Last One On The Bus

There it is, that moment of terror as I face the three steps up into the big yellow bus after the doors squeak open like the arms of a ghoul reaching out for me. It’s dark in there, and I’m not sure, but I think the driver has to be a zombie or something. He never smiles and just stares at us, watching us in that big mirror up front, waiting for us to sit down.

The walk down the aisle is long, and fraught with enemies, waiting to reach out to grab me, trip me, mock me, jab me with their boney elbows.

I hate being last-one-on-the-bus.

No choice but to sit in the empty seat way toward the back, directly over the wheel well. Every bump and pothole is another opportunity for the bus to launch me into the air, trying to decapitate me, batter me around, throw me on the floor, that blackness that has never been cleaned.

I’m pretty sure the stain on the seat is from where another kid got tossed up in the air and hit his head on the roof of the bus so hard his brains fell out. It’s going to happen to me, and don’t you for a minute think it’s funny, Julie Carson in the front row who won’t ever move her backpack and give me a safe place to sit.

I hate your perfect hair, and your matching outfit.