By Jackie Olson In fourth grade I stopped riding the bus, opting for a twice-a-day, mile walk, at 7 a.m. and 2:30 pm. On that bus, a fifth grader almost as chubby as me made my spirit his targeted conquest. I don’t even remember his name, just the way his head tipped back each afternoon on the ride home, ready to strike. His mouth would hang open, cackling after some hilarious joke that I was going to “eat him like a taco.” He shouted for the other kids to guard him so I couldn’t get my grubby mouth on him. As if my lips could ever get pleasure from something so bitter. From even before this age, I’ve known my place. I’ve been told…