I didn’t meet her until three months of the school year had passed. It was about 6:50 am and very dark. She was lucky I saw her at all. If I had taken any other route to my first stop, as I sometimes do, I wouldn’t have noticed this little girl standing on the corner. Her mother was with her. I almost drove by them because they weren’t at the official stop; I wasn’t sure they were waiting for me. But then how many elementary children are waiting at the curb at 6: 50 am with an expectant look on their face?

I pulled over just in case it was me they were waiting for. It turns out they had just moved in to the basement apartment in the house on the corner and they wanted Breamly to take the bus to school. I explained to the mother where the stop actually was—a half block up the street—and that Breamly wouldn’t need to be at the stop for another hour. At the moment I was picking up high school students. The mother understood, but since Breamly was already up and ready she got on the bus and disappeared into the darkness behind me.

I continued on my way picking up mainly secondary school students on my long, winding country route. The sun was almost peeking over the mountain by the time I dropped the older students off at the high school. Next I drove back past Breamly’s house to the stop where fifteen elementary students were queuing up. After one more stop I drove them to their elementary school on the other side of town. It was 8:00 am when they filed off the bus at the school.  I was turning to get out of my seat to check for any sleepers when I noticed Breamly standing quietly at my elbow.

“Do you know where the office is?” she asked in a small voice. I could barely hear her. Her green eyes looked frightened.

“What?” I said “Haven’t you been here before?”

She shook her head.

I didn’t understand. Had her mother really just sent her off on her own on her first day to a new school?

I could give her directions to walk around the school to the front doors. The office was just inside. Or I could get out of my seat and take her there myself. I was just getting up when two other of my riders came up to the front of the bus. It turns out they had been checking for sleepers for me.  They had heard that she was looking for the office.

“She’s new here?” the sixth grader asked.

“Yes, and she needs to go to the office,” I said.

“Oh, we can take her there,” they responded. They were enthusiastic, maybe overly so. I noticed they were treating her with the care they would give a first grader even though Breamly was in third grade. Breamly was all smiles that night when got on the bus to go home.

In the afternoon I drop around forty-five other kids, including Breamly, at Breamly’s stop. Most of them walk down the street toward the back of the bus after they exit. Breamly walks up the street in front of the bus. She usually gains a half block on me while I wait for the last kid to hop out the door. Then I cruise slowly up the street until I pass Breamly and a few other kids who go that way, too.

I think it was Breamly who started it; she would smile and wave with an outstretched arm as I passed. At some point I started honking as I passed her—two short bursts of the air horn. She got to where she would pretend not to hear the bus coming until she heard the two blasts. Then she would turn, stretch out her arm in a graceful wave, and give me a smile that reminds me of the sunrise in the morning. I looked forward to that moment each afternoon.

Sometimes the rest of the kids were slow to get off the bus. They might stop to talk to me, complain, or tell me a story. When this happened Breamly would reach her home before I reached her. I would see her disappear down the stairs before I could honk for her. I would honk anyway as I passed her house in the hopes that she would hear and know I was thinking of her.

Suddenly, just last week, I noticed that Breamly wasn’t in the large group of kids getting off the bus at her stop.

“I wonder where Breamly is,” I said out loud as kids passed by my seat. One of them happened to hear me.

“Oh, Breamly moved,” he said.

My heart missed a beat at this news. I realized he must be right because I hadn’t seen her in the morning or night runs for a few days.

That street seems empty to me now. The sun doesn’t rise anymore in the afternoon. As I pass that basement door I can still feel the warmth as I remember her smile.

All is not lost. There are three other kids who walk the same direction that Breamly did. They are siblings. They always got off the bus quite a ways after Breamly and trailed her by quite a distance. One of them is in kindergarten. He will hear me coming and start to run up the road as if he is racing me. I will honk at him—two short blasts—as I pass. He will give me some body language that says, “Dang it, you beat me again,” and slow to a walk. It isn’t the sun rising, but it’s still fun.

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Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories from the Driver’s Seat is now available on Amazon.com

Bus Driver’s Diaries: Stories From the Drivers Seat