Under the Beetle's Cellar by Mary Willis Walker

and the trapdoor slid shut overhead, it had been a nightmare. Kids began to scream. Then the others had picked up the panic. It grew to a chorus of sobbing, screaming, and calling out for mothers and fathers. The children milled around, bumping into one another in the dark, crying out. Underneath it all, he could hear Josh coughing and wheezing.
    Walter had groped his way through the door and onto the bus, bumping into seats and panicky children. He tried to calm them with his hands. He tried to soothe with his voice, but no one could hear him overthe frenzied wailing. He needed to do something, to take charge, calm them down, but he couldn’t think of anything to do. As the screaming went on, he felt his own panic surging in his chest. His brain wanted to join in the screaming.
    But he was the adult here, he had told himself. The only adult. These kids were going to lose their minds if he didn’t do something.
    “Quiet, y’all!”
    A lilting girl’s voice, a twangy angel-sound, had risen out of the cacophony. It lifted above the other voices and dominated. “Now, that’s enough of that, y’all. Someone’s gonna get hurt if we don’t settle. Quiet down now, everybody. The lights will go back on, but let’s all sit down together and wait. Come on up to the front. Come on. We can hold hands. Come on now. Our bus driver is going to tell us a story.”
    Our bus driver? That was him. He was their driver. He didn’t know any stories. And even if he did, he didn’t think he could tell one in the dark, in the middle of such chaos. But the voice had promised a story. And, miraculously, the promise seemed to be calming the children. They were quieting. Several screamers had stopped. The noise gradually subsided to a few sobs and whispers. There was rustling and the gentle pressure of bodies all around him in the dark.
    A small hand grabbed his and held on hard. The firmness and warmth of it felt comforting. Walter squeezed back.
    He opened his mouth, then cleared his throat. “Okay. Now. Find a place to sit, children,” he said. “Sit down. That’s right. And hold the hand of the person next to you. Good.” He heard them settling down all around him in the blackness. “Everyone needs a hand to hold.
    “My name is Walter Demming,” he said. “I have a story to tell you. But first I’d like each of you to tell me your name and how old you are so I can sort of do a count. Okay? Just call out.”
    The voices came out of the darkness: “Hector Ramirez. I’m twelve, man.” “Heather Yost. I’m ten, almost eleven.” “Conrad Pease. Just turned ten on Tuesday.” “Sue Ellen McGregor, I’m eight. How old are you, Mr. Bus Driver?”
    “I’m fifty-one,” Walter said, “and I’m Mr. Demming. Go on with your names, please.”
    The names came: Kimberly Bassett, age eleven; Lucy Quigley, age ten; Josh Benderson, age eleven; Sandra Echols, age eight; Brandon Betts, age eleven; Bucky DeCarlo, age six. Then silence fell.
    Walter said, “That’s only ten. There are eleven of you. Who hasn’t given their name?”
    There was some murmuring and a voice said, “Come on, Philip, tellhim your name.” There was a brief silence and finally a faint voice said, “Philip Trotman. I’m nine.”
    “Good,” Walter said. “All twelve of us are here.”
    It had been his first count.
    Then, still holding on to the small hand, he squatted down in the dark aisle and waited for a story to come to him. They were expecting it. He could sense the anticipation in the air. They were sitting there waiting for a story. That’s what did it, he decided later—their anticipation sucked from him a story he didn’t even know was there.
    “Once upon a time,” he began. “Once upon a time there was a turkey vulture who lived in Austin, Texas. His name was Jacksonville and he had a good friend named Lopez. He worried that because he was ugly no one would love him.” The story began like a weak trickle, but then it flowed, and by the