My Brother, My Hero

         Eight-year old Jerome was so proud of his little brother.  The school district had sent Keshawn to a special kindergarten program where the teacher could help him with his speech impediment but this year he’d attend the same school as Jerome.

         “Watch out for your brother, Jerome,” Mama instructed. 

         Jerome nodded and took Keshawn’s hand.  “I neber wided da bus b’foe,” Keshawn said.  His excited grin exposed a gap where his two baby teeth had been.

         Jerome smiled back.  Keshawn’s eyes grew large as the bus stopped in front of their house.  It was so big; the first step was as high as his waist.  He stretched as far as he could but his fingertips barely brushed the handrail. 

         “I’ll give you a boost,” Jerome offered.  He put his hands at his brother’s waist.  “Jump,” he said.  Keshawn jumped and Jerome lifted him high enough to get his foot on the step and grab the railing.

         “Sanks, bwudder.”  Keshawn smiled admiringly at his brother.  “Yo’ my hewo!”

         Jerome blushed.  “Wave to Mama,” he said, pointing toward the house.  Mama stood on the porch clutching her housecoat about her plump midsection and waved until the bus was out of sight.

         “This is our bus, number 14, see?” Jerome pointed to the number beside the door.  “The teacher will walk your class out after school, ok?”

         Keshawn nodded.

         “I’ll wait here so you can see me,” Jerome reassured.  “Remember where your classroom is?”

         Keshawn’s eyes lit up as he recalled his tour of the school and he nodded vigorously.  “I ‘memba,” he said, flashing his toothless grin. Jerome followed Keshawn to his classroom and said goodbye.

         That afternoon Jerome lined up with his class and marched to the bus lot.  The sky was dark with clouds and thunder rumbled in the distance.  “It might be raining by the time you get home, so be careful, children,” the teacher warned.

         Jerome waited by the bus door as he had promised.

         “J’wome!” Keshawn shouted excitedly, seeing his brother. 

         Jerome smiled and boosted Keshawn up the step as he had that morning.  The rain began as the bus pulled out, but nothing could dampen Keshawn’s spirit.  He chattered all the way home about his teacher, his classroom, and his new friends.

         “An’ I made dis fo’ Mama,” he went on, pulling a painted picture from his backpack and displaying it proudly.

         Jerome commended his brother warmly, looking at the colorful squiggles.  “We’re almost home,” he announced.  “Let’s get your backpack zipped up.”  Jerome reached into his own backpack, pulled out an umbrella and got ready to exit the bus.  The driver pulled the levers and hit buttons as the bus came to a stop.  Jerome saw the stop sign pop out from the side with its lights flashing.  A lever marked “front rail” created a creaking sound before the driver finally turned the crank and opened the door.

         “Here we are, boys,” he said cheerfully.  “You’re my last stop.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”  He waved as the boys jumped from the last step to the street. The driver pulled the lever to close the door and watched as Jerome’s red umbrella passed in front of the bus.  Through the rain he could just make out a figure waiting on the porch.

         “I fo’godded Mama’s painting!” Keshawn cried. 

         Mama looked on from the porch but the umbrella blocked her view.  Before Jerome realized, Keshawn had wiggled from his backpack straps and ran back toward the bus door.  “Mama!” Jerome sounded the alert and Mama came running. 

         “Stop, come back!” Jerome shouted, but it was too late.  The driver had seen the red umbrella and two backpacks through the heavy rain and was preparing to head out.  He pushed the lever to retract the front rail and as it swung back into place it caught Keshawn’s sleeve.

         Jerome dropped everything and ran toward the bus, yelling, but the thunder and rain drown out his voice.  Mama, too, ran through the rain toward the bus.  “Stop!  Stop!” she screamed. 

         Jerome sprawled face down in the pooling rainwater as his feet slipped on the wet pavement.  “Keshawn!” he screamed.  “Keshawn!  Get out of the way!”  The bus lurched to life as the driver, unaware of any problem, released the brake and prepared to pull away.

         Mama and Jerome looked on in horror as Keshawn lost his balance and fell to the street as the bus began to move.  Mama screamed and waved, trying to get the driver’s attention as Jerome bounced to his feet and ran to the side of the bus, pounding his fists against the filthy yellow metal. 

         Hearing the noise, the driver stopped and looked around.  Seeing the boys’ mother, he opened the window.  “Keshawn!” Mama wailed. 

         At the same moment, a neighbor waiting to back from his driveway saw Keshawn as he fell beneath the bus.  “Oh my God!” he screamed.  I have to stop that bus!  He backed quickly into the bus’s path as everything ground to a halt. 

         The bus driver scrambled out the door, his pulse quickening as a sickening cramp twisted his stomach.  He dropped to his knees, afraid of what he would find.  There, with his face just inches from the bus tire, lay Keshawn, scraped, bruised, and bloodied, but very much alive.

         “I fo’gotted Mama’s painting,” he said softly as Mama took his hand.  “An’ da bus wipped my siwt.” 

         “Oh, baby,” Mama cried, “I’m not worried about your shirt!”

         “I banged on the bus to make it stop,” Jerome sobbed, overcome with relief. 

         Keshawn looked up at his brother with admiration and love.  “Sanks, bwudder,” he whispered.  “Yo’ my hewo!”

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