His brains were pink when they came out, and the school bus was, for once, stunned into silence. Blood’s 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 actions have consequences froze the group in fear and anticipation of an unpleasant future.

My friends and I composed a group of ten or so boys who spent most weeknights aboard the broken bus, which had been abandoned behind the school bus garage, 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. Boredom was all we had in common. 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, though we’d done nothing to deserve each other’s loyalty. 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 might have some new idea of what to do on the bus. Maybe even get us off it, which we gradually realized was what we really wanted. After proving himself by stealing from our teacher, 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, taking Ms. Higgins’ wallet 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. The buzzing fluorescent light above the bus garage screamed in our ears, playing some evil chord of rage that made our shoulders tense. He boarded and walked about halfway down the aisle, cautiously asking our names, when we leapt out from behind the green leather seats. We shoved him 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 suspect people who say things like that are lying. They’ve never been 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 encouraging. We’d deliberately 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’d imagined death to be a masculine thing, a 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’s got tits!— you’d 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 there’s 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 Cash’s voice tells you he had cause to watch the asshole die. We dragged the boy’s body off the bus 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’d given us one so it wouldn’t be a blank. Because everything’s 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.

—Jacqui Sahagian is an LSA junior.