Our school bus skidded, the tires losing their grip on the slippery river road. My heart raced. All I could think was, I’m too young to die!
I clutched the edge of my seat. The narrow road wound along a steep slope, dicey even under normal conditions, but this morning it was coated with a slick layer of ice. I could see the river below—a 30-foot drop. I pictured the bus somersaulting into its freezing waters, the headlines in tomorrow’s paper. Michigan Teen Dies in Icy Plunge—Never Even Made It to Prom. My devastated parents. Our whole community in mourning.
If it weren’t for one tiny house at the end of this dead-end road, we wouldn’t even be in this mess. But the boy who lived there had just been added to our bus route. No wonder the county hadn’t plowed or salted here. There were hardly any other houses up this way. Who would ever want to live out in the middle of nowhere?
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The school bus fishtailed down the road and we picked up the kid. I tried not to glare at him. No one made a sound until we finally reached the turn onto the highway, the plowed, ice-free highway. I exhaled. Everybody started talking again, about the school dance, the football game, homework, pop quizzes. We were safe…for now.
But what about the ride back?
I tried to concentrate in my classes that morning, but my stomach churned every time I thought about the river road. What good would algebra do me now? Something bad was going to happen that afternoon. I just knew it.
At lunch I stopped by the main office to pick up a book from the school secretary. Someone was talking quietly in the principal’s office. I lingered outside, biting my nails.
“It’s too dangerous,” a gruff voice said. I recognized that voice. Mr. Adams, the bus driver.
“Are you sure?” the principal asked.
“This morning we came close to going in the river,” Mr. Adams said. “I don’t know what we’re gonna do.”
I bolted out of the office and collapsed against the lockers, shaking. Even Mr. Adams was freaked. Why couldn’t the boy’s parents just come and pick him up?
The afternoon bell rang. We all got on the bus. I sank down low in my seat. I didn’t want to talk with my friends. The sun was shining, but it was still freezing cold. When we reached the exit onto the river road, all I could see was sparkling ice. Mr. Adams wiped the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. He was about to turn. Please, dear God, save us!
This was it. We were going to skid over the edge. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for something. Glass shattering. Screaming. All I heard, though, was a low rumble. We weren’t moving. I opened my eyes.
A huge truck had pulled in front of us. Sand and gravel spilled from its load bed onto the treacherous road, covering the ice. It churned ahead, maneuvering the turns with ease.
Mr. Adams turned and followed the trail the truck had left, all the way to the house at the end of the road. The boy jumped off the bus and ran inside. Mr. Adams, though, didn’t turn around right away. He just sat there, scratching his head. What was he waiting for?
Then I looked to see what Mr. Adams was so confused about. The gravel trail ended right in front of the tiny house, but the gravel truck…where had it gone?
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