People who have survived an attempted murder, what happened
The Attempted Vehicular Homicide
Our school bus driver showed up drunk, removed the emergency exit handles, and screamed about his divorce while speeding toward a crosswalk full of preschoolers with 28 trapped kids on board. He was slurring his words and couldn’t even stand up straight.
But here’s the thing about Mr. Stone: he’d been driving for 10 years, so everyone trusted him and got on the bus.
The school bus driver leaned in close and shouted, “Hurry up! I don’t have all day.”
It wasn’t until we were 10 minutes into the drive and he hit a squirrel that I finally started to worry.
“Mr. Stone, maybe you should slow down.”
His bloodshot eyes snapped to mine in the mirror.
You trying to get me fired, kid?
That’s when he cranked up the heat on full blast in September during a freaking storm. The windows fogged instantly and we could barely see anything outside.
My brain started doing that thing where it lists all the reasons you’re screwed. We were on the rural route in the middle of nowhere. The storm had killed the cell towers. Just my luck.
I tried the emergency exit. Pushed the bar. Nothing. I tried the emergency exit in the back. Still nothing. Derek, this kid who usually spent the whole ride making armpit noises, pointed out what we’d all missed.
Yo, the emergency exit mechanism was removed like with tools.
My heart dropped. We were trapped. Mr. Stone made sure of it. When we saw the first stop sign, every bone in my body was hoping he’d stop, but he didn’t. He didn’t even slow down. Just blew right through it. Selena’s little brother was supposed to get off there.
Please, Mr. Stone, I said, standing up despite the bus swaying.
Just pull over for a second.
Let us off.
We won’t tell anyone.
Sit down.
He actually spit when he yelled.
You just lost your bus privileges.
I know where you all live.
I can get you suspended.
In the suffocating heat and fear, kids started breaking down. My six-year-old sister, Isabella, was crying her tiny eyes out. The kindergartener across from her had already wet himself. Everyone was frantically texting, but nothing would send. Just spinning wheels and message failed.
Then Blake, the school bully who everyone hated, stood up next to me.
Dude, just stop the bus.
Mr. Stone laughed. Not a normal laugh either. More like a cackle.
Oh, the tough guy wants to fight.
What are you going to do?
Beat up an old man?
That’s when Mr. Stone practically tried to kill us all. A car was coming toward us. He saw it. We all saw it. He locked eyes with me in the mirror and smiled.
No way.
No effing way.
Before my mind could even process what was going on, he yanked the wheel right at them.
That’ll teach him to honk at me.
Isabella shrieked. Kids slammed into windows. My ribs hit the seat hard. The entire bus was filled with the sound of kids crying and him babbling like a crackhead.
10 years.
10 whole years of taking care of our children.
But what does my wife care?
She just wants my money.
His knuckles were white on the wheel.
Take my house.
Take my kids, but I still show up.
The speedometer needle kept climbing. 40 45 50. School zone signs blurred past. They were the ones with the blinking lights that said 25 mph when children present. He pressed harder on the gas.
Mr. of Stone, shut up.
All of you, shut up.
We blew through the intersection. Cross traffic swerved, honking. He took a swig out of his mysterious drink wrapped in a brown paper bag.
I knew this route by heart. In 2 miles, we’d hit the main intersection, the one by the elementary school. It was the one where Mrs. Anderson would be standing with her line of preschoolers.
Mr. Stone, Selena tried, voice shaking.
The crossing guard is coming up.
Good.
Maybe this will teach people to finally respect what I do.
That’s when I saw them through the fog. Mrs. Anderson in her neon vest. A line of toddlers holding that rope thing waiting to cross. Little backpacks bouncing. They had no idea a two-tonon missile was heading straight for them.
Blake looked at me. I looked at him. We both looked at the red emergency lever above the driver’s seat. The one they tell you never ever touch unless someone’s literally dying.
Yeah.
Well, I dove for it. Mr. Stone saw me coming, tried to grab me, but Blake, big bully Blake, yanked him back hard. My hand closed around the lever, and I pulled with everything I had.
Brakes screamed. We all flew forward. I cracked my head on something metal and tasted blood. But we stopped. We stopped 10 ft from the crosswalk, 10 ft from those tiny dinosaur backpacks.
The doors hissed open. That’s what the emergency lever does: it opens everything. Kids scrambled out. Mr. Stone grabbing at them, screaming about conspiracies and ungrateful brats.
Blake filmed him stumbling around the empty bus, yelling at ghosts. Mr. Stone was still in his seat when the cops showed up, insisting we’d staged everything to get him fired. They found three empty bottles under his seat: Vodka. His blood alcohol was twice the legal limit.
