People who have survived an attempted murder, what happened

The Conspiracy of Silence

But here’s the part that messed me up. What they told us a week later after our parents finally let us ride the bus again. So here’s what nobody told us until a week later. Our bus driver had been reported for drinking three times before he almost killed us.

Three different parents complained about smelling booze on him and the district buried every single report. The cop who interviewed me let that slip.

You kids weren’t the first to notice, he said, flipping through his notes.

Just the first ones he couldn’t hide.

I’m sitting in math class 2 days later when Kaden Harmon leans over.

Yo, my dad drinks with Mr. Stone at Murphy’s every Friday.

He’s whispering, but everyone can hear.

Says the dude got divorce papers that morning.

Right before picking us up, my stomach drops.

So, we were just what?

Collateral damage in his midlife crisis.

The principal calls this big assembly the next morning. Mrs. Peterson stands at the podium with her fake concerned face.

Students, I want to address the incident.

Mr. Stone had a medical episode.

Blake stands up right in the middle of her speech.

Medical episode.

He pulls out his phone and cranks the volume. The whole auditorium fills with Mr. Stone’s voice.

Take my house.

Take my kids.

But I still show up.

Mrs. Peterson’s face goes white.

Blake, sit down immediately.

Nah, he keeps the video playing. You can hear kids crying, the engine roaring, him screaming about his wife.

This what you call a medical episode?

Teachers scramble toward him, but he’s already sent it to half the school. By lunch, everyone’s seen it.

That night, Isabella wakes up screaming again. Third time this week. She’s convinced the bus is coming through her bedroom wall.

The yellow monster’s here.

It’s going to get the babies.

There’s no bus, Bella.

You’re safe.

But she won’t let go of me for 2 hours. Keeps asking if the crossing guards preschoolers are okay.

Are the dinosaur backpacks okay?

Did they get away?

They’re fine.

Everyone’s fine.

Promise.

My parents are beyond pissed. Dad’s on the phone all night with other parents. Mom’s typing furiously on her laptop, documenting everything. They file a complaint with 12 other families. The emergency school board meeting is packed.

The superintendent, Dr. Richards, stands there in his expensive suit, acting like we’re being dramatic.

This was an isolated incident.

We’re conducting a thorough review.

Isolated.

Someone’s mom stands up.

My daughter won’t sleep.

She’s 8 years old and taking anxiety medication.

We understand your concerns.

No, you don’t.

Another parent.

You weren’t on that bus.

Dererick’s mom, this total research nerd, raises her hand.

I found something interesting in public records.

She pulls out a folder. It’s a complaint from two years ago.

Parent reported Mr. Stone smelling like alcohol. Marked unsubstantiated by April Mendoza. The room erupts.

Here’s another one from last year.

She keeps reading.

And one from two months before our incident.

Every single one mentions alcohol. Everyone dismissed by the same person.

April Mendoza, the transportation supervisor, gets up.

I investigated each complaint thoroughly.

There was never evidence.

You never asked me.

Joey Tanaka, the bus mechanic, stands up in the back.

20 years I’ve been fixing those buses.

You never once asked me to check for bottles.

April’s face goes red.

That’s not protocol.

I found three bottles last month under his seat.

Told you about it.

You said to mind my own business.

My dad pulls me aside after. Joey whispers something to him that makes dad’s jaw clench. Someone posts Blake’s video online that night. By dinner, it has 40,000 views.

The caption just says, “This is what the school district calls a medical episode”. Next morning, there’s news vans everywhere. Channel 7, Channel 4, even CNN. The district can’t pretend nothing happened anymore.

The superintendent goes on TV. I watch him lie with a straight face.

We followed all protocols.

The emergency exits were probably jammed by students.

Blake texts me a close-up from his video. You can see tool marks where someone removed the handles. It’s clear as day.

Sending this to the news, he writes.

Three kids from other routes come forward the next day. Sarah Chen’s mom has dash cam footage of Mr. Stone running a red light with a full bus 2 weeks before our thing. Another kid says he swerved into oncoming traffic last month.

We weren’t special, Dererick says at lunch.

We were just the time he got caught.

Isabella starts therapy but won’t talk. She just draws. Picture after picture of a yellow monster with red eyes eating stick figures. The therapist tells mom it’s normal.

But I see mom crying in the kitchen looking at them.

She used to draw rainbows.

Mom whispers to dad.

Now it’s just this.

We all get letters from the district’s lawyer, official letterhead, threatening language about spreading unverified information and potential legal consequences.

Mom laughs. Actually laughs.

They care more about getting sued than keeping kids safe.

We should frame it.

Dad says proof of what they really care about.

Something feels off about how the district keeps mentioning protocols while three different parents reported Mr. Stone for drinking and nothing happened. It makes me wonder what their actual investigation process looks like when every single complaint gets marked unsubstantiated by the same person.

I start writing everything down. Every conversation, every date, every lie they tell. Derek helps me make a timeline on his computer. We realize Mr. Stone had been getting worse all week. Monday, he missed three stops. Tuesday, he took a wrong turn and screamed at a kid who pointed it out. Wednesday, he was 20 minutes late.

It was building up, Dererick says, like a bomb.

Meredith the parillegal gets all the parents together at the library. She knows how to request documents.

We need evidence before they destroy it.

I’ve already filed FOIA requests for all emails mentioning Mr. Stone from the last 3 years.

Can they just ignore those?

Someone asks.

They can try, but I know judges who don’t like it when districts hide things about child safety.

Next board meeting, parents pack the room. It’s standing room only. When they try to go into private session, Meredith stands up.

According to state law section 15.268, 268.

Discussions regarding student safety must be held in open session unless they involve specific medical records.

She’s reading from her phone.

You can’t hide this.

Dr. Richards looks like he wants to strangle her.

We’re following legal counsel.

Your legal counsel is wrong.

I have the attorney general’s opinion right here.

They stay in open session, but they don’t say anything useful. Just bureaucratic word soup about procedures and investigations.

The principal calls me into her office the next Monday, then Blake, then Derek, then Sarah, one by one.

I just want to make sure we have the story straight, she says when it’s my turn.

Sometimes when we’re scared, we might misremember things.

I remember everything perfectly.

Are you sure?

Because Mr. Stone says you kids were being disruptive.

Maybe that’s why he seemed agitated.

He was drunk.

That’s a very serious accusation.

It’s not an accusation.

It’s a fact.

Three bottles of vodka.

She leans forward.

Sometimes what seems like one thing might actually be another.

Maybe he was just having a bad day.

Are you seriously trying to get me to change my story?

I’m just making sure you remember correctly.

Blake recorded his whole conversation. His dad, Bradley Kang, told him to record everything after that threat letter. Good thing, too, because she basically tried to get him to say we were exaggerating.

She kept saying, “Are you sure?

And maybe you misunderstood.”

Blake tells us at lunch like 50 times.

“Then things get really interesting.”

Mr. Stone’s ex-wife messages my mom on Facebook.

I warned them.

Her message says, “6 months ago when I filed for divorce.

I told April Mendoza he was drinking.

I told her he was dangerous.”

She said without proof, they couldn’t do anything.

I said, “What more proof do you need than a wife of 15 years telling you?”

Nobody listened. Mom forwards it to Meredith immediately.

Kate Woodard contacts our parent group next. She used to drive buses but quit last year.

I reported Stone showing up drunk.

April told me to shut up about it or I’d lose my job.

I quit instead.

I kept the emails. She forwards everything. Email after email. April threatening her job, telling her she’s making waves, suggesting she might want to reconsider her employment.

The district announces an internal review, but won’t let any parents or students on the committee.

For your own protection, they say.

Protection from what?

Dad asks at dinner.

The truth.

Isabella has a panic attack at school because she sees a yellow pencil. A pencil. The teacher calls mom and we spend the afternoon at the hospital getting her anxiety meds.

She’s six.

Mom keeps saying to the doctor.

6 years old and she needs anxiety medication.

Trauma doesn’t care about age.

The doctor says half the kids stop coming to school. Their parents won’t put them on buses anymore. My history class has eight kids instead of 25. Teachers look exhausted trying to manage with empty classrooms and worried parents calling constantly.

The state investigators show up 3 weeks later. They are not the local guys who play golf with the superintendent. They are actual state officials with badges and zero patience for BS.

We need to speak with each student individually.

The lead investigator tells our parents. There should be no school officials present. They set up in the community center.

When it’s my turn, the woman across from me actually listens. She writes down every word, asks follow-up questions that make sense.

Did anyone check the emergency exits before that day?

I don’t know.

We just trusted they worked.

Who told you to stop talking about this?

The principal suggested we might be misremembering things.

She writes faster. I can’t stop checking exits now. Movie theaters, restaurants, stores. First thing I do is locate every way out.

Dererick texts me one night.

Dude, I counted exits at Walmart today.

That normal?

I do it, too.

I text back. The therapist mom makes me see calls it hypervigilance. Says it’s because of trauma. Whatever. I just know I’ll never trust that exits work again without checking myself.

April Mendoza announces her retirement 2 days after the state investigators leave. The district claims it’s unrelated.

She got a choice.

Quit or get fired.

Took the pension.

Joey texts my dad. Then someone leaks emails to Channel 7. The superintendent telling April to handle the situation quietly after the second complaint about Mr. Stone.

He knew the whole time.

He knew.

We need to get a lawyer.

Meredith tells the parent group together.

Class action.

23 families chip in. The district’s response. They cancel all field trips for the rest of the year. The official reason is unexpected legal expenses.

They’re punishing the kids for us speaking up.

Mom says Blake shows up to school wearing a homemade shirt.

I survived bus 47.

The principal suspends him for disrupting the learning environment. Bradley Kang is in the office within an hour.

You’re suspending my son for wearing a shirt about surviving attempted vehicular homicide while under your care.

Blake’s back in school 2 days later. Then things get weird. The Guians suddenly drop out of the lawsuit. No explanation, but their dad works for the city and someone definitely threatened his job.

Joey gets fired next. 20 years fixing buses gone for performance issues that mysteriously appeared right after he agreed to testify about the tampered exits.

They’re picking us off, dad says at dinner, making examples.

He’s right. Dererick’s parents make him stop talking about it after their insurance randomly doubles. His dad needs city contracts for his construction business. He can’t afford to make enemies.

2 weeks later, dad loses his warehouse job. Officially, it’s downsizing, but the owner’s brother sits on the school board. Dad was the loudest at those meetings.

We’ll be fine, he tells me.

But I see him up at 3:00 a.m. applying for jobs online. Isabella gets worse. Way worse. She stops eating because she’s afraid she’ll throw up like kids did on the bus.

Won’t sleep because of nightmares. Mom finds her hiding in the closet at 2:00 a.m.. She is convinced she hears the bus coming. The hospital admits her for failure to thrive. That’s what they call it when a kid stops functioning.

The psychiatrist says she has PTSD, like actual PTSD that soldiers get.

She’s six.

Mom keeps saying, “How does a six-year-old have PTSD?”

Trauma doesn’t discriminate by age.

The doctor says the district’s lawyer deposes us kids next. 8 hours of questions. The same questions over and over, trying to trip us up.

You said the driver swerved.

How many feet exactly?

I don’t know.

I was trying not to die, but you can’t give an exact measurement number.

So, you might be wrong about the swerving entirely.

Bradley finally stops it.

You’re badgering minors.