The diapered Little just grinned softly, her mouth closed, and shrugged. “I use ta hadda a…a…hamster named Mischief. An’ he liked to run on a tiny wheel. He went rawr!” She giggled at her own non-joke. This…this woman wasn’t a doll. No way was she a doll. Eating used gum is not something that would be put into a brainwashing algorithm. Neither would back talk or whining or wandering. And there was still that same mischievous spark behind her eyes. The spark of someone who knew exactly what they were doing and loved doing it, even if she literally didn’t know the meaning of the word.

But that could only mean…

I didn’t want to think about what that could mean.

“This is our stop!” Helena Madra called out, pressing the signal. The bus came to another whining, screeching halt as faulty breaks kicked in.

This was their stop. Ours too. It was the stop right by our neighborhood. This woman…these women…could very well be our neighbors. Amy went right back on Helena’s hip and they walked to the front of the bus. Catherine and I stayed put. We’d wait. We’d wait until the bus circled back, no matter how badly I needed to pee just then. I’d hold it.

There was no way we were going to let the giant or her pet Little that had gone full native know where we lived. “Wonderful to run into you,” she said before stepping off. We waved. All big fake toothy grins.

A clap of thunder and the doors slamming shut signaled their exit. The rain started coming down in earnest a minute later just as our neighborhood disappeared. It looked like we’d have to do a mad dash home if it didn’t let up.

One way or another, we were getting wet.

Catherine started grumbling to herself as she climbed up into one of the seats. Might as well. We had a long ride ahead of us. I stayed standing to keep the pressure off my bladder.

It wasn’t fair. But it’s how our world was.

 

I couldn’t sleep for several nights after the “bus incident”. I fell unconscious, I’m sure, but I never felt like I was sleeping. I’d just lay in bed, hear Catherine quietly snoring, and be completely unable to drift off myself.

I’d close my eyes, and talk to myself, make lists and do mental prepwork for the next morning, but I never slept. I’d never dream. I’d roll over. Flip the pillow. Roll over again.

And again.

And again.

But I wouldn’t sleep.

At one point I tried masturbating; rubbing one out to help me relax. Grabbed an old sock, snuck into the bathroom and beat off into oblivion. All that got me was more tired and a brain thinking about sex in the middle of the night in addition to lesson plans, jouska’s with Catherine in my head, and the restless anxiety that I was guilty of some unspeakable crime.

Sleep would not come.

Guilty consciences can do that, I guess.

I just kept replaying what happened on the bus the other night. Reliving the shock. I can’t claim that I’d known Amy all that well, but I had known her. She hadn’t been like that in the few times we’d interacted early on back at Oakshire Elementary.

She’d been miserable. She’d been despondent. At best, I’d thought of her as resigned the last time I got a chance to talk to her one-on-one. Inevitably, she got with the program. All the diapered Littles did with Mrs Beouf, eventually. They learned to keep things to themselves and to find small ways, Little ways, at rebelling and making life work for them. Hadn’t they? Or did they all end up like Amy?

No hypnosis. No drugs. No pain punishments. And still the Little woman had seemed every bit the child. Not a doll. A child. Just like Ivy. Full Native.