Several feet from the crosswalk, Stan could see her face. He slammed on the breaks. Backpacks slid under the bench seats and up toward Stan. The bus skidded against the puddles and stopped askew, just inches from the crosswalk.

“Whoa there,” the man said. His posture had not changed from its relaxed state. “Having second thoughts?”

What was I thinking? 72, 75, 78, 81

When he pulled to his next stop, big glasses girl got off, followed by another few emo freaks. Blue-haired girl’s stop was another mile or two away, but she rushed off of the bus with the rest.  They were one lump of fear and awkward teenage limbs.

He watched one emo kid cross the street in front of the bus, a little too close. His eyes were coated in black liner and shadow. A spiky choker covered what looked like a bruise on his neck. He glanced up at Stan with eyes that had a weariness that matched his own.

“Now that’s a kid who needs a way out. Help him.”

The man stood and moved toward Stan, but Stan had locked eyes with the boy. Neither could look away. It was like the boy was trying to tell him something.

The man grabbed Stan’s shoulders and pressed down. Stan’s startled body jumped and his foot pressed against the pedal. The bus leapt forward and smacked into the boy.

Stan put the bus in park and ran outside. The rain pounded against every part of his body. The back of his blue shirt was drenched in seconds. But when he got to the front of the bus, the boy wasn’t there. He looked around and sighed when he saw the boy running up the street, looking back over his shoulder. Stan grunted and kicked the tire. He could lose his job.

“What does it matter if you lose your job if you have Amy back?”

84, 87, 90.

When Stan climbed back onto the bus, he could see the back of pointy-nosed kid’s head as he ran down the street. The emergency exit swung in the wind. “Anyone else want to leave?” he said to the remaining three kids.

“I live too far away to walk in this rain,” said one kid whose features seemed too close together, like his eyes and his mouth weren’t spread out far enough on his head. Stan made a note: squishy-faced kid.

Stan climbed back in his seat, and the man took his seat too. He pulled away from the curb back into the pouring rain. As he passed through the next intersection, the sky grew darker, the rain came down heavier. Lightning flashed, and one of the children let out a whimper. 93, 96, 99.

Stan drove to the bus depot, where all the school buses rested at the end of the day. He sped through stop signs. Then, he stopped the bus a block away from the bus depot. He fumbled with his seat belt, but once it was off, he rushed out of the bus.

“Go to the main building. Someone will take you home!” he yelled behind him.

The man ran just behind him, right on his heels. Stan rushed up the block, almost blinded by the rain. But he knew this road. He ran past the trees and didn’t stop to look for cars at the intersection. His feet carried him through the gate of the bus depot and onto the freshly painted pavement. He leapt in front of a bus that was careening toward a parking spot.

The bus caught Stan on the shoulder and whirled him around. He cried out when his ankle twisted as he hit the ground. But then his lips curled into a smile. The bus had slammed into the man—full body contact. The man, sprawled on the pavement, was just a few feet away from Stan. Blood poured onto the pavement from his body.

Stan crawled to him, just as the man closed his eyes. “Did that count?”  Stan’s chest heaved as the scent of peppermint wafted around him. Tears mixed with rain on his face. “Did it count?”

 

Jasmine Evans is a writer and adjunct professor in the San Francisco Bay Area. She earned her MFA at Mills College in Oakland and was a 2014 VONA/Voices Fellow. She was also a finalist for the 2014 Hurston/Wright Founding Members Award for College Writers. Her work has appeared in The Copperfield Review, Heater, and Lunch Ticket.