The Bad Bus

Like most every other kid in my middle school, I rode the bus to and from school every day.  I always liked riding the bus—you could sit by your neighborhood friends and make jokes and eat junk food, and usually somebody would be up to something mischievous and you could watch and have a laugh. 

This particular year, the route taken by my bus somehow managed to include all the most mischievous kids in the school, it seemed.  “Mischievous” didn’t really cover it, I suppose—this group was just plain bad.  Every day, somebody was getting a referral for fighting, or cussing, or smoking, or throwing things at cars, or throwing things at the driver, or popping holes in the vinyl-covered seats, or any number of other bad deeds.  Even the well-behaved kids on the bus—including myself—got caught up in the moment and began pulling pranks.  For a couple weeks, I kept a children’s fishing rod stashed under my seat, and I would “fish” out the window by tying small toys to the end of the string and casting them into traffic. 

We burned through a number of drivers.  I guess they kept requesting new routes or something, because every six weeks or so we would find what the 8th graders called “fresh meat” behind the wheel.

Our third--or maybe it was our fourth--driver began on November 1st.  Our rowdy “celebration” of Halloween on the bus the previous day had gotten a referral for every student onboard; but since the school could not enforce such a punishment, that driver had evidently quit on the spot.   This new driver, “November” as we called her, had suffered at our hands nearly all the way up to winter break, when finally she began showing the usual signs of strain.  As we sat on the bus, waiting to go home on the last day of school before break, she cranked up the bus’ radio in an effort to calm us down.  Usually the radio only made the students misbehave more (as it was a sign that the driver was getting annoyed), but when the driver tuned in that day, an inexplicable hush went over the entire bus.  The opening piano part of “A Long December” by the Counting Crows played, and when the singing began, every kid on the us joined in whole-heartedly.

The driver couldn’t believe it.  She sang, and we sang, and we all sat politely in our seats and listened to the radio for the rest of the ride.  The first school day in January, we were bad again; but every time “A Long December” came on the radio, we straightened out.  She remained our driver for the rest of the year.