Eight

And So It Begins

     It's six forty five in the morning when I get to the bus stop, but it feels like the middle of the night. Probably because I didn't get much sleep last night, on account of having the dream again. Also, six o'clock is way too early to be getting up every morning. I don't know how I'm going to make it through each day without falling asleep.

     I always pictured this morning being bright and sunny, with eager students and even more eager parents, squealing "Good luck Sally!" and "Have a good first day, Tommy!". You know, the usual overly cheerful BS that's really a reflection of their excitement that their kids will be out of the house for eight hours a day. But today, gray clouds block out the sun, the other kids are just as tired as I am, and there isn't a parent to be seen. It's all very anticlimactic.

     I hear the bus before I see it round the corner, with still no sign of Jamie. Did she oversleep? Or maybe her mom drove her. Although I'd like to think that she would've invited me along, so I wouldn't have to be standing out here right now at this ungodly hour as freezing cold water droplets begin to dot my hair.

The bus pulls up and kids start to climb aboard. I'm about to give up on Jamie when a voice calls out from down the sidewalk. "Waaaaaiiiiit! I'm coming! I'm coming!" Jamie runs down the sidewalk wearing brand new shorts and a bright orange blouse. Her hair is freshly curled, and now being ruined by the rain. I guess I wasn't the only one with different expectations for today.

After the bus picks up the last of the frightened new students, the driver turns off the engine and gets up to face us. "Good morning, kids, my name is Mr. Bob," he says in the most routine tone possible, as if he gives this speech five times a day. "I want to make sure you all have a good and safe school year, so I'm going to go over the safety rules with you. First of all, no eating or drinking on the bus. I don't care if you're starving to death; it can wait until you get off the bus. Second, no getting up while the bus is moving. No running up and down the aisles, no climbing over the seats, no climbing under the seats. No stuffing candy wrappers in holes in the seats. No yelling. No collectively singing Christmas carols as loud as humanly possible. Do not stick your heads or arms out of the bus window. Do not throw water bottles out the window. Do not open the emergency exit, even if you think there's an emergency. No smoking. If you really have to throw up or go to the bathroom, hold it...."

"Yeesh, who does he think we are?" Jamie whispers to me. "He's acting like we're four-year-old barbarians."

"Who smoke," I add. Jamie and I snicker at that.

"Something funny, girls?" Mr. Bob looks at us with the angry face of a hungry bear who just got poked by a leprechaun. This thought combined with the fact that his brown hair and full fuzzy beard make him look like a bear causes me to laugh even more. Stop! I command myself. But the more enraged he looks, the less control I have over my laughter. Jamie has stopped laughing at this point and is looking at me with disbelief and concern, along with the rest of the bus. Finally, the bus driver snaps, "Young lady! You'd have a good mind to stop that at once, or I shall report you to the school office, which isn't a very good impression for your first day of school!" I'm shocked into silence, startled by both his booming voice and his angry threat. Are all grown-ups this mean in junior high?

I slouch in my seat so the bus driver can't see me anymore, and he returns to his speech. "As I was saying, I want you all to have a safe, and respectful," he emphasizes the word as I feel guilty chills run down my spine, "year of school, so it is in your best interest to comply with all the rules I have just listed. Thank you." He sits down and starts the bus up again.

Jamie checks the time on her watch. "Great. Now we're running late."

I blush as I begin to feel kids' eyes staring at me, digging deep into my soul and judging me for what just happened. "Sorry," I mutter.