Riding to school with Max Holden is only slightly less traumatizing than riding the big yellow bus.
I remind myself of that fact every morning when I cross the lawn from my front yard into his, headed for his already-running F-150. You’d be colder at the bus stop, I think as my feet crunch through frosty grass. Bus fumes are worse, I tell myself, hurrying through clouds of stinky exhaust that pour from his truck’s tail pipe. The bus doesn’t even have music, I consider as the unmistakably twang of classic country leaks from the cab.