I fold the note and slip it into my pocket like a talisman.

The bus is late.

I stand at the end of the driveway, backpack straps cutting into my shoulders, watching the street for any sign of yellow. The neighborhood is quiet, sprinklers hissing in the distance, the smell of cut grass hanging in the humid August air.

And then it rounds the corner, diesel engine groaning, brakes squealing as it pulls up to the stop.

The doors hiss open.

I step on, and the bus is already half-full. Kids I recognize from last year, kids I don't. A few heads turn, then look away. I slide into an empty seat near the middle and press my forehead against the cool glass.

The bus lurches forward.

The school looms ahead, brick and glass and too many windows, and I feel my throat start to close.

First day.

Just get through it.