Prologue: Headlights

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

- Robert Frost

A couple of half-hearted verses of We are the Champions still burst raggedly out of the orchestra group, but four hours of traveling had channeled the Westbrook High School's victory into contented exhaustion. As the yellow school bus continued on its never-ending trek across the highway, talk and hand gestures slowed from fervid excitement to noncommittal grunts, and then ceased all together. Soon the only movement came from the necessary taking and releasing of breath, and even that was slow and patient. Fourteen eyes, ranging from darkest black to palest blue, stared lazily into space. Seven high school students, two juniors and five seniors, let tiredness sink in and gentle their movements.

Eighteen-year-old Andrew Cantor had given up talking to his best friend an hour ago, and let the music from his iPod rise and fill his head with classic rock, alternative pop, and Beethoven's fifth. One musician's hand ran through the too-short blonde hair, while the other held his violin case to his chest as the bus hit another bump. Green eyes tiredly watched the headlights of other travelers cut through the velvet night. Even the pride in showing off his first place trophy to his brothers could no longer keep him awake. Thoughts of Aaron and Jason could wait till the dingy bus pulled into the school parking lot and he came home. Andrew blinked back sleep, but each time his eyelids grew heavier, heavier, heavier . . .

The bus driver counted down the minutes till his next cigarette, blinking back sleep with the help of a black coffee – no sugar. But the coffee had lost it flavor and heat half an hour ago and his movements were sluggish on the steering wheel as his foot rested heavily on the accelerator. Not even the sight of his still receding hairline could stir a reaction from his exhausted brain.

And then, without warning, headlights were in front of him, facing the wrong direction. A dark car up ahead was spinning wildly out of control. The bus driver couldn't react fast enough. He couldn't even move. He thought for a second that it was ironic he would die this way, when his kids had always told him he would die of lung cancer. But then all thought was lost as the windshield shattered into a thousand pieces, and flew through the air, murdering the night.

Screech. Slam. Brake. Jerk. Thud. Andrew's world was in single syllables as gravity lost its balance and glass fell through the air. His ears were full of the still blaring music from his ear buds and the screams of his friends. Bits of glass hit his arms and legs and face, and that was the last thing he saw . . . red blood soaking into the light blue cotton of his jacket. It barely even hurt; there was only a brief moment of awareness and pain. Then soothing darkness rushed in with butterfly kisses to cover his sight and take all his cares away . . .

Andrew Cantor sunk down, down, down . . .