Keira and Buster’s Hello

I waved to Buster, but the bus rolled by without a blink. Maybe, I thought, it didn’t know me anymore.

I stood beside the neighborhood bus stop, under the long, drooping branches of the willow tree. A paper star peeked from my jacket pocket. I had made it for Buster, the blue bus that carried me to school and back. Its five points were a little lopsided, but I had colored them bright yellow.

Buster usually stopped here in the afternoon. I liked to wave, and I liked the friendly sigh his doors made when they opened. The driver, Mr. Ellis, always smiled from behind the big windshield. I thought Buster knew me, too. He had seen my yellow backpack and my star-shaped lunchbox lots of times.

But today, when I raised my hand, Buster kept rolling. His wheels hummed past the willow. His windows slid by, one after another, full of passengers. I waved harder. Buster went right on down Maple Street.

“Maybe he didn’t see you,” said my grandma, who stood beside me with a grocery bag.

“Maybe,” I said. Still, my hand sank to my side.

I watched Buster turn the corner. A little breeze lifted one of the willow’s thin branches and brushed it over my hair. I pulled the paper star from my pocket and smoothed its folded points.

“I wanted him to know it was me,” I whispered.

Grandma crouched beside me. “You can show him when he’s stopped. Drivers have to watch the road while the bus is moving.”

I looked at the empty street. Then I looked at the bus schedule beside the stop. Buster would come around again after his loop through the neighborhood. There was another stop just a few blocks away, near the library.

“Could we wait there?” I asked. “I’ll stay on the sidewalk. And I can hold up my star where he can see it.”

Grandma nodded. We began walking together, the paper star safe in my palm. I still felt a little worried. But now I had an idea, and Buster would have another chance to know it was me.

At the library stop, Grandma and I waited behind the curb, well away from the street. I held my star against my coat so the breeze couldn’t fold it. Cars passed. A dog trotted by with a red bandanna. Then, far down the road, I spotted Buster’s blue front.

My fingers squeezed the paper star. I wanted to wave right away, but I remembered what Grandma said. Buster was moving, and Mr. Ellis needed to watch the road. So I kept my hands still and waited.

Buster slowed. His wheels turned more slowly, then stopped beside the bus stop. The doors opened with a familiar psshhh. Only then did I step forward to the place where people waited to board. I lifted the star high.

“Hello, Buster!” I called.

Mr. Ellis smiled through the open doors. “Hello, Keira! Is that for us?”

I nodded. “I waved before, but Buster didn’t wave back. I thought he forgot me.”

Mr. Ellis looked kindly at me. “I’m sorry it felt that way. While I’m driving, I have to keep my eyes on the road. I can’t turn around or wave back.” He pointed toward the willow tree in the distance. “And when I saw you earlier, your hand was pointing down the street behind the bus. I thought you might be waving to someone back there.”

I pictured it: me beside the willow, Buster rolling away, and my arm stretched after him. Maybe Buster had thought, There’s someone behind me who needs a hello!

“Oh,” I said. The worried knot inside me loosened. “I was waving to you.”

“I know now,” said Mr. Ellis. “And Buster knows that star.”

He opened the doors a little wider. They gave their familiar psshhh again, as if Buster were letting out a happy sigh. Mr. Ellis gave me a wave from his seat, while the bus stayed safely stopped.

I waved back from the sidewalk. This time, we both knew who the hello was for.

Grandma and I didn’t need to ride anywhere, so we stepped back to wait while the passengers got on and off. I tucked the star carefully into my pocket. Buster’s doors closed, and he rolled on along his route. I watched him go without feeling forgotten. We had found a way to understand each other.

Grandma and I walked home beneath the willow’s trailing branches. I held the paper star in both hands. One point had bent a little, so I pressed it flat with my thumb.

“Buster remembered you,” Grandma said.

“He remembered the star,” I answered. “And now he knows my wave is for him.”

At home, I set the star on the kitchen table while Grandma put away the groceries. I told my dad about the bus passing the willow, and how Mr. Ellis had thought I was waving to somebody behind Buster. Dad listened as he stirred soup on the stove.

“Sounds like you solved a tricky mix-up,” he said.

“I waited until Buster stopped,” I told him. “Then I showed him my star.”

After dinner, I placed the star on my bedroom shelf, where I could see its uneven points. I liked them just that way. They made it look like a star that had traveled in a pocket and come back with a story.

The house grew quiet. In the bathroom, I brushed my teeth and rinsed my toothbrush. Grandma called good night from the hallway. I climbed into bed and thought of Buster waiting at the library stop, his doors giving that familiar psshhh. Mr. Ellis had waved while the bus was still. Buster had carried my hello along with him as he continued down the road.

Tomorrow, I would wait at the neighborhood stop again. I would stand safely on the sidewalk beneath the willow. When Buster came by, I could wave if he was stopped. If he was moving, I would keep my hands down and know he was watching the road, not forgetting me.

I pictured the yellow star resting on my shelf, ready for another trip in my pocket. Outside, the willow branches rested against the window screen. I closed my eyes, feeling sure that somewhere along his route, Buster was carrying passengers home, one stop at a time.