His brains were pink when they came out and the school bus was, for once, stunned into silence. Blood is red, more familiar and easier to take. The color of my mother’s eyes, not her lingerie. We made each other bleed on a regular basis, as a rite of passage, but something here this time slipped. The forced realization that there are consequences for actions froze the group in fear and anticipation of an unpleasant future.
My friends and I spent most weeknights aboard the bus while our parents slept. Weekends it belonged to the high schoolers. Their remnants were cigarette butts and foul female underwear. Why we kept returning after our hijinks (taking the last few drags off a discarded joint, attempts to hotwire the bus and go somewhere nicer, fist fights over girls we weren’t old enough to be attracted to) got old, I can’t say. The boredom turned sour and the group sourness turned to cruelty behind our backs. Our lives became proving our toughness and loyalty to our bus brothers. The first test was extreme sleep deprivation, then fights. We were always testing.
In the fall when a new kid wanted to join the brotherhood we pounced. Someone new could have some new idea of what to do on the bus. Maybe even get us off it, which we gradually started to realize was what we really wanted. After proving himself by enduring orchestrated public humiliation we invited him to his first meeting. Someone stole beers from his parents to make the unprecedented occasion more special. We decided the best course of action would be to test his fighting ability by attacking him off guard. He thinks he’s passed the only test, he must think we’re a bunch of goddamn sissies. He thinks that little stint at recess was a test? Kid stuff. We ain’t no kids.
We waited with the folding doors open, anxiously picking at the duct tape holding back springs and foam that strained to get loose of the seats. I don’t know how we saw him coming in the dark. I don’t know how I remember the colors so vividly when there was no moon or streetlights. He walked about halfway down the aisle when we leapt out from under the green leather benches. He was shoved to the floor. The treads to prevent elementary students from slipping in snowy boots cut stripes in his face. I wish I could say I got confused in the mob, that I don’t know what exactly happened, that the memory is tarnished with youth. I have a suspicion that people who say things like that are lying. They’re never called out for it because we want to believe them.
The addicts’ mantra: I can stop whenever I want to; only I don’t want to.
His screams of fear turned to screams of pain, but that was only encouraging. We had purposefully elected no leaders to stop us or take the blame. I recognized the empty beer bottle in my hand as I kicked his testicles. It showered us with brown broken glass. Gashes to be worn with pride, make the younger girls fear us, teachers cringe.
We had imagined death to be a masculine, black thing. Instead it was my baby sister’s bedroom sheets; flowers and perfume. Scared me deeper than the grim reaper and gravestones. Courting death was nothing more than throwing sticks at the 7th grader (she has tits!) you had a crush on all year. Courting death was whoever kept losing their underwear in the back of the bus. Courting death was what we were afraid to do, ask a girl to dance. I now recognize the word courting and understand that there is no violence in it.
Truth is he died of indifference. The impulse you have to swerve your car straight into the oncoming lane, just because it would be so easy. Truth is, the author of this story is afraid to drive or learn to shoot a gun for that very reason. Like how Johnny Cash says, “I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die,” except something in the man’s voice tells you he had cause to watch the asshole die. We dragged his body off the bus and into some weeds. Walked home tails between our legs though not nearly as sympathetic as dogs, knowing we were going to be caught.
One of the things they talked about after was motive. None of us could answer that question even though the word was defined for us many times. Simply-why? I wish he had given us one so it wouldn’t be a blank space. Because everything is ok with reason. We were so young, it could only be insanity, but we were steady as rocks. If they really wanted to punish me they’d put up pink curtains.
