Bus

Mornings suck. And I know I sound like Garfield here, but I know I have a point, and you know I’m right.

Junior highs around here start school at 9:30. So they get to sleep in more than high school kids or elementary school kids, and therefore, they have more energy to push my limits and test just how far I can go without strangling them.

Alta Vista’s a pretty big neighborhood. I have around five or six stops in it (depending on who’s actually there – some of them just have one or two kids), which takes about twenty minutes to get through. Add that to the fifteen-minute drive to the school, and you got half an hour of rushed discomfort.

And the times which I’m supposed to pick them up are all very specific. Take the stop at the corner of Pollo Frito and Gata Tristeza. The school district says I’m supposed to pick them up at exactly 9:12. Do any of the bus drivers actually follow that rule? Hell no. As long as we get them there so that they’re not late, it’s not a big deal.

They all know the times that they’re supposed to be at the bus stop. Most of the time they’re pretty punctual, but sometimes a few of them wake up late or are too busy finishing their homework (fat chance, though), and they have to make a break for it if they don’t want to be left behind. And even still, there are a few kids who are just consistently late, day after day, time after time. You’d think they’d learn their lesson! Take, for example, the Song twins, Craig and Michelle.

I’m at the stop at Mono Largo, and as usual I’m waiting for them. They’re both running as fast as their little legs can carry them, down their driveway and up the street. Neither of them ever seems to care if I were to just take off without them, which actually makes me want to experiment one of these days with that option…

Nonetheless, I snap out of that little daydream cloud as they rocket up the stairs to the inside of the bus, practically flying to the backseats, breathing like they’d just ran a marathon. Every day I go through this. And every day, they never say, “Thanks, Mr. Doug! I wouldn’t have been able to go to school if you didn’t wait for us!” Just once! That’s all I’m asking.

Anyways, the Songs’ charades put us off schedule by a minute. They’ve been doing this since the beginning of the year, which wasn’t really that long ago, and so far they haven’t taken the hint and realized that they should really leave the house earlier. Not cool.

I step on it and pull through the neighborhood more, ending up at the second-to-last stop, which is where Perro Tramposo intersects with Farandula Amarilla. This is where most of the eighth graders get on (they’re mostly supposed to get on at the first and second stops, but they usually migrate here because it’s closer to their houses), and since they’re generally better-behaved than the straight-out-of-elementary-school morons, a miniscule weight is lifted off my shoulders. Most of the time, the seventh graders wanna act cool in front of the upperclassmen, when the older ones really don’t give a crap. It’s nice to have a little less screaming.

As I turn the corner to make my way to the last stop, a blur of action comes into my vision at the corner. Instinctively, I grow suspicious. But that’s just me.

Well, as it turns out, I was right for being suspicious. ‘Cause actually, there was something going on. Of course, it was kind of obvious – this stop only has one eighth grader on it, and that’s Hector, who never says a word to anybody. How could I have expected him to talk these brats out of something like what they’re doing now?

The street sign, the one that’s supposed to have green, aluminum road signs that say “Perro Tramposo” and “Aseo Tímido” on them in white lettering, is missing from the pole they’re supposed to be attached to.

A few of the boys are at the wrong stop and they’re huddled around one girl, who’s smiling like she’s on top of the world. And also, she’s freakin’ holding the sign in her grubby little thirteen-year-old hands! It looks like she’s proud of what she’s obviously done, and within the bus, a ruckus starts.

“She actually broke the sign?!” a teen in one of the front seat exclaims, her face struck with shock. “Dang, that’s crazy!”

Most of them flock to the right side to get a peek through the window of what’s going on. And as I stop the bus to let the group on, half of them pile out of the damn bus and rush over to inspect it. I mean, what the hell?

“Hey! What’re you doing?! Get back on!” I shout, helplessly trying to usher them back. It’s no use. Around half of the kids have shuffled off, which is a big fat NO-NO, as the county told me when I got this damn job.

I see Hector, earbuds comfortably in, glance back at the mess for half a second. Then he just kinda shrugs it off and boards the bus as if a girl ripping a sign down was just some kind of normal appearance. Looking pleased by the sudden abundance of empty seats, he takes one behind me.

I point to the crowd, which isn’t dying down from the awe. “Why’re they all so fascinated by that?”

Hector doesn’t respond. He isn’t ignoring me, though. So I call his name and he jolts at attention. “Uh, I don’t know. They’re, um…yeah.”

I groan something awful and unbuckle myself, putting the yellow beast into park. Stomping down the steps, I motion for them to get back on it. Few comply, but with some more badgering, they file on.

However, I stop the culprit girl in her tracks. Her pride looks like it’s just been wounded by me, and she has a nasty scowl written all over her face at me. I swear, man, if looks could kill…

“So you took the sign down?” I ask her.

She doesn’t answer. She just spits a vicious lugee at the ground.

“C’mon. I know you did it.”

“Why does it matter?!” she growls, sneering just like a four-year-old throwing a tantrum.

I cross my arms, not appreciating her snippy attitude. “That’s property damage, right there! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“Maybe I just wanted to keep the sign, huh? You ever think of that?” she defies, no hint of joking in her voice.

“That sign is public freakin’ property, kid. You can’t just take it.”

She shakes the strawberry blonde curls of messy hair out of her eyes, turning red.

“I’m gonna have to write you up for this. What’s your name?”

The girl only mumbles something incomprehensible that I couldn’t catch if my life depended on it.

“What now?”

“I said, KATIE KURASZ! Jesus Christ, what are you, deaf?!” she screams.

Deep breaths, Doug. In and out. You can’t hit children. You’ll lose your job…

“Okay,” I grunt heavily, suppressing any thoughts of strangling small animals instead, “you’re getting a referral. But damaging the sign isn’t the only thing you’re getting written up for.”

“Big fat whoop. You’re not my teacher,” she laughs.

“But I can still suspend you, whether it’s from the bus or from school, period,” I inform her.

“Your mom can still suspend me,” she mutters, mocking me with a grossly deep voice.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Oh yeah, real mature, kid. You expect to kiss boys with that attitude?”

“You expect to kiss girls with that gut?” she backfires.

I narrow my eyes at her. Cheeky little brat.

When we get back on the bus and I actually take them to school, the chatter is all about the sign. “How’d you do it?” “Why’d you do it?” “Did you climb the pole and just hang from it?”

The incident made us five minutes late. So basically, all of them got five minutes shaved off of their already-short time to get to their classes. Somehow I think they all inwardly blamed me.

But I wasn’t the one hanging from that god-forsaken sign. Instead of blaming Katie, all of them (boys especially) just flocked to her side and said she was “so cool” for doing such a thing.

Kids these days.