I hated riding the bus. I hated it so bad. But you know what I hated almost as much? Waiting for the bus! Oh boy, that was the pits.
Cara and Mack Strawberry were fraternal twins. I think they still are. They were in my grade, and they lived up the street, much closer to the bus stop. They didn't hate waiting for the bus as much as I did because they ate pancakes beforehand. (I know it's true not just because they smelled like syrup, but also because they told me so.)I wanted to tell you too that there was some rule that if the bus was running 30 minutes late or more, you could just go home. Sometimes we'd count down the minutes. A couple times it was close, but the awful yellow tank always rounded the bend toward us.
Sometimes we had a mean lady busdriver, and sometimes we had a mean man busdriver. We never knew which it would be until they opened the double doors. The woman wouldn't let us talk, and we had to sit straight forward; the man didn't care so much about those things (because his forehead was all dented in from being shot in the woods), but he seemed to not like children very much.
Because we were one of the last stops, I never got my own seat AND I was the one who had to keep someone who had their own seat before I got on from having their own seat nevermind this sentence is confusing. The older kids and ones with bad attitudes always got the back seats because no one wanted to mess with them. I'd generally try to sit with whoever wasn't looking at me when I walked down the aisle. Also, if I could, I tried to get the seats that were over the wheels so I could put my feet up on them.
Well, that's about all about the bus.
P.S. My bus number was 32.