Home Again (Spirited Away)

The Sixth Stop

The honking of the bus is what wakes me up in the morning.

        It's hard work, pushing myself up out of bed. The covers create this greenhouse effect, perfectly warming every inch of me. I have to convince myself to get up, and even when I'm finally sitting up, I spend five minutes staring at my feet hanging off the side of the bed, trying to convince myself to start getting ready for school.

        Then the bus's horns blow, and I whirl around to look at the clock.

        7:15 A.M.

        Holy freaking crap.

        I bolt off the bed, throw my closet door open, and grab the first white polo and purple skirt combination I can find. I toss them on the bed and wriggle out of my PJ's as fast as I can, looking looking looking at that freaking traitor of a clock that didn't go off on time. I yank on the shirt, pulling the small hole over my head and buttoning them up. I literally jump into the skirt, hopping on one foot while trying to shove the bottom of my polo into the waistband.

        7:19 A.M.

        Slamming the closet door shut, I glance at my hair in the mirror. My gosh, a mouse or a bird or something inhabited my hair last night. I make a mad grab for my brush and yank the knots out of my hair until it look semi-presentable. Jerking the handles of my sock drawer, I pull it open and grab a pair of knee-high socks, which I think are ridiculous but are also included in the school's dress code. When I finally tug them both on, I drop to the floor, reach under my bed, and pull out my shoes. Shoving  toes into them, I grab for my backpack and throw on my jacket and bolt out the door into the bathroom.

        7:24 A.M.

        Running my toothbrush under the faucett, I grab the toothpaste. While trying to get some on the bristles, I accidentally squeeze the tube too hard, and toothpaste goes everywhere. Hissing under my breath, I shake my hand out in the water and roll the toothbrush around in my mouth. I brush back and forth once and spit, then wipe my hand across my mouth and slam the door to the bathroom shut on my way out.

        7:28 A.M.

        I fly down the stairs, leaping all the way down to the bottom, and start running. My parents are idly chittchatting in the kitchen, and I yell out a "Bye Love You Gotta Go" so they know that I am in fact alive and on my way to school.

        Mom calls back, "Chihiro? Honey, toast!"

        Mom, in the past few years, has learned the fine art of chucking Ziploc baggies filled with various forms of breakfast foods across eighteen feet of living room. I, luckily, catch it on my way out, shouting back, "Thanks Mom Gotta Go Bye!"

        The bus is just passing my driveway when I get out the front door. I scream, "Wait! Wait, no, crap! Hold up!" I break out into a dead sprint and bolt toward the bus. "Hey! Hey, wait!"

        The driver, a sensible man of forty years or so, must see me in the rearview mirror, for he begins to speed up. Dramatically.

        "No! No! . . . Dang it, you . . . butthole!" I scream, wanting to say worse but not doing so because the neighbors' four-year-old is waddling around in their yard. "No! Stop! Please, stop!"

        The bus starts down the long, steep hill connecting the top from the bottom, and as it gets further and further away, I start losing speed.

        "No!" I wail, stuck in the middle of the road as the bus gets smaller and smaller. I stamp my foot on the ground and yell, "Come ON!"