Floyd Bridges

Floyd Bridges sighed as he walked home from school. The bus was about to pass him and he knew the bullies would be sliding their windows down and hurling insults at him. Fifth grade sucks he’d say to himself during those moments. The only time he didn’t have to suffer those verbal abuses were when it rained: the bullies didn’t want to open their windows and get wet.

They made fun of Floyd because he lived so close to the school. It was somehow perceived that being close to the dreadful place meant that he loved school. And only geeks, nerds, and losers loved school that much.

Another sigh escaped as he heard the bus’s engine crank, signifying the turn out of the school’s lot. In the past, Floyd would run home from school but that would only invite the bullies – namely Steven Stores and Gary Hubbor – to seek Floyd out the next morning and deliver whatever they had planned on yelling at Floyd. Usually with wedgies.

The bus ambled by and, as expected, Floyd took in the name-calling and the gestures. What he didn’t expect was having a rock thrown at him. It hit his backpack but Floyd knew it could’ve easily hit him in the head. Knowing that this type of sentiment had just been employed against him made Floyd start sniffling, though he didn’t want to.

Crying for the bullies, he knew, would only inspire them to become more hurtful towards him. Floyd just lowered his head as he walked and hoped the shining sun wouldn’t reflect the one tear that escaped his eye.



The next morning, an announcement was made over the school’s intercom. It stated that objects were never to be thrown from a school bus. Floyd immediately felt his face heat up: though he hadn’t seen who threw the rock at him, he knew they’d now think that Floyd told on them when it was more likely that the bus driver had witnessed it and finally decided to do something.

But Floyd knew the bullies wouldn’t see it like that. They’d immediately believe what they wanted: that Floyd had tattled. His stomach started to churn and he felt like he might throw up.

The rest of the day was pure hell with Floyd watching over his shoulder every moment. Though he hadn’t been confronted, Floyd knew the end of the day was going to be torturous. No telling what else is going to come flying out of the bus.

Floyd Bridges almost started crying but he didn’t want any teacher to see so he went into the restroom, closed himself inside a stall, and sniffled in silence; the tiled walls rebounded his subtle whimpers in unwanted ways while he missed his last class. He knew he didn’t want to go home right after school, but there was nothing for him to warrant staying on a Wednesday afternoon.

Hoping he could at least hide out until the buses left, Floyd stayed in the stall and had finally stopped sniffling when the final bell rang loudly in the restroom. Floyd covered his ears and pulled his legs up so he was perched on the toilet, allowing the illusion to any who might look that the bathroom was empty.

Once the bell finally stopped ringing, Floyd heard the telltale signs of school ending: shoes squeaked and shuffled, lockers were defiantly slammed, teachers were yelling for one person or another to stop misbehaving, and students were laughing and chattering about how much school sucked.

Floyd was ready to step down from his throne when he heard the door open. Two voices rang out that made his heart almost stop.

“You’re really gonna follow him home?” Gary asked, incredulous.

“Sure am. That little punk squealed, and if it’s something my daddy taught me, squealers gotta pay.”

Floyd knew there was a sense of malice in Steven’s voice as the pair used the urinals and then left without washing their hands. He knew that he might never leave the bathroom, so he stayed tucked into the stall, perched on the toilet like a fledgling bird who wanted to fly, but was too afraid to fall.

Several minutes later, Floyd heard someone open the restroom door again and shuffle around near it: someone checking that no one was using the bathroom before they turned out the lights. A second later, Floyd was plunged into darkness as the bathroom afforded no windows.

To Floyd, it felt like hours had passed as he worried about what Steven had planned for him. He hoped that the hooligan had bitten off more than he could chew with his plan as he wasn’t a kid that could easily be picked up by their parents.

A tingling sensation crept into Floyd’s guts and he realized he needed to pee. He lowered his legs into the darkness: they ached with the effort. He turned and tried peeing into the bowl. Spatters on the floor warned him that his aim was poor in the dark, even though his eyes had adjusted since the lights had gone out.

After he was done, Floyd instinctively flushed… and froze. If anyone’s in the school, they probably just heard that! Floyd began to panic as he left the stall.

Hearing the bathroom door open, Floyd turned and was blinded by a bright light. It grew brighter as the bearer came closer. “Kid, what’re you doing here?”

The security guard turned off his flashlight and put his hand on Floyd’s scrawny shoulder. Floyd started crying and haphazardly explained the situation.

The guard seemed to take sympathy in Floyd and promised not to report the incident; he even offered to take Floyd home. But the boy knew this was only a temporary fix as Steven Stores would undoubtedly be in school tomorrow.

And what’s my mom going to say? Thinking about that brought Floyd Bridges to start sniffling once more as the security guard dropped him off outside his house, hours later than normal.

Word Count: 999