The Brother Who Read at the Bus Stop

Mark was seven. He liked reading. He read at every spare moment — at the table, before bed, at the bus stop.

The other boys at the bus stop laughed at him for it. Not loudly. Just enough.

"Bookworm."

"Look, he's still reading."

"What's it about, Mark? Princesses?"

Mark would lower his book and try to smile. The book was, in fact, about princesses, and also about dragons, and also about a war between mountain villages that had a complicated history. Mark loved it. But the laughing made him keep his face still.

His big sister Greta was eleven. She also waited at the bus stop. She heard the laughing. She did not say anything to the boys. She did not get angry. Greta was thoughtful that way.

The next morning, Greta brought her own book. A bigger book. Hers was about astronauts. She sat down next to Mark on the kerb and opened it and started reading.

The other boys glanced. They didn't say anything to Greta. Greta was eleven, and Greta was unbothered, and Greta was reading.

The morning after that, Greta's friend Hanna brought her book. Hanna's was a thin book of poems. Hanna sat next to Greta. The three of them sat in a row, reading.

The morning after that, a boy from the school next door — a boy who had been laughing — sat down at the end of the row, on the kerb, with no book. He just watched them.

"Do you have a book?" Greta asked, kindly.

He shook his head.

"Tomorrowyou can have one of mine," said Greta, very calmly. "If you want."

He nodded.

He came the next morning. Greta lent him a book about volcanoes. He liked it.

By the end of the month, six children were sitting in a row at the bus stop, reading. Nobody laughed at Mark anymore. Nobody had to.

When their mama asked Greta, much later, how she had done it, Greta shrugged.

"I just sat with him. The book was the thing he loved. So I loved it too. With him."

Their mama did not say anything. She just kissed the top of Greta's head and went to make breakfast.