School of Fear by Gitty Daneshvari Read Free Book Online

for a thirteen-year-old boy to travel alone, Mr. Feldman pointedly said that the boy needed to adhere
     to the strict guidelines of both the NBA and NFL: “No Babies Allowed” and “No Freaking Losers.” These two tidbits, according
     to Mr. Feldman, were words of wisdom to live your life by, and he shared them with Garrison at least three times a day. He
     saw it as his parental duty to toughen the boy up, because success never came to babies or losers, on the field or in life.
    Garrison savored the notion of a sports-acronym, insult-free summer while quietly reading his
Baseball Today
magazine on the bus. Mr. Masterson, a few rows behind Garrison, couldn’t help but watch the boy as he read. Next to him,
     Mrs. Masterson fought the desire to sleep, desperately trying to keep her eyes from closing. Every few seconds her eyelids
     would descend slowly, covering half her eyes, before the sharply dressed woman would snap back awake. As Mrs. Masterson roused
     back to consciousness, Mr. Masterson leaned in to whisper in his wife’s ear.
    “Do you think that boy is heading to
the place
?”
    “I can’t imagine any other reason for being on a bus in the Pitts at this ungodly hour,” Mrs. Masterson responded.
    “He looks so normal,” Mr. Masterson continued while inspecting the blond boy’s exterior.
    “Darling, fears don’t always manifest themselves in such overt manners like our Maddie,” Mrs. Masterson said as her eyelids
     once again descended.
    “Quite right,” Mr. Masterson said, peering over at his veiled daughter.
    Garrison, oblivious to the conversation behind him, continued reading and eating the tuna sandwich his mother had made for
     him. As he absorbed players’ batting averages, he heard the rattle of the bus crossing a metal grate. Instinctively, Garrison
     looked out his window. From the view, he could tell the bus was on a bridge. His palms sweated profusely while his tuna-filled
     stomach churned and cramped. Bridges usually span breadths of water, but not always.
    Garrison prayed for a dry ravine or, better yet, that he could resist looking altogether. His anxiety increased rapidly, moving
     him closer to the window, directing his eyes downward. Garrison saw blue. And lots of it. There was, of course, a window and
     at least one hundred feet protecting Garrison from the water, but it didn’t matter. The unraveling of reason was instantaneous.
    “No,” Garrison mumbled aloud.
    Sweat patches formed on his face, dripping off his eyebrows, clouding his already blurred vision. Spots of light further obstructed
     his sight as panic arrested his lungs. Garrison’s wheezing caught the Mastersons’ attention, but before they could ask if
     he was all right, he screamed. His voice hit a decibel rarely heard outside of rock concerts.
    “Wwwwwwaaaaaaattttteeeerrrr!”
    The surreal sensation of drowning took hold, forcing Garrison to gasp for air while flailing his arms. He was sure his face
     was a crimson mess. However, before he could check, it went black. The young boy fainted facedown in the aisle, and not a
     very clean aisle at that. His beautiful tanned face landed right between a putrid-looking green stain and an old piece of
     chewing gum.
    Mr. Masterson ran to Garrison, checked his pulse, and dabbed his damp and dust-covered forehead. He promptly lifted Garrison
     onto a seat, placing his head across Mrs. Masterson’s lap. She gently brushed his moist hair off his face as Madeleine stared
     dreamily at the boy.
    “Mummy, can we keep him?” Madeleine asked with the wide eyes of a burgeoning crush.
    “Darling, little boys make terrible pets,” Mrs. Masterson offered with a wink.
    “That’s not true at all, Mummy. They’re hypoallergenic, much easier than dogs,” Madeleine said cheekily, “and they almost
     never have fleas.”
    Madeleine stepped closer to Garrison, pressing her veiled face against his flushed cheek. Starstruck and utterly enamored,
     she could have spent hours