The Tiger Rising by Kate DiCamillo Page A

star.”
    Rob slipped past Norton. He walked all the way to the back of the bus and sat down in the last seat.
    “Hey,” said Billy Threemonger, “you know what? This ain’t Kentucky. This is Florida.”
    He followed Rob and sat down right next to him. He pushed his face so close that Rob could smell his breath. It was bad breath. It smelled metallic and rotten. “You ain’t a Kentucky star,” Billy said, his eyes glowing under the brim of his John Deere cap. “And you sure ain’t a star here in Florida. You ain’t a star nowhere.”
    “Okay,” said Rob.
    Billy shoved him hard. And then Norton came swaggering back and leaned over Billy and grabbed hold of Rob’s hair with one hand, and with the other hand, ground his knuckles into Rob’s scalp.
    Rob sat there and took it. If he fought back, it lasted longer. If he didn’t fight back, sometimes they got bored and left him alone. They were the only three kids on the bus until it got into town, and Mr. Nelson, the driver, pretended like he didn’t know what was going on. He drove staring straight ahead, whistling songs that didn’t have any melody. Rob was on his own, and he knew it.
    “He’s got the creeping crud all over him,” said Billy. He pointed at Rob’s legs. “Look,” he said to Norton. “Ain’t it gross?”
    “Uh-huh,” said Norton. He was concentrating on grinding his knuckles into Rob’s head. It hurt, but Rob didn’t cry. He never cried. He was a pro at not-crying. He was the best not-crier in the world. It drove Norton and Billy Threemonger wild. And today, Rob had the extra power of the tiger. All he had to do was think about it, and he knew there was no way he would cry. Not ever.
    They were still out in the country, only halfway into town, when the bus lurched to a stop. This was such a surprising development, to have the bus stop halfway through its route, that Norton stopped grinding his knuckles into Rob’s scalp and Billy stopped punching Rob in the arm.
    “Hey, Mr. Nelson,” Norton shouted. “Whatcha doin’?”
    “This ain’t a stop, Mr. Nelson,” Billy called out helpfully.
    But Mr. Nelson ignored them. He kept whistling his non-song as he swung open the bus door. And while Norton and Billy and Rob watched, openmouthed and silent, a girl with yellow hair and a pink lacy dress walked up the steps and onto the bus.

Nobody wore pink lacy dresses to school. Nobody. Even Rob knew that. He held his breath as he watched the girl walk down the aisle of the bus. Here was somebody even stranger than he was. He was sure.
    “Hey,” Norton called, “this is a school bus.”
    “I know it,” the girl said. Her voice was gravelly and deep, and the words sounded clipped and strange, like she was stamping each one of them out with a cookie cutter.
    “You’re all dressed up to go to a party,” Billy said. “This ain’t the party bus.” He elbowed Rob in the ribs.
    “Haw.” Norton laughed. He gave Rob a friendly thud on the head.
    The girl stood in the center of the aisle, swaying with the movement of the bus. She stared at them. “It’s not my fault you don’t have good clothes,” she said finally. She sat down and put her back to them.
    “Hey,” said Norton. “We’re sorry. We didn’t mean nothing. Hey,” he said again. “What’s your name?”
    The girl turned and looked at them. She had a sharp nose and a sharp chin and black, black eyes.
    “Sistine,” she said.
    “Sistine,” hooted Billy. “What kind of stupid name is that?”
    “Like the chapel,” she said slowly, making each word clear and strong.
    Rob stared at her, amazed.
    “What are you looking at?” she said to him.
    Rob shook his head.
    “Yeah,” said Norton. He cuffed Rob on the ear. “What are you staring at, disease boy? Come on,” he said to Billy.
    And together, they swaggered up the aisle of the bus and sat in the seat behind the new girl.
    They whispered things to her, but Rob couldn’t hear what they were saying. He thought about