In the mornings the kids get on the bus sleepily. Very few of them will answer my “Good morning.” They sit silently at the back in the pre-winter dark like tombstones in a graveyard. In the afternoon these same kids bounce onto the bus full of vinegar and energy. Some of the more thoughtful kids will meet my eyes and say “hello,” but most look past me to the seat and the company they want. The noise level rises so that I can’t hear the chatter on the bus-to-bus radio. The shortened but constant movement I see in my rear-view mirror reminds me of what I see when I look down on an ant pile.

At the ninth mile outside Nephi, one mile short of Levan, I begin looking forward to the first stop where I can release some of the pressure that has built up inside the bus. It isn’t until after the second stop that I feel relief. The driving elements of the chaos are gone now. While I still see many faces looking back at me in the mirror the remaining kids have returned to their human state. I can see their afternoon plans passing behind their eyes as they await their stops.

Finally the last child climbs down the steps and turns up the street, backpack swinging on one shoulder. I raise the steering wheel, release my seat-belt, and begin to walk the bus to make sure a sleeping child hasn’t missed his stop. I only walk halfway when I stop. There is a girl sitting in the third to last seat next to the window. She was reading until she lifted her eyes and met mine. Such a stillness had come over the bus when the “last” child got off that I hadn’t expected anyone else to remain.  A little embarrassed I return to my seat.

This last girl on the bus lives at the dairy—another three miles out of town. Sometimes she is on the afternoon bus. Sometimes she isn’t. The bus can legally hold 84 students. For these last miles she has it all to herself.  She always does. I glance at her in the mirror as we roll up the highway. Her complexion and hair are fair mixing well with the sunlight that comes through her window. It is almost like camouflage. I can see how I missed her on the last stop. She stares out the window at the pastures and sage brush as we go. My daughter and this last girl on the bus have been friends for a long time. They both dance and dream. This girl talked her mom into getting her a functional mermaid costume. For an entire summer she wore her tail in their little fill-up-with-a-hose pool. Central Utah suddenly had mermaids. The world needs more dreamers like that.

Each time I drive her in her private, yellow coach she is quiet. I always wonder what dreams fill her mind.

I pull into the dairy entrance, stop, and open the door. The cows are curious and stare. They stink.

“Have a good afternoon,” I say.

She flashes a quick smile. “Bye,” she returns.

I watch her as she begins her quarter-mile walk across the gravel to her home at the other end of the compound. She walks with the grace of a dancer. She carries her head with the lightness of a dreamer. She is on the cusp of adulthood. I sense her hopes for the future. I foresee the disappointments she will face. As I watch her my hopes and dreams for my own daughters and everyone else’s walk with her—this last girl on the bus.