The Man with the Red Bag by Eve Bunting Page A

I don’t trust him one bit. Remember, America trusted everyone, just about. Now we don’t trust.”
    She was actually speaking so forcefully that little spatters of spit landed on my face. I wiped them away unobtrusively.
    I could almost hear Grandma’s voice. She’s right. We don’t trust anymore, and that’s the saddest thing of all.
    â€œYou want him to be a terrorist, don’t you,” I said.
    â€œI want to catch a terrorist,” Geneva said. “So do you. If he is, and we uncover him, and stop him, we’ll be heroes. Probably Oprah will want us on her show. Probably we’ll get to go to the White House—and each get a medal.”
    I shrugged and stared out the bus window. Even a detective sometimes has to admit he’s made a mistake. Maybe I had. Stavros had seemed so normal when I talked to him. So sane.
    We were passing Jenny Lake, the sky and water the same color, the mountains shining behind it. Little boats rippled across it, leaving foaming wakes.
    â€œIt’s like a picture postcard.” Declan spoke through his minimike. “I never tire of looking at it.” He told us about the famous geologic wonders we’d be seeing in the park. “Restless geology,” he called it, because of the thundering waterfalls and the geysers and the bubbling mud pots.
    I looked up the aisle at Charles Stavros’s head and shoulders. He was looking out of his window, too. What was he thinking? That he should talk to Grandma about me? Or about his mission. If he for sure had one.
    Behind him were Millie and her sister. “Not long now,” she’d whispered to me as we boarded the bus. Would we recognize Charles Stavros in her picture of suspected terrorists? She was positive now. She’d thought about it, she told us. She’d brought thenewspaper picture into focus in her mind and she was positive.
    My grandma was sitting next to Midge. They liked each other, I could tell. They’d exchanged e-mail addresses for when they returned home.
    Buffo and Blessing had been lying in the aisle, doing push-ups and leg lifts, bouncing up each time Declan drew our attention to something we were passing. Now they were back in their seats.
    The Doves had their little gray heads together. They always seemed to have a lot to talk about, which was pretty amazing, considering how many years they’d spent together.
    The Texans were laughing and calling out to each other—the Texans in their own space, as usual, taking no notice of the rest of us. They were playing some sort of word game. Sometimes one of them would shout, “Guilty! Guilty as sin!” or “Let that man go. He has a watertight alibi.” I knew none of this had to do with Charles Stavros, but I began playing my own game. I closed my eyes and decided that whatever one of them called out next would be a sign as to whether Stavros was guilty or innocent.
    â€œHung jury!” one of the women announced.
    Thanks a lot.
    Geneva’s father sat alone.
    I finally decided to ask her. “How come you don’t like him?” I said.
    â€œDon’t like who?”
    â€œYour dad. He’s always nice to you. He was really worried when he thought you were drowning in the lake.”
    Geneva made a face. “You’re asking why I don’t like him?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWell,” she said. “If you must know, he and my mom are fighting over me like…like two wolves over a rabbit.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œOh, it’s one of those miserable divorce things. They want to share me.”
    â€œHard to believe,” I said, and got one of her Geneva-cold stares.
    â€œThe judge says I’m old enough to decide. But when I said I didn’t want to spend any time with my so-called father he ruled I had to go on this trip withhim so we could get acquainted with each other. As if I want to.”
    â€œHe seems like a nice