We were the most
looked-up-to kids.
    
Our ultimate goal:
Halftime. The bus: wild
cherry. I was not cool
enough for the back, but too
cool for the front. I settled
for  middle of the road,
             aisle,
                  bus seat,
feet brushing, not resting,
on the movie theatre floor.
    
The bus was our microphone:
Using our original instruments, we sang
chaperoned by sighs
Mrs. Gibbs, the bus
driver.
    
jam-packed with the crisp
electric air of anticipation,
We will be the ones
to take over the world.
             voices lowered.
    
no longer crisp, the air filled
with teenaged sweat.
    
The dotted,
yellow lines of the future were  a lively
lullaby,  putting us to sleep. Nashea
always slept with her eyes
             wide
                  open.
    
my slick sweat commanded
my glasses to jump. my middle
finger pushed them back
in front of me, the familiar
musty scent of not being washed often, mingling
with diesel. It sang
at the top of its lungs, successfully keeping me
from being a victim
             of sleepy time.
    
My mind slipped
out, sprinting beside the bus, till we arrived
where we embarked. The peacock
hats marched into their
             rigid
                  formation.