I was there the day freedom died.
Walkerville Elementary, October 18th, 2012. It was 2 AM. The streetlights outside were seeping through the blinds, leaving slashes of darkness on our faces where they couldn't penetrate. Children's dioramas, cut-outs of the human body and crude models of the solar system lay strewn about, covered with dust. Covered with memories.
"You can't do this," I told her. My hands were trembling. I hadn't been in this room since third grade, but I knew it was where she would be.
"What choice do I have?" she asked. "The economy's taking, World War III might be right around the corner… I have to win. I have to lead." I heard the distinct honking from outside. My heart flashed back to countless adventures; jaunts through the safari and the digestive system. I learned how to make chocolate once.
"What choice? What choice!?" I demanded. "You can choose democracy. You can choose freedom. You can choose the American fucking way!"
"The American way is dead, Ralphie," she told me. Something flew in through a crack in the window, illuminating the tears in her eyes. I'd never seen her so weak. So unsure. The proud, fiery woman who'd blazed a trail through my childhood was dead. All that remained was something cynical, hollow, broken. All that remained was the shadow of my third grade teacher, Ms. Frizzle.
The something that flew through the window expanded to full size, and our old Magic Schoolbus loomed in front of me. Its hull was dulled and it still bore the campaign slogan "Frizzle/Perlstein '16: The Only Way For America" on its side. It wouldn't look me in the eye.
Without another word, The Friz boarded. She gave me a final look as the bus's Shrinkerscope lit up, reducing it to the size of a gnat, perfect for infiltration.
"This is espionage, Ms. Frizzle! This is treason!" I screamed at her. But she and her bus were already shrunk away. I screamed only at dust.
Days later, the New York Times reported that Ms. Frizzle's opponent had been arrested, that so-called "dubious photographs" had been discovered on his hard drive. He insisted they weren't his- that someone must have put them there- but the police and the public would have none of it. Later that November, Ms. Frizzle became the President of the United States in a landslide victory. I didn't vote.
It's been years since. Many of us have gone underground as best we can. A few suspect we can keep off The Frizz's RADAR if we drink only rainwater and eat only what food we grow ourselves, but I know better. There's no hiding from a government that can send its buses into your very body. There's probably a bus inside you at least twice in any given week, and no amount of rainwater is going to do anything about that.
Whenever you go outside, it's The Frizz's face you see. She smiles. Her hair is still bright red in the pictures, but I know better. It's been as grey as death since that fateful day at Walkerville Elementary. "Accept Answers. No Mistakes. Stay Clean." These words scroll over and over again on the buses that zoom around the city. No one rides these buses. No one rides any of the Magic Schoolbuses anymore.
At least, no one except The Frizz.
I spy my target through my binoculars and if there were any room left for God in this world I'd swear to him that she looks right into my eyes, even though she's thirty feet in the air. Maybe she can't see me. Maybe she doesn't see the detonator in my hand, maybe she doesn't know that I'm about to blow this entire fucking city to Kingdom Come.
I should be so lucky. If she knows, her bus's custom-built Mesmerglober can transform itself into a sub-quantum particle, far too small to be caught up in the blast. She could survive this. But will she… that's the question. I put down my binoculars. There's no room for mistakes. I activate the detonator, and everything gets messy.