Emergency Exit

The blue boy hid behind the last row. We didn’t know of his existence, and we certainly don’t know why he’s blue. Jill swears she’s seen him kneeling there the entire time. She says that he stares out the back, never taking his hand off the red handle that opens the emergency exit and sounds the alarm. We can see him now, crouched in the darkness, leaning against the exit, his hand poised on the red handle. The bus slows. The brakes squeak. The blue boy’s grip tightens on the handle. He’s going to open the door. We know it. And we’ll float out and rise on the breeze into the sun. He presses down on it. We see the crack of light, and we’re afraid. All we’ve known is the school bus. We float under rows and over rows, searching for a place to hide, to lodge our bubble bodies against the vinyl seats. The door opens. Translucent bubbles shimmer with rainbows in the breaking light. We push one another towards the exit.