I remember very little about those mornings, mostly that we could never tell if we’d missed the bus or not. We lived a good forty-five minutes from school, so we were the first pick up of the day and the last drop in the afternoon. The morning bus stop was at the bottom of my street in a church parking lot, a five-minute walk, painfully early. My younger sister and I would hurry down to the end of road, usually in various states of disarray. It could be unbrushed hair, or teeth. A skipped breakfast. Badgering mom to sign releases or write overdue checks. Once in the parking lot everything was quiet and we’d stand there listening for the roar of the engine. Some days it would pull in and we would board the empty bus and go back to sleep on the cracked vinyl seats. It often didn’t come and we’d drag ourselves back home afraid to tell mom we’d missed our ride again.

Then she’d have to drive us, and we were already late, so she’d tear down the highway in our 70’s Camaro like we were racing to the hospital. There was a short cut near school she’d insist was a good idea. Basically we’d shoot past the official left turn – a real road with stop lights and traffic – and take the next left, a gravelly dirt path straight out of the Dukes of Hazzard. She’d hit the gas and we’d skid out, kicking up pebbles and dust, sometimes unable to see through the windows. We’d hoot and holler and thought it was normal, this getting tossed around the backseat unbelted, this morning ritual of always rushing, always late. A few times we did the thing where one of us left our shoes or lunchbox or hairbrush on the roof of the car, and only when we’d pull in to school did we realize what was missing, gone forever. She’d chuck us out anyway, except for when it was shoes, then she’d take us to Kmart quickly for flip flops.

I was a very strong student, straight A’s, except for whatever I had first period as I’d get penalized for my consistent tardiness.

And then there was the ride home. While the bus would come into my neighborhood to pick us up in the mornings, there seemed to be some sort of agreement that in the afternoons it would drop us about two miles away. To this day, I don’t recall why I never asked my mom to fix that. It was a private school – we couldn’t do public as we were illegal aliens – and my mom bartered much of our tuition with her friend the headmaster. An artist, she’d give him paintings in exchange for our academics. I can’t imagine part of the deal was a remote bus stop, so it must have been an unfortunate oversight.

My cousins went to a private school much closer to our home, but my sister failed the kindergarten entry exam – it didn’t help she wore a dress without undies to the test, and we were late as usual so there was no time for Kmart. It was just simpler if we went to the same school, and she was admitted at the far away one, so that was that. Plus I doubt any other school would have accepted art instead of cash.

My sister and I, the last ones remaining on the bus every day, would deboard along the six-lane US1 with our heavy backpacks in the midday Florida heat. We’d walk about a mile to Winn Dixie and surreptitiously snag a shopping cart. In went all our belongings, and sometimes one of us. We’d push our stuff and each other home and discovered a true short cut, which was a hole in the fence that dumped us out into that church parking lot.

Over the course of the week the shopping carts would amass, and the neighbors would puzzle over who was responsible. There was lots of speculation as to why they accumulated, and what exactly was happening. The strongest theories were of homeless people or transients, but there was no evidence, no litter, no signs of food or life. Someone must have called the store because every once in a while the carts got collected and disappeared.

That parking lot was a huge part of my childhood. We didn’t practice religion, but I’d hear the singing from within the church and conjure up a whole lotta purpose to what was going on in there. When I’d run away from home every now and again as I imagine all kids want to, that’s where I went. There was a big oak tree in the back corner, just beside the hole in the fence and the cache of supermarket carts, and I’d cry in its shade wishing someone would come for me.

We had an ageing fluffy little dog that I’d walk down to the church. With time he could only manage one direction so I learned to bring my skateboard and set him on it for the ride back. One evening it started to bucket on us, warm fat summer raindrops, and I wheeled him along as fast as I could, like my mom screaming down that dirt road. I hit a rock and he went flying through the dusk. A flying wet Lhasa Apso. He survived.

One school day on our sweaty walk home from the bus stop, before we got to the supermarket, a long red convertible cruised slowly down a side street, with an older grey-haired man at the wheel. I don’t know why I was drawn to it, but on tippy-toes I peered into the body of the car, and almost wretched at the sight. He was naked, masturbating in the open air. I didn’t tell my sister, or my mom, not anyone.

That bus was full of misfits and hit all the 80’s clichés. The school was K-12, so the big loud seniors assumed the back rows, some cooler or prettier younger girls took the middle, everyone avoided the hump row over the tires, and we little kids were all jammed up front.

There was a guy we called Wagner, with surfer blond shoulder-length hair and a hell of a swagger. One day Wagner dropped a Life Saver out the window and it hit an oncoming windshield, shattering it. I recall little fallout from that, though we knew something serious had happened.

The bus driver was a decent man who occasionally took us to McDonalds or 7-Eleven. We’d all roll out in a sloppy mess and buy our snacks while he used the restroom or whatever. One time he didn’t let us off, but he left the bus idling and went in to pee at a gas station. Wagner jumped into the driver’s seat and drove the bus around the corner. The driver found us soon enough, but some kid told their mom. The story went that Wagner stole the bus and got the driver fired. We never saw either of them again.

As I aged and outgrew my shyness, I was accepted in the middle of the bus, but before then I kept my head down and tried desperately not to embarrass myself. Once as the bus pulled away from school I realized my sister wasn’t on board. I pleaded with the driver to wait for her or let me go find her. Nice guy that he was, he burped open the doors and I ran all around campus asking for her. About ten minutes in I remembered she was going home with a friend that day, and boy did I walk the walk of shame as I climbed those big black stairs apologizing, my face bright red, avoiding eye contact with the older kids who in any case couldn’t have been less interested.

My graduation to the back of the bus was more complicated. It was always occupied by this cute boy, Jeff, who was dating one of my closest friends. He worked hard to seem cool and casual with the rest of the girls. And there was this lecherous senior, Norman, who told disgusting jokes and talked about sex like he was having some. Spittle would fly from between his gapped teeth as he snickered at his own fake stories. When I’d decline his gross advances he would speculate wildly about my love life, in front of Jeff and the others, and while I knew how to hold my ground, the constant banter took its toll. The ride home was closer to an hour, and the commute became exhausting. I found myself longing to return to the front of the bus, but it doesn’t work like that.

It was on me to figure out a solution, so I befriended an older nerdy boy in my neighborhood whose rich parents bought him a brand new red Honda Accord for his birthday. I had recently gotten bangs which propelled my popularity, and it served Sean well to arrive at school with me. He was a terrible driver, and once in the rain he hit the brakes on a busy four-lane road. I could hear the tires screeching beneath us as we spun in circles, gripping the dashboard in terror as cars swerved and braked and honked around us. When his car finally stopped spinning it was like the world had frozen. We were surrounded by vehicles, all perfectly still and facing different directions. A sea of color and metal and quiet, which slowly parted to let us through, everyone somehow unscathed, and we limped off to school in a sweat expecting to get tardies.

There was a girl in my grade, sweet and giggly, dumb as could be, with a seriously rocking body. Sean started dating her due to his elevated social status as my friend, and they’re still married today. I hear she’s a personal trainer. She looks amazing on Insta.

That was back when we wore our names on our glittery t-shirts and were afraid of vans with tinted windows. We knew the people selling carnations at highway onramps were in cults. We slathered ourselves in baby oil at the beach. We entertained ourselves with our imaginations, or died of boredom, and were banned from long phone calls because of the expense.

Recently, I was on a long walk with my grown son. He pointed out an abandoned shopping cart and we stopped to look. He wanted to guess why it was there, to make a game of it. I wondered about the memories he holds, the stories and secrets I don’t know, the ones he’ll remember forever. We stared at the shopping cart and could only imagine.