The Short Bus

This year I’ll turn forty-eight. I’ll hate everything about it, with one exception: being one year further distanced from that little yellow bus.

7:04 a.m., any day, my junior year of high school: “Honk! Honk!”

There it is, the short bus, announcing itself as it pulls up to my house. Twenty-six minutes early.

Again.

“Honk! Honk! Honk!”

Translation: You have four minutes to get your ass out here before I sit on the horn.

Four minutes and one second later, the honking resumes, in a most insistent fashion.

If this noise keeps up, my face will be plastered on a dartboard in every neighbors’ basement. So, no matter that my hair is wet on one side, boinging out in others; that my bra issn’t fastened, and I’m wearing only one shoe. I rush out to claim my seat among the other “special” kids.

Doug, a freshman: “Hey, June, how many fire hydrants are there in your town?”

My ass hasn’t even hit the seat yet.

Me: “I have no idea.”

Doug: “Guess!”

Me: “No.” It comes out a little pissy.

Doug: “Guess!”

Me: Deep sigh. “One-hundred and thirty-one.”

Doug: “Why do you think that?”

This, before coffee.

Me: “I have no idea, Doug.”

Doug: “My town only has thirty-one, and it’s 2.7 times the size of yours. There’s no way your town has that many!”

Me: Silence; hostile facial expression.

I suffer from depression, damnit. I even tried to off myself. Now I’m contending with a mood disorder, a bad hair day and Doug, all on no caffeine.

“Please,” I beg the driver. “Get me to Dunkin’ Donuts.”