The plum hangs there from the tip of his nose, the juice dripping down his chin, staining his white button-up shirt. He’s always doing stuff like that. Going for the laugh. But then no one laughs. Sure we point, make snide comments about how he still acts like he’s in preschool. You’d think he’d get the message, learn from his mistakes. But the next thing he does is smash his peanut butter and jelly sandwich on his face, rubbing it over his checks and forehead until the mixture of raspberry jelly and organic, chunky peanut butter makes it look like he was hit by a car, got hooked on the back axle or something and dragged across the pavement. We laugh then, a nervous laugh. He smiles, and that’s when both Jill and Nancy scream. Allison would have screamed, too, since she’s directly across from him. But she’s got her homework out again, and she rarely looks up when she’s studying. He didn’t plan on getting that kind of reaction, so he tries to rub off the peanut butter and jelly with his sleeve, tucking his head beneath his shoulder to make it look like he’s trying to scratch an itch. Now he looks like those guys from the movie we saw last Saturday night, with their faces half-eaten by zombies. More of us start screaming, even some of the boys. The Bus Driver threatens to stop the bus. He stares back at us from the rear-view mirror with stony eyes. The peanut butter and jelly boy grabs his brown paper lunch bag, dumps the contents over his head, then pulls the bag down over his face. If he can’t see out, the Bus Driver won’t be able to see him. And perhaps that’s what happens because the Bus Driver mumbles to Himself then looks back at the road. Peanut butter and jelly boy keeps the sack over his head. We can’t help but watch him breathing as the bag sucks gently in then blows back out. But he doesn’t know we’re watching. He can’t see a thing in there, probably can’t hear that well either. After a while, he slumps back in his seat, turns to face the frosted window.