Free Bully-Be-Gone by Brian Tacang Page A

Millicent didn’t know why they were laughing. Then she saw it. Pollywog Jones had written with a big, fat, black marker on the seat of his faded jeans WONITA, WONITA, I WONITA . The laughter grew to a deafening pitch. Juanita looked puzzled at first, but kept playing while she ran from one side of the stage to the other. Pollywog shadowed her, which only made the crowd laugh louder.
    Millicent slapped her hands over her mouth.
    Thoroughly annoyed, Juanita threw her arms down, her violin swinging at her side like a dead chicken. She scanned the room as if she were looking for someone. She locked eyes with Millicent. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her bow and pointed it directly at her friend. Then she stormed off the stage in a froth of yellow chiffon.

Ten
    F elicity stood at the entrance of Pinnimuk City Station, her hands in her coat pockets, her jaw sagging in awe. She’d never been to Pinnimuk City Station before. She never had any reason to go. Now she did.
    People on the go from someplace to someplace else shouted orders. Businessmen and women talked on cell phones. Vacationers called to stray children. Couples said good-bye with lingering embraces. She was overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of Pinnimuk City Station and felt terribly out of place. It seemed to her that even the most average person there was more significant than she or betterdressed than she, or both.
    Felicity felt conspicuous, like a spot on a white tablecloth. She tidied herself as best she could by removing her hat and combing her dingy hair with her fingers, brushing off her dirty coat, and buttoning both her tattered cardigans.
    She walked over to a kiosk that featured a map and fun facts about Pinnimuk City Station and studied it carefully.
    â€œMy word,” she said.
    The hexagonal station stood four stories high, a wonder made of imported green marble. Two-story, hand-carved statues of otters served as pillars at its six corners. It spanned two city blocks and provided bus, sky tram, gondola, and helicopter service to destinations within the city and outside it.
    On the rooftop was the heliport. In the middle of the roof was a very pricey, revolving glass-domed restaurant. The fourth floor housed a So Much Stuff, So Little Time department store. Skyway Central, on the third floor, was skewered by glass tunnels. Like spokes of a wheel, they fanned out to key points in the city. Through the tunnels ran the quietest electric trams you’d ever not heard.
    Felicity had seen the trams darting above her throughout the city. She’d thought that riding them would be similar to being shot from a cannon. She scratched her head. She couldn’t find the bus terminals on the map.
    A man stepped up to the kiosk.
    â€œPardon me, sir,” she said to him. “Can you tell mewhere the bus terminal is? I’m going south to Masonville.”
    The man covered his nose. “Past the river,” he said, his voice muffled by his hand, and pointed to Pinnimuk River before scurrying off.
    Pinnimuk River flowed through the first floor, dividing the station in half with a swath of chocolate-colored water. Gondolas bobbed on its surface and took tourists, who favored leisurely, touristy transportation, to a number of docks in the city.
    Felicity looked back at the map and found Pinnimuk River. Two spectacular green glass bridges connected the north and south bus terminals. Fishing, according to the regulations posted on the map, wasn’t permitted from the bridges. This didn’t stop occasional sightings of mischievous kids sitting on the railings with fishing lines tied to their big toes.
    A porter in a red suit and white gloves approached Felicity. Huge gold epauletts perched on his shoulders like affectionate parakeets with braided tail feathers, and he had a heavy gold whistle hanging from a cord around his neck. He seemed to be of medium age; old enough to be a father, perhaps, but not as old as she. He looked regal and