>>The Late Bell (Continued)
The crowd was thick with morning commuters and I squeezed between two bodies and into the last open seat. The bus bounced and rattled as we cruised to the next stop. The scent of fresh shampoo, deodorant, and cologne filled the air and made me sneeze. I looked around and saw fellow classmates clinging to handrails, hanging over windows and squished into seats. Neatly dressed businessmen and women held morning papers and pretended to read. With each pothole, the heads of every passenger bounced in unison and I laughed quietly to myself. After a few more stops the windows were fogged from the body heat inside and I could only guess our location.
Twenty minutes later the bus pulled into Forest Hills Station, completing the first leg of the morning journey. When the doors opened, people burst on to the asphalt and ran for the escalator that led to the station. What had been a sprinkle was now a downpour and I cringed as cold drops pelted my neck and face. I put the book bag over my head, buttoned my coat and went with the flow of the crowd. At the top of the escalator, I pushed through a rusted steel gate and entered the station.
There was no time for rest. Once inside, I heard the warning bell for a departing train. I clutched my book bag tight, jumped over a turnstile and ran to the platform of the Orange Line. The train cars were already full but I pushed in as the doors were about to close. I wedged between two standing passengers, grabbed a handrail and waited quietly. A few seconds later the train began to move, slowly at first but then picked up speed as it rolled along the elevated tracks. In the distance was the skyline of Boston, drizzled in a grey haze of morning rain. With my head down, I closed my eyes and counted off the stops—Green Street, Egleston, Dudley, Northampton, Dover, and Essex. With each station I felt the pressure of encroaching bodies as the train filled to capacity and beyond. I was smothered under suits and umbrellas, pocketbooks and briefcases and I squatted to the floor so I could breathe.
When the doors opened at Essex Street, I fell backwards on to the platform, but instantly sprung up and ran towards the exit. The Orange Line went from above the roofline to below ground in only six stops and the subterranean air in Essex station was thick with dampness and diesel smoke. All around were friends and classmates, stampeding together and united by the single goal of getting to school before the bell. We hopped on a creaking escalator that brought us to the station exit and exploded into the cold morning air of downtown.
Traffic was at a standstill, sidewalks were crawling with people and no one seemed aware of anyone else. We poured across the street, between cabs and around trucks, and headed south through the narrow streets of Chinatown. We turned down the first alleyway in a shortcut that might save us ten seconds overall. But with the looming threat of punishment for tardiness, every little bit counted. When we came out to Tremont Street, students trickled in from every direction. They arrived from all sections of the city, took different buses and trains to get here, but merged into a great river as we neared school. I thought I had a good head start, but as we approached the intersection of Stuart Street, I was somewhere in the middle of the pack.
School was only seconds away, one block in the distance, and I felt the exhilaration of impending victory. We slowed at the intersection and hoped for a walk signal. But when it didn’t turn we ran across anyway, dodging cars and potholes as the horns of angry drivers blared. Once on the other side, I saw the front of the school building peering out from an adjacent parking garage. No one knew what time it was since none of us had watches. But everyone had a sense we were cutting it close and so ran frantically.
The last stretch was the cruelest. I saw an overweight student trip on his shoelaces and fall into the gutter. Another dropped his bag and watched in horror as Biology, Math and English textbooks sank into a puddle of brown water. Someone even gave up entirely, throwing his hands into the air and screaming something no one understood. My own feet cramped from the constant pounding of hard leather against the sidewalk. It seemed everyone was injured in some way by the mad dash to be on time.
We were only a half block from the front doors and although it looked likely we would make it, I didn’t let up for a minute. I pushed aside my wet bangs, swiped the snot from my nose and aimed at the school entrance. The crowd began to spread out—to deconsolidate—and the final leg was every man for himself. When I reached the front steps, I looked up and began to climb. My heart pounded, I felt dizzy and my legs buckled, but adrenaline carried me where my will failed. In a half-second I breached the stairs and stood face-to-face with the front entrance ten yards beyond. Above the doors hung a stone statue of Christ, nailed to the cross with his head sunk low. I mumbled a silent prayer and charged with all my strength.
I was inches away when the late bell rang out, echoing through the city streets like an air-raid siren. Behind I heard a chorus of moans from other students who also didn’t make it. There were no exceptions—anyone not inside by the first bell was tardy and would spend an hour after school in detention. My arms fell, my mouth dropped and the book bag hit the ground. I looked up to the gray sky, gritted my teeth and shook my fist. The raindrops smacked my forehead and rolled down my cheeks, masking the tears of defeat and making me wish that I hadn’t tried at all.