Summer on the Short Bus (28 page)

“You came back!” she says, pointing at me. “Meredith, look. Cricket came back!”

Meredith drops to the ground, and from the push-up position smiles broadly in my direction. “Hiiiiii, Cricket! Hoooooow are youuuu?”

“I'm fine!” I shout over an eruption of laughter from the audience. “I'll talk to you later. But now you need to keep going!”

“What?” Claire yells.

“Finish the song!”

“Oh right,” Claire says, nodding. “We need to finish.”

“Riiiiight,” says Meredith.

“Do you want to sing with us?” Claire says.

I shake my head. “No. You're doing great!”

It takes a moment, but after a few stutters and stumbles the girls manage to get relatively back on track with the music, and that's when I begin to laugh.

“They're pretty amazing, aren't they?” Rainbow says, leaning against me.

I nod. “They are.”

As anticipated, the word
bananas
poses a problem for Claire,
and the routine has more than a few hiccups including one collision in front of the yellow convertible prop, but no one seems to notice. In the end, it's as tragic as it is funny, but it's still a home run and I'm like a proud parent watching from the bleachers.

“That was so awesome,” I say, swiping tears from my eyes. “They did such a good job.” I look to Rainbow expecting to find her nodding along in agreement, but she's no longer beside me. I turn over my opposite shoulder and through the dim light find her near the doorway with Carolyn. They're tittering like school girls on the playground. A smile pushes its way across my face. They've got a lot to talk about.

“Hey, sexy,” a familiar voice says against my ear. I turn over my opposite shoulder and find Fantine standing right beside me, still wearing the tongue-depressor bra.

“Me, how about you?” I say, pulling her in for a tight hug, which isn't easy given her pointy boobs. “You are so rocking that bra, girl!”

She steps away from me, grinning. “I do what I can,” she says. “So how in the hell did you manage to get back here? I heard your dad was pretty pissed the other day.”

“Oh, he was. But we've been talking a lot and . . . I don't know, I guess we've reached an understanding for how things are going to work from now on.”

“Well, that's good,” she says. “And please tell me this understanding includes you hanging out with Mr. Efron.”

“It does.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” she says with a sigh. “He's been moping around here like a lost puppy ever since you left. I was starting to think he needed an intervention or something.”

“Really?”

She nods. “Of course his mood changed when he heard Claire call you out onstage.”

“Really?” I ask again.

“Yep. He went from Mr. Mopey,
how am I going to do this routine
?, to Mr. Nervous Jitters in about two seconds.”

“Why would Quinn be nervous? He's been practicing for two weeks.”

A wave of gasps suddenly fills the mess hall as the lights are cut, rendering the room completely dark.

“Just wait,” she says.

“And now for a very special final performance. . . .” The arrival of Quinn's voice generates a round of applause and whistles, but the room stays dark. My heart starts beating a little faster. “Team Oven Mitt would like to dedicate this song to someone who was very special to everyone at camp this summer—especially me. Cricket was the driving force of this entire production and should be recognized for all of her hard work.” He pauses briefly while the crowd can claps. “So Miss Montgomery,” he says, “this one's for you.”

His tender words tug on my heart, as I join the rest of the
crowd in waiting for something, anything, to happen.

“What's just for me?” I ask Fantine anxiously. “What's he going to do?”

“Just shut up and watch.”

A moment passes before a narrow beam of white light cascades across center stage and a six-foot silhouette emerges from behind the curtain. The butterflies in my stomach immediately flutter to life.

Beyond restless, the crowd begins to yelp and holler as Quinn slowly makes his way across the stage. Just before he reaches the tiny circle of light, drum-thumping music erupts through the outdated sound system and the rest of the stage explodes in a thousand watts of color, revealing Quinn and his three assigned campers, Chase, Trevor, and James. They're each holding a basketball and wearing a red-and-white basketball uniform with the word
WILDCATS
printed on the front.

“No way,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.

I'm not sure which is to blame, the workout clothes or the cocky smirk he's wearing, but one of them sends a flush of goose bumps across my skin. I make a move for the nearest chair, stopping short when Quinn's gleaming blue gaze locks in on me. At first I think it's impossible for him to see me considering the amount of wattage shining in his face, but as his mouth turns up into that lopsided grin I love so much, I know I've been made. I smile back at him before collapsing into the chair.

“Oh boy,” I say to myself. Dad may have been right after all. There's no telling what kind of trouble this guy could get me in to.

Zac Efron, eat your heart out.

Author's

NOTE

I
t would be easy to assume that
Summer on the Short Bus
was inspired by my special needs daughter, but it wasn't—not really. It's true that elements of her quirky nature were integrated into some of the characters, but the real inspiration for this book had more to do with my own journey in getting to know her, understanding her differences, and above all, determining how I was going to build an authentic relationship with her while remaining true to my
own
quirky nature.

As someone whose diet consists heavily of sarcasm and irreverence, it was important for me to bring those elements to this story in a genuine way. There is nothing politically correct about
Summer on the Short Bus
, nor is there an intentional message of inclusion in these pages. This story is merely a stage for an honest character to evolve realistically (no matter how ugly), something we don't see enough of these days.

I like to quote MTV's
The Real World
opening monologue when describing this book to people.
Summer on the Short Bus
is “What happens when people stop being polite and start getting real.” And in a world where every kid earns a trophy at the end of the season, I think a little
real
is long overdue.

—
Bethany Crandell

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Endless thanks to . . .

Terry, Gracie, and Becca. Your sacrifices of my time and attention (and well-balanced meals) allowed this dream to become a reality.

My parents. You always encouraged me to be myself, no matter the repercussions. And my sisters, Angie and Lori. You've been by my side every step of this journey. We may be down a man, but our army is still strong.

Rachael Dugas for believing in me and placating the voices with a laugh.

Marlo Scrimizzi. Your counsel, wisdom, and enthusiasm for this book cannot be measured. I am a better writer because of you—and your perfectly timed chocolates. And to the entire Running Press family for taking a chance on this unique story and allowing my voice to have a home.

My crit partner and soul-sister, Anita Howard. What can I say . . . this birdbath was built for two.

My A-Team. Each of you makes me a better friend. And you
laugh at my jokes—wow.

Jill Badonsky. You convinced me that I had a story to tell and that crappy first drafts are part of the process.

My beloved Goat Posse. If not for you, I'd have pulled out all of my hair by now. (And we all know that's no easy feat.)

The YA Valentines. This has been an incredible debut year. Your support of me, and each other, is astounding.

Laura Walker and Heather Hernandez for braving the Peggy Flemming waters and encouraging me to keep swimming no matter how long it took. And Andrea Riklin, you should charge me for cut, color,
and
therapy.

The girls on the fourth floor. On our own, we're just quirky individuals, but together we are a beautiful, dysfunctional mess—with very nice handbags.

Nicole Resciniti and Robyn Russell for the continued applause, even after the no.

My WrAHM sisters. Your support, banter, and motivational images saved me on more than one occasion. The talented writers at OneFour KidLit, and on Query Tracker and Twitter. This experience has been so much better because I got to share it with all of you.

There are so many more, but since the band has started to play, I'll conclude with the most important: my Heavenly Father. Maybe one day I will learn that your timing is better than mine. Until then, your grace is enough.