Free Bully-Be-Gone by Brian Tacang Page B

well-informed.
    â€œSir?” she asked politely yet loudly enough to be heard over the din.
    â€œMa’am,” he replied coldly.
    â€œI must get to Masonville,” said Felicity. “Can you tell me exactly how to accomplish that?”
    The porter’s eyes scanned Felicity from her splitting shoes to the tattered knit cap in her hand. She stuffed the ratty thing in her coat pocket.
    â€œMa’am,” he said, “I’m afraid you won’t be able to board the bus in that condition. Regulations, ma’am.”
    â€œRegulations?” asked Felicity in a sad and panicked tone. “But I must get home. I’ve got the fare.” She presented her crumpled five dollar bill, ironing it flat with her palm so he could see it clearly. Money, she knew, was a language spoken by most people. She assumed her five dollar bill spoke the correct dialect.
    â€œI’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “You’ll have to move along now.”
    She frowned and bit her lip. She heard “move along” nearly every day—move along from the park, move along from sidewalk coffee shops, move along from the shopping mall. She was tired of it.
    â€œI must board a bus to Masonville, young man,” she said loudly.
    â€œPlease, ma’am,” he said, pursing his lips. “Try not to make a scene.”
    He was so condescending! She stomped her foot. Rather than making the commanding thud she’d hoped for, it slapped helplessly on the marble floor as if it were a trout that had leaped from the Pinnimuk River into the station.
    He grabbed her by the elbow, tugging gently.
    â€œWhere are you taking me?” she wailed. “I’ve a bus to catch! I came from the sky and I’ve been twenty years forgetful. Just yesterday I remembered my address.”
    Felicity worried she sounded loony, but she was beyond upset. She had not gone through all she’d been through—forgetting her identity, surviving on the impossible streets for decades, then remembering who she was—only to be kept from finally returning home. This was not how her story was supposed to end!
    The porter pulled her through the bus terminal, past gawking folks without the sense to mind their own business. They came to the large, glass front doors.
    â€œI’m sorry, ma’am,” said the porter with no trace of sincerity as he opened the door and pushed her outside.
    Felicity began crying. The porter was the approximate age her child would have been, had she had one, but she’d never have raised an innocent child to be so dour an adult.
    â€œYou know,” she said, wiping her nose on her sleeve, “when you were just a boy, I was famous; a human cannonball. Children for miles around came to see me soar across the circus tent’s red-and-yellow-striped sky, to applaud me, to ask for my autograph. How is it that lovely children can become such ugly grown-ups?” She raised her hands to her face and sobbed into them.
    The porter’s eyes widened.
    â€œYou were a human cannonball?” he asked.
    â€œYes, son.” She sniffled.
    â€œWith the circus?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” she said, adding, “only institution I know of thathas ’em.”
    â€œThe Sprightly Sisters All-Woman Circus?” he asked.
    Felicity looked up. “Why, yes,” she answered, drying her eyes.
    â€œYou’re the Fabulous Flying Felicity!” he nearly shouted.
    â€œYes, yes!”
    â€œCome back inside,” he said quietly.
    He ushered her past onlookers toward a side room in the terminal. Once there, he unlocked the heavy wooden door and heaved it open.

Eleven
    S econd period class was a distraction for Millicent. Typically, history was one of her better subjects, and Mrs. Alpha was one of her favorite teachers so far this year.
    But Millicent was fidgety. Bully-Be-Gone was causing major problems that she couldn’t fix from her desk.
    It had taken