Flouted

Written by Laird Long, Published on 11/2/2009

Highway 59 and Groven Road was rural bus driver Ed Tuttle’s last stop to pick up kids before he entered the city. As usual, five middle school students were waiting for him at the stop: Marty Nolan, his brother Johnny, Lyle Esposito, Chloe Streamer and Susan Moorgate. Just as usual, the kids were rambunctiously yelling and pushing at each other, as Ed pulled up in a cloud of diesel fumes.

Ed Tuttle was a former police officer, driving the school bus in his retirement years to supplement his pension, and the students respected the big, burly ex-cop. Some of the children even downright feared him.

“Morning, Mr. Tuttle,” Marty Nolan said politely, the first of the five to board the bus. The stocky thirteen year-old had his hockey bag looped over his shoulder. The large bag bulged tight with equipment, wedging against the handrails in the stairwell of the bus.

“Game tonight?” Ed asked.

“You bet, Mr. Tuttle,” Marty responded enthusiastically. “We’re whipping Glenford tonight.”

Ed smiled. He admired the kid’s spirit, if not his playing ability, which consisted mainly of elbows and stick work. “Put the bag under your seat, okay?”

Marty nodded and crab-walked down the aisle of the bus.

Lyle Esposito was next on board, carrying his French horn. He said hello to Ed, then stumbled on a step and sprawled headlong in front of the man. His French horn case broke open to reveal the large golden instrument inside. It was packed tight into the case’s molded, red velvet lining, so it wouldn’t rattle around and get damaged when carried. As a result, it stayed stuck in the form fitting lining now, preventing it from flying out and hitting the aisle or Ed.

“Careful with that, son,” Ed said. “Clasp it back together and then stow it under your seat.”

Lyle nodded, red-faced. He secured the heavy case and hefted it down the aisle to where Marty was sitting and laughing.

“Hi, Mr. Tuttle!” Susan Moorgate sang out, running up the steps, her small Hello Kitty lunchbox rattling. A notorious tattletale, Susan said, “I’ll be sure to let you know if anyone misbehaves on the ride into the city, Mr. Tuttle!” Ed gave the redheaded twelve year-old a tight smile as she skipped past.

Chloe Streamer trudged up the steps next, a large backpack strapped to her back. She turned to snip at Johnny Nolan behind her. “I still say Mrs. Murphy only picked you for first flute because she wanted a token boy in the front row.” The girl sniffed and turned back around, smiling sweetly at Ed.

Finally, Johnny Nolan climbed aboard the bus, his small flute case in one hand and his lunchbox in the other. “Mr. Tuttle,” he said, serious as always.

The thin, brown-haired twelve year-old was actually a very good flutist; Ed had heard his solo during a recent school band concert and been impressed. Now, he pulled the door shut and shifted the bus into gear.

“Hey, look everybody, it’s Zamfir!” Marty yelled at the other kids, as Johnny walked down the aisle and sat down in an empty seat. Macho Marty was always making fun of his kid brother for playing the flute, a musical instrument he considered ‘unmanly’.

Ed locked eyes with the loudmouth in his rearview mirror, and Marty sheepishly grinned and shut his mouth. Ed tromped on the accelerator, headed for Point West Middle School ten miles away.

Johnny sat by himself on the right-hand side of the bus, near the back, his lunchbox clasped next to him on the seat, flute case between his feet on the floor. Chloe and Susan sat on the padded bench seat in front of him. Behind him sat Lyle and Marty. Chloe promptly popped up and stuck out her tongue at Johnny. “Teacher’s pet!” she sneered.

Johnny kicked the back of the seat, making both girls scream.

Ed’s reflected eyes glared at them, and Susan pointed an accusing finger back at Johnny.

“Whoever heard of a guy playing a flute, anyway?” Marty piped up from in back of his brother. “Right, Lyle?” He jabbed his buddy in the ribs, practicing his hockey moves.

Lyle nodded, grinning. “It is kind of feminine,” the lanky, curly-haired teen agreed.

The bus hit a pothole, and everyone jumped a foot or so off their seats.

“At least I don’t play the French horn,” Johnny retaliated, glancing back at Lyle. “You’re lucky if you get five notes a concert. Just as well, too, from what I hear.”

Lyle blushed and kicked the back of Johnny’s seat.

Like all good bus drivers, Ed kept one eye on the road and one on his rearview mirror as he drove, checking on the kids he was carrying. But no one committed the cardinal sin of standing up and moving around while the bus was in motion on that last fifteen-minute leg into the city.

That’s why Ed was more than a little surprised when he braked to a stop in the bus loop in front of Point West School and Johnny suddenly shouted from the back, “Hey, somebody stole my flute!”

Cop reactions instantly kicking in, Ed jumped out of his seat, spun around and yelled, “Freeze!” Halting all the bus riders in mid get-up. His shrewd, police-trained eyes took in the layout, and then he further barked, “Okay, everybody off! Chloe, Susan, Johnny, Marty and Lyle last!”

Ed watched the other kids get off the bus and race for the front doors of the school. Then he beckoned at the remaining five students, and they disembarked along with him.

Chloe clung to her backpack, Susan hugging her lunchbox to her chest, the pair scared. Marty, on the other hand, was grinning as he wrestled his bulging equipment bag off the bus, his black hockey helmet on his head. “Figured I might need this,” he joked, tapping the helmet. “In case things get too rough.”

Lyle bumped his French horn case down the stairs, followed by Johnny, carrying just his lunchbox now. “Why are you only stopping them, Mr. Tuttle?” he asked. “Some other kid might’ve taken my flute.”

Ed shook his head, looking over the four suspects lined up in front of him. “No one stood up or crossed the aisle after you five came on board at the last stop, meaning someone directly in front of or behind you has to have taken your flute. What were you doing, by the way, that you didn’t notice it go missing?”

“Sleeping,” Johnny admitted.

Chloe laughed.

“Do you know who took Johnny’s flute, Susan?” Ed interrogated.

The freckle-faced youngster gulped, shook her head.

Ed’s hard eyes traveled over the four students, his cop brain working, looking for clues.

“Search them!” Johnny suggested.

“If only I had that authority,” the man mused, “like in the old days.”

Just then the school bell went off, signaling the start of classes for the day.

Ed snapped his fingers. “I know who took your flute, Johnny,” the grizzled ex-cop growled. “Sure, I know, Johnny.”