BACK OF THE BUS, GUS

BACK OF THE BUS, GUS

It was minutes before midnight. “The witching hour” was how some people put it. Devon Devonshire stood deep in the shadows of the old willow tree, its branches forming a shadowy veil around him. He longed for a cigarette but knew that sometimes, you just had to focus on your goal, so he waited, biding his time while his body stood at high alert.

He was used to waiting, had in fact, spent his whole life waiting. Waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting to make his mark on the world, for someone to finally acknowledge him as a person, a living being, someone of significance.

As the middle child, he identified strongly with the middle child syndrome. He felt that he hit all the boxes on the checklist. Low self-esteem, check. Feelings of neglect, check. Excluded, check. Misunderstood, check. Unfairly treated, check. Feelings of jealousy, check. Easily angered, check, check, check.

During high school, he had spent many hours in the principal's office waiting for his parents to pick him up and have a word with Mr. Martingale. Sometimes, some negative attention was better than no attention at all, and it took his parents' focus from the perfect Wesley and the useless Fenton, albeit briefly.

Yes, there he was, firmly wedged between his overachieving older brother Wesley and Fenton, the baby of the family who had everything handed to him on a silver platter.

Wesley was the family trailblazer, handsome, great in academics, and always captain of whatever sport he happened to be playing at the time. He was charismatic, outgoing, charming, and excelled at absolutely everything in life.

Fenton had only to look at people with his large puppy-dog eyes, and people jumped through hoops to make sure he had everything that he wanted in life.

Devon was the forgotten child, both figuratively and literally. The day that his parents forgot him at their campsite played in his mind almost daily. He was ten years old at the time and had waited for four hours before they realized that they had left without him. They found him sitting forlornly on the picnic table. Resentment and anger had built up inside him as the hours passed. They merely said, “We had to drive all the way back for you,” and, “Back of the bus, Gus.” Like it was his fault. He didn’t even receive an apology, or a word of regret or remorse. He had looked them all dead in the eye when they had finally returned for him, said not a word, and climbed into the back of the van. They claimed that when they left the campsite, they thought he was already in his spot in the third bench of the van. He hadn’t spoken to his family for weeks after the incident. The saddest part was that they probably didn’t even realize that he was giving them the silent treatment.

The only time Devon had spent with his father was when his father needed his help in the garage. His father had been rebuilding an old mustang for years. Often, he needed an extra pair of hands to hand him tools or help with an oil change, or to tweak the engine. Wesley was always busy with sports or doing his homework and couldn’t be spared, and his Dad claimed that Fenton was too young and too fragile to assist, so that left Devon to man up and get his hands dirty. He had spent hours slaving over that old car. When the car was finally finished, Dad up and gave the car to Fenton for a Graduation gift.

Devon had initially thought that working on the Mustang with his father might bring them closer together, help them bond a little. It soon proved not to be the case, After all, it was impossible to outshine the perfect Wesley, and who could compete with Fenton, the family baby who always seemed inordinately needy. But Devon enjoyed working on the car despite his father still basically ignoring him, other than to ask to be passed a tool or give instructions.

The wind started to blow the willow branches here and there, and Devon shifted his weight back and forth, keeping watch and biding his time. Here was one thing he was good at: waiting. Waiting to be heard, Wesley's stories were always far more interesting than his. Wesley's world was full of personal triumphs, first-place awards, and accolades. Fenton's world was full of his never-ending needs. I mean come on, Mother wiped the kids butt till he was seven years old, and Fenton took it all in as it was his due. While only last Christmas, Devon had seen his mother reach over and wipe away with her crisp linen napkin and a small amount of turkey gravy that had dripped down from Fenton's lips. Come on, the guy is twenty years old.

Even their names told the story; Wesley was named after his paternal grandfather, and Fenton was named after their maternal grandfather. Who was he named after? No one. They hadn’t even bothered thinking up a decent name of his own for him and had resorted to Devon Devonshire. That's a kick in the head, Devon always thought.

Their high school graduation pictures told the same story. The pictures of the three boys had once stood proudly over the fireplace mantel since their Graduation. At one point, his picture had fallen down, and the glass in the frame was broken. To this day, it has yet to be replaced, and there was a space where his picture should have stood. For five long years, he had waited for it to appear, in vain. If it had been Wesley's or Fenton’s picture, it would have probably been replaced within days, if not hours.

Life wasn't fair. His whole life, he had tried to get a little bit of attention, just a little, just so his folks would know he was there, living on this planet. But as far as every member of his family was concerned, when it came to Devon, it was always” Back of the bus, Gus.” That was his spot in life, in the back, in the background.

One of the biggest kickers was when he met Patrice; she was a goddess in his eyes. Tall and stately, willowy, blond hair and blue eyes, she had an ethereal look about her. He had proudly brought her home for Easter one year,

Two weeks later, she had broken up with him and had started dating Wesley. Then came the engagement.

Fenton was to be Wesley's best man, and several of Wesley’s buddies were his groomsmen. Devon had been given the dubious honour of parking attendant. No expense would be spared for Wesley and Patrice’s wedding. Wesley and Patrice would have the nighttime fairyland wedding of their dreams.

The wind continued to whip through the willow trees, rustling the branches and lifting the veil. He could see the moon clearly now. It was a full moon, he glanced again at his watch. Midnight. Almost time. Soon his family would see him clearly for the first time. No more taking him for granted, treating him like he didn't exist, forgetting he was there, taking what was his, just for the taking. No more, Mr. Nice Guy.

From this day forward, he would be remembered by not only his family but by the community and society as a whole.

He looked down from the grassy knoll as several cars entered the palatial grounds of one of the nation's finest retreats.

A black limousine car with decorative flags pulled up. It was closely followed by two more black cars. It stopped under the portico, and several men in dark suits and ladies in pink floral gowns could be seen exiting the car, under the lights from the chandeliers that hung from the rafters of the lodge. A well-dressed older couple slowly exited the limo, then the bride and groom exited the car. Patrice looked exquisite in her bridal gown, and Wesley, as handsome as always. Devon pulled the gun from the waistband of his pants.

“It's showtime,” said Devon quietly as he stepped forward out of the veil of branches and aimed his gun.