When I lived with my cousins Ed and Aimee, it was on Staten Island in a not-so-great school district. Each classroom has 40 to 50 students and the school bus seemed to hold thousands of children. Kids were packed in the seats, on top of the seats, jammed in the aisles–and all seemed to shout and yell constantly at the most maximum decibel humanly possible.
In order to get out, you had to wedge your body into the aisle a few stops before yours so you had time to crawl to the front. As the oldest, I felt responsible. I jumped in the aisle and pushed bodies forward and waved my cousins in. “Come on! Everybody in!” (which kind of reminds me of Mexicans crossing the border.)
I don’t know why the hell it was so rowdy. I do remember one kid got stabbed in the eye with a No. 2 pencil, but I think it was unintentional and a byproduct of the utter and complete pandemonium. When I moved from Staten Island, I am told my cousin Aimee cried, anxious about how she was going to handle the bus without me. That was all a long time ago.