TINKS
Your mother hollers that you're going to miss the bus. She can see it coming down the street. You don't stop and hug her and tell her you love her. You don't thank her for being a good, kind, patient mother. Of course not—you hurdle down the stairs and make a run for the corner.
Only, if it's the last time you'll ever see your mother, you sort of start to wish you'd stopped and did those things. Maybe even missed the bus.
But the bus was barreling down our street so I ran.
* * *
As I raced down the driveway I heard my mom yell for my brother, Alex. His bus was coming down Park Trail Drive, right behind mine. His bus came at 7:09 on the dot. Mine was supposed to come at 6:57 but was almost always late, as if the driver agreed it wasn't fair to pick me up before 7:00.
Alex ran out behind me and our feet pounded the sidewalk in a dual sneaker-slap rhythm.
"Don't forget," he called. "We're going to the Salvation Army after school."
"Yeah, sure," I said.
My bus driver laid on the horn.
Sometimes we went over to rummage for old electronics after school. I used to drive him before the gas shortage. But now we took our bikes.
I used to drive him to school, too. But since the shortage everyone in our school, everyone, even the seniors, took the bus. It was the law, actually.
I vaulted up the bus steps.
Behind me I heard Mrs. Wooly, who has been driving the elementary–middle school bus since forever, thank Alex sarcastically for gracing them with his presence.
Mrs. Wooly, she was an institution in our town. A grizzled, wiry-haired, ashtray-scented, tough-talking institution. Notorious and totally devoted to bus driving, which you can't say about everyone.
On the other hand, the driver of my bus, the high school bus, was morbidly obese and entirely forgettable. Mr. Reed. The only thing he was known for was that he drank his morning coffee out of an old jelly jar.
Even though it was early in the route, Jake Simonsen, football hero and all-around champion of the popular, was already holding court in the back. Jake had moved to our school from Texas a year ago. He was a real big shot back in Texas, where football is king, and upon transfer to our school had retained and perhaps even increased his stature.
"I'm telling y'all—concessions!" Jake said. "At my old high school a bunch of girls sold pop and cookies and these baked potatoes they used to cook on a grill. Every game. They made, like, a million dollars."
"A million dollars?" Astrid said.
Astrid Heyman, champion diver on the swim team, scornful goddess, girl of my dreams.
"Even if I could make a million dollars, I wouldn't give up playing my own sport to be a booster for the football team," she said.
Jake flashed her one of his golden smiles.
"Not a booster, baby, an entrepreneur!"
Astrid punched Jake on the arm.
"Ow!" he complained, grinning. "God, you're strong. You should box."
"I have four younger brothers," she answered. "I do."
I hunkered down in my seat and tried to get my breath back. The backs of the forest green pleather seats were tall enough that if you slouched, you could sort of disappear for a moment.
