Death of a Cheerleader

It all took a second. Maybe less.

Bobbi blinked—and it was over.

The screams swirled around her, surrounding her.

She wasn’t sure whether she was hearing the squeal of the tires or the cries of the cheerleaders.

And then the world tilted on its side.

With a silent, choked gasp, Bobbi toppled onto Corky. And the two of them, arms flailing helplessly, fell sideways toward the far window.

Which was now the floor.

No time to scream.

It took only a microsecond. Or so it seemed.

The window glass beneath them cracked all the way down the pane like a jagged bolt of lightning.

And still the bus bumped and slid, metal grating against pavement, invading their ears.

Bobbi felt another hard bump. A stab of pain jolted her entire body, made her shake and bounce.

And then all movement stopped. Such an abrupt stop. Such a shattering stop.

I’m okay, Bobbi realized. Her first clear thought.

She was on top of her sister, their arms and legs tangled.

Corky is okay too.

Corky stared up at her openmouthed, her green eyes wide with fear.

All sideways.

She heard muffled cries. Whimpers, like frightened puppies.

“Oh, man.” A loud groan from the front of the bus. From Simmons.

Bobbi pulled herself up. Simmons was trying to stand. But everything was tilted. Everything was wrong.

“Are you okay?” Corky asked in a tiny voice.

“Yeah. I think so,” Bobbi replied uncertainly.

“Then get off me!” Corky cried.

She sounded so angry, it made Bobbi laugh.

Hysterical laughter, she realized, and forced herself to stop.

Got to keep control. Control. Control.

Bobbi looked up to find a row of windows above her head.

“Oh,” she said out loud. She finally realized what had happened. The bus was on its side.

It had rammed into a tree or something, bounced off and toppled onto its side, then skidded to a stop.

“How do we get out?” She heard Kimmy call even though she couldn’t see her.

In the darkness she saw a tangle of arms and legs.

She heard a girl crying. She heard groans and whispers.

“The emergency door. In back!” someone shouted.

Bobbi reached for the emergency door, and tried pushing it open. It was stuck.

“The windows are faster!” someone else cried.

Kimmy stood up, raised both arms high, struggled to slide one of the windows open. Bobbi, balancing uneasily, tried to do the same.

“Can’t you get off me?” Corky asked impatiently.

“I’m trying, okay?” Bobbi replied, not recognizing her own tight, shrill voice.

The window slid open.

Raindrops hit Bobbi’s upturned face. Cold. Fresh.

So clean.

“Is anyone hurt?” Simmons was calling, a tall shadow in the front. 44Is anyone hurt? Who’s crying?”

Bobbi raised herself up, grabbed hold of the window frame.

“Is anyone hurt?”

The rain was just a drizzle now. The rumble of thunder was low and far in the distance.

Bobbi pulled herself halfway out of the bus.

The whole world was shimmering, glistening, wet. Fresh and clean.

The bus tires were still spinning.

Where are we? Bobbi wondered. It all looked so familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

Another face appeared. Debra was emerging from a window closer to the front. “Are you okay?” she called, squinting at Bobbi as if she were far away.

“I think so,” Bobbi replied. “You?”

“Yeah. My wrist—I think it’s sprained. That’s all.”

They pulled themselves out, smiled at each other, buoyed by the fresh air, the cool wetness, of being alive. Then standing on the overturned side that was now the roof, they leaned down into the windows to help other girls escape.

Time seemed to stand still.

Corky joined her sister, slid to the ground, stretched and yawned as if emerging from a long sleep.

The bus headlights, one on top of the other, cut through the air, casting twin spotlights on the jagged tombstones poking up through tall weeds.

Tombstones? Weeds?

Bobbi lowered herself to the ground, her sneakers sinking into the wet grass. Gripping Corky’s ice-cold hand, she turned back toward the street.

Behind them, a tilted street sign read: FEAR ST.

“Oh.” She let go of Corky’s hand. “Look.”

The bus had careened off the road and slid over the grass of the Fear Street cemetery. A thick yellow mist, catching the light from the headlights, lingered between the old gravestones, which rose up like arms and legs from the twisting, bending weeds.

“We’re . . . in the cemetery,” Corky said, her voice a whisper, her expression stunned. “How?”

“We’re only a block from home,” Bobbi said.

“Is everybody out?” Simmons called. He came toward them, taking long strides, his jeans stained at the knees, a bandanna wrapped tightly around a bleeding cut on his arm. “You okay?” he asked the two sisters.

“Yeah,” Bobbi told him.

“Everyone got out,” Simmons said. “No one’s hurt too bad.”

Then Bobbi and Corky cried out at the same time: “Jennifer!”

Where was Jennifer?

In the horror of the crash, in the noise and tilting darkness of it, they had forgotten about her.

Jennifer. Bobbi saw her again. Saw her arms jerk up as she flew out the open bus door—almost as if being pulled out.

“Jennifer?” Corky began calling, cupping her hands over her mouth. “Has anyone seen Jennifer?”

“Jennifer. Jennifer.”

The word buzzed through the group of dazed, frightened girls as they huddled together, squinting against the bright headlights, trying to turn things right side up in their minds.

Trying to make sense of everything.

Trying to convince themselves that they were okay. That everything was going to be fine.

“Jennifer. Jennifer.”

And then Corky saw her.

From behind.

Saw her body sprawled facedown, her head resting on the earth in front of an old tombstone, her arms stretched above her head as if she were hugging the stone.

“Jennifer!” Bobbi shouted.

A sudden gust of wind made Jennifer’s skirt ruffle. But Jennifer didn’t look up, didn’t raise her head.

Corky and Bobbi reached her before the others. Bobbi grabbed her shoulders to roll her onto her back.

“Don’t move her!” someone yelled.

“Don’t touch her! It isn’t safe!”

Bobbi looked up to see Simmons standing beside her, staring down at Jennifer sprawled so awkwardly across the old grave site.

“Let’s carefully roll her over and get her face out of the mud,” he said quietly.

They tugged her gently by the shoulders.

As they turned Jennifer over, the words etched on the old grave marker came into Bobbi’s view: SARAH FEAR. The dates beneath the name had been worn away nearly beyond recognition: 1875-1899.

They laid Jennifer gently onto her back.

“Call an ambulance!” Heather was screaming. “Somebody—call for help!”

Bobbi leaned over Jennifer’s unmoving form. “It’s too late,” she said, choking out the words. “She’s dead.”

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 624