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JESSA

Soph had another nightmare …

That was all the text message said.

The after-school daycare bus shuddered as I killed the ignition, letting out a sigh that pretty well captured how I felt: tired as hell, going nowhere.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, leaned over the aisle, and shoved my phone with more force than necessary into the cubby labeled MS. JESSA.

I knew exactly what those ellipses meant without my sister having to spell it out for me.

My daughter, Soph ie, had another nightmare … about me .

I blew out a breath and sat back in the driver ’ s seat, eying the double doors of Northridge Elementary ’ s main building. I was early for my first pickup, but just barely.

I shifted my gaze back to the four-by-four row of cubbies that had been retrofitted just inside the bus door, above the handrail. Each cubby had a little plexiglass door, labeled with a name that belonged to each of the students who would burst through the shiny blue doors of the elementary school as soon as the final bell rang.

A sign fixed to the top of the cubbies read, THIS BUS IS A NO-PHONE ZONE! in cutesy, curly purple font that arced above the Bright Beginnings Childcare Center logo: a bunch of children staring lovingly, and directly, into the sun.

“Very bright,” I mumbled to myself, same as I had every day this week. The childcare center was supposed to be getting a new fleet of buses soon. Maybe they ’ d spring for a new logo, too.

When I ’ d started this job—only a week ago—I ’ d learned that the childcare center had a strict no-phones policy for its bus drivers and students. That was fine with me, but I ’ d been surprised by how many of the kids already had phones in elementary school. One of the first-graders. Both of the third-graders. All but one of the fourth-graders.

I side-eyed the cubbies and thought about reaching into the box labeled MS. JESSA to type back a quick reply to Lisa ’ s text. I knew I should ask my sister how Soph was doing. Find out whether I could come by the house after my route. I could offer to bring pizza for dinner. Or just ask for details about my nine-year-old daughter ’ s nightmare.

That was the right thing to do. The good-mom thing to do. I ’ d really sucked at that lately, though.

I appreciated the fact that Sophie had been able to live with Lisa instead of being funneled into the foster-care system. But it still hurt that I ’ d had to ask about my daughter ’ s well-being like a game of telephone for the past three years.

So I left the phone in its cubby and shifted in the driver ’ s seat, craning my neck to gaze in the rearview mirror so I could scrutinize my own face in the harsh, late-afternoon light. Then I forced a smile that didn’t reach my eyes and wiped the beads of sweat collecting beneath the thick mop of bangs I ’ d cut just before moving back to Idaho three months ago.

The bangs had been yet another mistake.

I ’ d been trying for fresher, younger. I got neither. Combined with the “ luxe mahogany ” box dye I ’ d splurged on, the bangs made it look like I was wearing a too-bright red wig on top of my former blonde, middle-parted hair. Before the hair hack job, I ’ d looked every day of my thirty-eight years. Now I came across as at least mid-forties.

Maybe my hair color was the reason Soph was having nightmares, I thought hopefully. Because I looked so different from before.

I pushed the thought away before I could really latch onto it.

I knew better. That wasn’t the reason.

CLANG.

“Shit.” I startled at the noise—more gong than bell—that announced the end of the school day. I put the key back into the ignition, ignoring the fast thud of my heart and the fizz of anxiety that bubbled in my stomach.

“Just get through it,” I whispered under my breath, trying to keep the smile on my face as I pulled the lever to open the bus doors. After a week on the job, I felt more confident that I could handle the lumbering bus and the kids. I ’ d nearly had a panic attack on the first day, so even a little confidence was progress.

“ Hi, Ms. Jessa, ” a solemn little boy with auburn hair and freckles mumbled as he boarded the bus, his eyes landing on my name tag near the speedometer.

“Hi, Ked,” I replied as soon as I saw which cubby he was sliding his phone into. Ked. Who named their kid after a shoe?

Two little girls with messy black curls dashed down the sidewalk and boarded the bus after Ked. Sage, a lanky sixth grader, and her first-grade sister —and shadow—Bonnie.

I pasted a smile onto my face then glanced away. With her long hair, freckles, and thick pink glasses, Bonnie could’ve been a rewound version of my Sophie. Sage, with her bob haircut and pierced ears, looked like the fast-forwarded version.

“ Hi Sage, hi Bonnie, ” I chirped, proud of myself for remembering their names—and sounding perky.

“Just sit with Rose,” Sage told her sister, ignoring me completely. Then she plopped down in the front seat and set her backpack in the space beside her.

“But I want to sit here, ” Bonnie whined.

Sage sighed like she was being asked to donate a kidney. “I ’ m saving it. ”

“Ms. Jessa said we can ’ t save seats. That ’ s against the rules,” Bonnie said triumphantly.

Behind her on the bus steps, a little girl with a blonde bowl cut nodded vigorously. “Yeah, you can ’ t save seats, Sage.”

This was technically true, but I had no idea how I ’ d actually enforce that rule. My training hadn’t covered that, and Sage had a defiant look on her face that told me she was about to argue. So I said, “ Sage, put your phone in the cubby. Bonnie, why don ’ t you just sit somewhere else today?”

Bonnie ’ s brown eyes widened, and I knew that look. Unless something changed, she was going to start crying. “ But … I want to show her my clay person,” she whispered. “ We made them today in art.”

I gave Sage a pleading look as she rolled her eyes and stood to slide her pink phone into the cubby with her name on it. Come on, kid. I just want to drive the damn bus. And I don ’ t even really want to do that.

To my surprise, she relented.

“ Fine, ” Sage muttered, rolling her eyes as Bonnie slid past her into the bench. “ What ’ s a clay person, anyway?”

When all of the phones in the cubbies were accounted for—minus the two students absent for the day—I checked the enormous sideview mirror and caught eyes with a random teacher standing at the curb near the bus with her line of students for parent pickup.

I waved at her and smiled a little too enthusiastically.

She tilted her head and waved but didn ’ t smile back.

Shit. I shoved the bus into gear and peeled away from the curb more quickly than I ’ d intended. The stream of irrational thoughts kept coming like they had every time anyone gave me a funny look.

She knows you lied on your job application.

She knows what you did.

I eased my foot off the gas and pushed the panic down. Calm down. She ’ s a teacher, not a psychic.

When I risked another look in the mirror, the teacher was busy helping a little boy find something in his backpack.

I forced in a deep breath and brought my eyes back to the road.

“ Ms. Jessa drives like Mom,” Bonnie murmured to Sage, interrupting her own speech about clay people.

“ That ’ s just how moms drive,” Sage shot back matter-of-factly.

I coughed to hide the laugh that escaped my mouth and checked my speed as I turned onto the rural highway.

The Bright Beginnings after-school childcare and rec center was a good thirty-minute drive from Northridge, including a detour for my second pickup at Southridge Elementary. It was a hot afternoon, but with the air-conditioning blasting and the kids safely loaded, the ride was now almost enjoyable. I ’ d grown up in Idaho, but had been out of state long enough to forget how much I always loved its scrubby beauty. A lot of people complained about the “ ugly” brown foothills dotted with sagebrush breaking up the cheatgrass in muted green clumps, but the landscape felt both dearly familiar and beautifully wild to me.

I sat up a little straighter in the lumpy driver ’ s seat and glanced back at the kids, letting myself feel normal for half a second. Pretending I was just another mom with a part-time job. Pretending that my Sophie was one of the kids behind me, instead of taking a different bus home to my sister.

With each zip of the wheels on the road, I practiced the mantra I ’ d read online in a blog post entitled “ 9 Therapy Hacks You Can Try at Home.”

I accept my past, understand my present, and look forward to my future.

I gave up repeating the phrase before I even reached the exit where the highway crossed the river and moved back toward Boise.

I didn ’ t accept any of it.

Shaking my head, I shifted my attention back to the road as I made the turn off the interstate and onto the empty county highway. My second and final pickup for aftercare was at Southridge Elementary for just one student, and it meant a ten-minute detour into the boonies. I ’ d gotten lost the first time I drove this route, winding through the switchbacks of rural roads in a panic, too paranoid to grab my phone out of its cubby for directions. One of the kids would definitely narc.

Supposedly, Bright Beginnings was getting a new fleet of buses—complete with dashboard navigation—soon. But for now, drivers were expected to know their routes.

In the distance an orange sign sat in the middle of the road. Was there road construction? It was too far away to tell.

I gritted my teeth in frustration and nudged the bus a little faster.

At this point, my entire life was a detour. The last thing I needed was another one.