Kids slid on the morning grass wet from dew. White sneakers turned green. A line would form. Girls and boys with book bags stood in autumn’s dawn as the yellow, long bus arrived.

One by one, they climbed stairs and wished the driver good morning. She would tell them to watch their step in between gulps of coffee. A kid tripped. It never failed.

The ride to school would start off being a quiet journey. Keep it down, the driver said. Keep it down. However, inevitably, the silence didn’t last long.

Did you watch the Bears yesterday? a boy asked his friend, nodding his head. Sons of bitches looked terrible. That’s what my dad said, they both laughed. He yelled at the TV all afternoon. Run nigger, run, the kid said. All afternoon.

My old man says the same thing, his friend said. Every Sunday, he’s screaming at everybody when the Bears lose. Mom, my sister, me, the dog, the whole house while pops opens another beer. The neighbors complain. Mr. Beasley knocks on our door and tells him to turn it down and shut up. Then dad just gets louder. He yells and calls them all a bunch of niggers too, the boys laughed harder.

Keep it quiet back there, the driver yelled again. And quit using the N word. I can hear you all the way up here.

The boy with his buzzed haircut whispered to the other. What the hell? he said. Dad says it all the time. 

Mine, too.

Everybody in Bridgeport says it. It’s not like we live on the Northside. 

Right. Northside pussies.

The bus pulled up in front of the middle school. Watch your step, the driver reminded them. Watch your step.