack’s eyes got even bulgier.
“Yesterday,” he said, pausing as if he wanted to emphasize the word, “one of you threw an apple at a woman on Côte-Vertu Boulevard.” Now he reached into his pocket and took out an apple—a small red MacIntosh with green speckles.
Georgie slouched in his seat as if he wished he could disappear.
“Well,” Old Quack Quack went on, “it turns out that woman was seriously hurt. She sustained an injury to her eye, and the damage may be”—he lowered his voice— “permanent.”
“Oh no!” Jewel Chu said, covering her mouth.
Old Quack Quack smiled approvingly at Jewel. “Oh yes,” he said. “And now, I’ve got someone I’d like you people to meet. Someone you may recognize.”
There was one loud gasp on the bus— the sound of all of us gasping at the same time—when the old woman stepped onto the bus. We’d been so focused on Old Quack Quack’s speech we hadn’t noticed her standing outside with Mr. Adams.
She was wearing the same cloth coat she’d worn the day before, only now she had a black patch on one eye.
Old Quack Quack reached for the woman’s hand and helped her up the stairs.
“Boys and girls,” he said. “I’d like you to meet Annabelle Miller. Mrs. Miller— welcome to the 121 Express.”
Annabelle Miller peered at us with her good eye.
I noticed Valerie scoot over in her seat so she could get a closer look at Mrs. Miller.
“Shouldn’t you be lying down, Mrs. Miller? Resting your eye?” Jewel Chu asked.
Mrs. Miller shook her head. “My eye isn’t very good,” she said. Her voice was low, and we all leaned forward to hear her. “The doctor thinks there is a chance I’ll get my vision back. But that isn’t why I came here today.”
She had grabbed onto one of the poles for support.
“I came here to ask you young people to stop your shenanigans. And I came here to ask you—all of you—to tell this nice young fellow,” she smiled up at Old Quack Quack, “who threw the apple that hit me. Justice,” she said, peering at us with her good eye, “must be served.”
Old Quack Quack—imagine someone calling him young—shifted from one foot to the other. “If no one comes forward, you’ll all be punished,” he said. “All of you.”
But no one said a thing.
Not Georgie. Not even Sandeep—or Jewel Chu.
The screaming started almost as soon as Old Quack Quack and Mrs. Miller got off the bus. “We’re all gonna die!” Pierre yelled.
Kelly was bouncing up and down on Jake’s lap.
“Quack! Quack!” Jake shouted.
“Did you see that hairy spot on his forehead? It looks like a toilet seat cover!” Pierre called out.
Only Georgie wasn’t saying anything.
Suddenly, he sprang up from his seat and walked into the aisle. “Gimmee some room,” he said, stretching his arms out in front and then behind him. The kids in the aisle pressed closer to the windows.
Georgie was only a couple of inches away from me. I didn’t know what he was up to when he leaned forward and dropped his head between his knees. Then he started breathing really fast, like he was hyperventilating. He kept his head down for a minute, but then he lifted it up really quickly.
“Choke me,” he whispered.
“No way, man,” I told him.
“Go for it! Choke him!” voices called out—I didn’t know whose.
“Uh, I don’t think so,” I said.
“Choke me!” Georgie insisted.
So I put my hands around Georgie’s throat and choked him, just like he’d told me to. Only I didn’t choke him very hard.
When he fell to the floor, his face was white as a sheet.
“Ohmygod,” Jewel Chu shrieked. “You killed him! You killed Georgie!”
I felt this lump—it felt as big as that MacIntosh apple Georgie had thrown at the old lady—form in my throat.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Georgie’s face. His pupils had slid over to the corners of his eyes. I felt my heart sinking in my chest. What had I done?
Please be okay, Georgie, I thought, please. And that’s when I made a promise to myself: I was through with troublemaking.
Georgie was breathing, but only lightly.
Then all of a sudden, his lips twisted a little, and then he smirked. “I had you there, didn’t I, Lucas?” he said.
I was so relieved, I could have cried. But what would my friends think if I started bawling like a baby? So I took a deep breath and laughed instead.