Mr. Krispy. She always calls me that and it always rubs me the wrong way. “Krinsky” I say in my mind even though I’ve given up trying to correct her three months ago. She smiles at me a little differently today as her pig tales go bouncing by and I wonder if she’s finally catching on to how much it bothers me.

I need a better poker face.

But I know that already from half of my paycheck draining every time the old boys get together on the third Wednesday of every month.

I wait for a few other tiny heads to filter in through the door before almost closing it on the last. Kids wouldn’t be as slow these days if their heads weren’t always pointed down at those little rectangles.

As I shift into gear my eyes glance up at the large mirror above my head and there she is...still smiling at me with that smug little grin.

“Krinsky.” I mutter as I step on the gas a little too hard.

The rest of the route is as boring as usual, except for a small fight that breaks out between two boys in the back. “Hey, stop that!” I grumble.

I bet on the grey shirted kid.

A couple other times I make eye contact with “dopy” as I’ve affectionately named her. It’s not a dis because I’m sure she loves Snow White.

Why is she still smiling at me? I want to pull over the bus and kick her out.

Finally that overworked parent volunteer with the “slow” sign comes into view at the crosswalk and I know she’ll be gone in a matter of seconds.

I pull over and open the doors and watch the stream of spoiled little prep school kid’s heads push each other out to the pavement.

I suddenly realize I’ve been holding in my breath and I let it out as a few more heads filter out.

I reach for the lever that closes the door when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I jump. “What the...”

She’s standing beside me with crosses legs and that smug little smile.

“Get out.” I grumble, mad at myself for letting this 7 year old cause me so much anxiety.

“I have something for you.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a golden heart made from popsicle sticks and cheap glitter. “Our homework was to make this and give it to someone we want to be like when we get older.”

I just stare at her as she places it on my lap and gives my shoulder a little hug. Then she goes skipping off down the stairs and disappears into the crowd.

I don’t close the door. I don’t check the mirrors. I just sit there staring down at that those glued together wooden sticks.

Time freezes for a few seconds until there’s a honk behind me. “I’m goin, I’m goin,” I grumble. She probably forgot to give it to her parents and has to lose it before school.

But it’s still on my dash to this day.