Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

18 | Step On Gas

DOMINGO
6:39 AM

Dahlia Gray

I knew, agreeing to driving lessons with Harlow, I wasn't going to learn how to navigate behind the wheels in under two weeks.

It would've been hopeful thinking, to learn how to drive and take my driving test all in one go, but I knew it was close to impossible. We haven't even started doing the actual driving yet—either from Harlow's lack of confidence in my ability to operate a vehicle or in my own lack of optimism that I could handle it.

Whatever the case may be, I'm just going to have to learn how to overcome this obstacle.

I decided to take the public bus. I knew absolutely nothing about the city's main load of transportation, or how it operates, and I tried memorizing the bus routes and their schedules last night. It became a bust, however, and I resorted to printing it out instead.

The closest time for a bus in early morning, to the city, was at 6:45AM, and it would take an hour and a half to the city. We would arrive in the city at approximately 8:15AM, and then I would hop onto another bus at 8:25AM to get to SAINT Laboratories. That would take an additional fifteen minutes.

The thing about the whole situation is: I'm fine with waking up at six in the morning to get ready, to have breakfast and head to work. Especially on the weekends. However, the real issue will be the weekdays—where I have school and I would need to make it to SAINT Laboratories by four. I finish school at three.

I really hope I plan this out right.

I hear the exhaustion of a vehicle pull up, and I look up from my stacks of papers to see an approaching bus. I read the name—apparently there's different types of buses—and it matched the one in my timetable.

The door swings open and I'm the first one to board, handing out a dollar and a couple of cents for the ticket, to which the tired bus driver raggedly rips from his roll. I thank him, nonetheless, and head off to find a seat in the back.

The moment the bus pulls out of the bus stop and begins to follow its route, anxiety begins to pool at the pit of my stomach over my decision. My thoughts taking me to places, telling me I got on the wrong bus, or how I should get off and not make a fool of myself for accepting such an opportunity.

I try to ignore all those feelings, distracting myself with the stack of papers I printed out for myself. It was the paperwork the website told me to read over—including some extras, such as the layout of the headquarters, the time schedule, and the needs-to-knows for the new interns.

The ride took about an hour and thirty minutes, like I predicted, and the moment the bus stopped at the city's bus stop, people began to pick up their belongings and head towards the exit. I didn't realize how quick we got here, and I begin to panic, throwing my backpack over my shoulders and slipping the pages back into the folder in a neat order.

I was the last one out, and the moment I stepped out onto the city's sidewalks, I picked up a light breeze. It's been a while since I've returned to the city, and it's unnerving to admit that I'll be working here soon.

In trade of suburban living; with small stores, buildings the size of a modern home, a population exceeding less than fifty-thousand people, and a handful of activities to choose from—I'm met with skyscrapers that tower over each other in competition, dense city-life with bustling people walking through the streets and an abundant amount of activities to pick from.

I had to strip my eyes away from admiring the city and check the time. It reads that it's a little after eight-twenty, which means I have about fifteen minutes to get to the bus stop for the next transition.