IT’S PROTOCOL
ALM No.94, October 2026
SHORT STORIES
Jeremy is standing at the front of the line for the bus when it pulls up. He glances at the driver as he boards, but the driver’s flipping through his log book. A bright ray of sun cuts through the windshield and down the center aisle. Jeremy’s stop is early in the route, so each row only has one rider at most. The bus is clean, but old. The engine coughs and growls.
He scans his pass. There’s a harsh noise like a gameshow buzzer.
The driver says, Means it’s expired.
Jeremy opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He feels himself tensing up. He looks down.
The driver turns, finally looking at Jeremy. You hear me? he says. It’s expired. $22.50 to renew.
Jeremy’s mouth is dry. He tries swallowing. Behind him the other students and commuters grow restless.
Kid.
He has to say something. He wets his lips. I don’t have any money.
Do you have enough for one way? $2.25. Comes with a transfer.
Jeremy shakes his head.
The driver smiles sadly as he considers this, then says, I’m sorry. I can’t let anyone on without paying. I get in trouble. He points to a small camera above him that’s angled to his seat.
Jeremy nods his head and then steps off the bus. The rest of the line moves past him. The students look him up and down in a way that Jeremy’s used to being looked at, while the adults stare straight ahead.
*
The inland Southern California sun shines hard and bright. It bounces off the concrete and stings Jeremy’s eyes.
Should he go home and call his mom? Would she be at work already? He’s not sure how long it takes her to drive to work, but he knows it’s a long time.
No, he shouldn’t call. When he first started staying home alone, he’d call her at work throughout the day. Let her know he was home from school, ask if he could watch something on TV, or use the microwave, or read outside, or walk to the public library. Eventually, she told him he had to stop, that her boss had said something. Don’t call unless it’s an emergency, she said.
*
The walk takes forever. He’s breathing heavily and sweating through his shirt. At one point he crosses the street, thinking there will be more shade on the other side, but there isn’t, and he’s not sure why he thought that.
As he approaches the middle school he sees the security guard near the entrance of the black iron gate. Well, he’s not exactly a security guard. He doesn’t wear a uniform or badge. He’s just another adult, a volunteer or something, wearing cargo shorts and a t-shirt with a bright orange vest and a red USC ball cap and sunglasses. Will he say anything to Jeremy for being late? What if he asks for a note? Does Jeremy need a note for this situation? He just wants to get to class and forget the whole morning.
As he crosses the cracked asphalt parking lot, which feels hotter to walk on than the concrete, the man who is not exactly a security guard enters the front office. Jeremy jogs the rest of the way, hoping to get through the gate before he returns.
*
A couple years ago he went on a field trip to a greenhouse. He liked it a lot, especially reading the placards about each of the plants. After a while, though, the humidity and still air got to him and he couldn’t think anymore. His head felt stuffed with cotton.
That’s how he feels now, wandering the school hallways, searching for a water fountain, unsure he’s even going in the right direction until he sees one. At first the water comes out warm, but he doesn’t care. He drinks until it cools and all that remains is a dribble, then he wipes his mouth. He wants more, but he needs to get to class.
What time is it? At some point walking he zoned out and he isn’t sure if he walked twenty minutes or two hours. He doesn’t even remember most of it.
The school library has a clock over the front desk. Is anyone there during class? He doesn’t think so.
Or he can guess at the period, start opening classroom doors until he finds the right one.
No. Even through his exhaustion he sees how stupid that is.
*
Opening the heavy glass door to the library he’s hit with a blast from the AC. It feels so good. He wishes he could stay in that space all day.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees someone, the old librarian, turning towards him. Her glasses balance on the tip of her nose. She squints, bunching the wrinkles so that her eyes almost disappear completely.
Can I help you? she says.
No, he says. I’m fine. It’s all he can think to say.
She studies him for a moment, chewing the inside of her lip. Where’s your note?
What?
Huh?
What? he says, louder.
Your note. When he says nothing she continues, saying, From your teacher.
Oh.
Do you have one?
He shakes his head.
Wait right here a minute. She picks up the phone, brings it to her ear, and presses a button.
Behind the librarian the red second hand of the clock ticks. Over halfway through Science. The walk took much longer than he expected. He feels lightheaded as his stomach twists. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to wait for the librarian to call someone to come get him. He wants to be in class, listening to the lecture, or doing the reading, or taking a test. They don’t have a test today. A pop-quiz. He’d prefer one of those.
He backs away. The librarian sees him and stops talking. Her mouth opens slightly. She blinks. He opens the door. She says, Where do you think you’re going? As he steps outside she calls after him, Wait. Stop. You can’t–
*
Science. Room 105. His desk is in the back. All he needs to do is slip in and take his seat. But when he opens the door everyone looks at him. The teacher folds her arms. A dry-erase marker protrudes from between two fingers, pointing at him accusingly. All of his classmates stare back at him. There’s a ringing in one ear.
The teacher looks at a paper on her lectern and reads from it. Jeremy, she says. She looks up at him again. You’re late. She looks at the clock. Very late.
What can he say? He feels like he should plead his case, but he doesn’t know where to begin, and what would it matter? Late is late.
He registers the slightest impatient move of her eyebrows. Other kids snicker quietly and whisper. He can’t make out their exact words, but he knows what they’re saying.
I think that’s enough of a disruption for today, the teacher says. Give me your note and take your seat. She unfolds her arms, transfers the dry-erase marker to her left hand, grabs a pen, and makes a notation on the lectern. When she sees Jeremy hasn’t moved, she says, Your note, please, Jeremy.
He’s looking at the ground, at the hard, grey carpet. When did he start looking at the ground?
Jeremy?
It takes all his effort to look at her. His stomach does somersaults. Something stings his throat. He swallows it down. Quietly, he says, I don’t have one.
What was that? Speak up.
It feels very hot. He’s sweating again.
I don’t – he takes a breath. His head feels detached from his body. He can’t focus his eyes – have one. He places a hand on his stomach.
Then you’ll need to go to the office.
The bus…
He trails off. She waits for him to finish. When he doesn’t she says, I understand, but I still need you to check in at the office and get a note, okay?
He can taste the orange juice and toast he had for breakfast. He covers his mouth.
Someone, probably that jerk Braxton, says, He’s crying, which sends the class into an uproar.
The teacher works to settle everyone down. Jeremy can’t swallow anymore. The hand isn’t working. It doesn’t work on his stomach, and it doesn’t work on his mouth. He reaches for the door knob. Something splashes in front of him.
He shakes. Tears form in the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t know why he’s crying. That jerk Braxton is right. It makes Jeremy so angry.
The teacher rushes over. Oh my god. Oh dear.
His classmates screech and laugh. The teacher and the AC and the shuffling chairs and desks. He tries apologizing, but all that comes out is more vomit. The teacher jumps away, covers her mouth, and looks at him.
I’m sorry, he says.
She opens the door and leads him outside. Can you make it to the bathroom?
He nods.
I can send someone with you if you need help.
He forcefully shakes his head.
Okay. Go clean yourself up and head to the office. I’ll tell them you’re coming.
Jeremy takes a small step forward, then stops. I’m sorry, he says again.
Just get yourself cleaned up, okay?
*
The bathroom is smelly and stuffy and unsettingly bright. He splashes water on his face. He wipes what he can off the front of his shirt and dries it as much as possible with an air dryer. When the bell sounds for the fifteen minute break Jeremy locks himself in one of the stalls.
He listens to the other boys file in. They mostly talk about the Dodgers’ hot start and the Lakers’ playoff run. He tries keeping up with sports, but without live TV they’re hard to follow.
Someone tries the stall door. They knock. Jeremy says nothing.
*
The administrator is the parent of one of Jeremy’s classmates. He’s noticed her son always shares the same schedule with his friends. She wears a t-shirt with the school’s logo on it. She always seems impatient, or like she’s always in the middle of something. Maybe she really is. Jeremy’s never seen her sitting down.
She interrogates him about that morning. Why he’s late. Why he got sick. Why he didn’t check-in at the front office. Why he went to the library first. At the end of the questioning she says they’ll have to call his mom. He says she only wants them to call if it’s an emergency. The administrator looks at him suspiciously.
*
That night, when his mom gets home, she complains about traffic as she sorts dinner out of a large brown paper bag from a burger place off Route 66. It’s what they eat most Wednesdays, the night of the burger basket special. As he picks the tomatoes, onions and pickles off his burger, his mom’s traffic complaints transition right into complaints about the school calling.
Do you know how embarrassing it is to get a call at work from your principal?
It wasn’t the principal, but he doesn’t correct her.
Everyone there heard it. She sighs, takes a sip of soda.
I’m sorry. The bus–
What the heck happened this morning?
He explains the best he can.
Jeremy, she says. She grabs his hand, a move she makes whenever she’s trying to make him understand something. You know how much I have going on. You’re thirteen now. You should be reminding me if you need your bus pass renewed. I can’t remember everything.
Okay. I understand.
She pats his hand, then takes a bite of her burger. A dot of pinkish-orange sauce slides down her chin.
The conversation seems over from her end, but Jeremy has to ask about the money for the bus pass.
She drops her food on the table and stands.
I’m sorry. I can remind you tomorrow.
No. No. It’s okay. Let’s get it figured out now. She digs through her purse and comes up empty. Ugh. It must be in the car.
Jeremy grabs the keys. I’ll get it. It’s fine.
No. I said I’ll take care of it.
No, mom, really, it’s fine. I got it.
Fine. She picks up her burger. It’s in the center compartment. The sauce falls on her shirt.
Okay. I got it. He hopes she notices the sauce stain while he’s outside.
*
There’s no money in the center compartment. Or the glovebox. Or anywhere else.
When he returns to the apartment his mom’s sitting on the couch, her feet up, her head in one hand. She holds a glass of her pink wine.
Did you find it? she says.
Yeah, he says. Thanks.
He figures if the walk home was a little better than the walk this morning, then the walk tomorrow morning will be even more of an improvement, and the walk after that, and the walk after that… He can probably figure out a quicker way to school and back home, too. Cutting through that park with the skatepark maybe? He likes watching the skaters. He wonders if his mom remembers he asked for a skateboard for his birthday.
Jack Tyler lives in the San Gabriel Valley with his wife and two children. His fiction focuses largely on class and people navigating the less glamorous corners of everyday life. It’s Protocol is his first published work.
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