I sulk in black and white saddle shoes, navy wool knee socks too thick for the mild September weather, a pleated plaid skirt, and a crisp white polo shirt that still smells of department stores. With healing mosquito bites on our elbows leftover from long summer nights, we look with dread for the blinding yellow school bus.

Across the street are the normal ones. I am jealous. They have shoes that light up when they walk and get to wear whatever they want all year round. We all dread the itchy red cardigans in the winter months to come. In the following tradition, we stare.

What are you? they must wonder, looking at the odd Latin insignia on the lucky few wearing gym uniforms. The school bus comes thumping down the road and those in the awkwardly formal garb scramble on.

I find an empty seat and stare up at anyone who dares try to sit down. I am saving this seat for my friend Colleen. It is a true mark of friendship in grammar school, saving a seat on the bus. She is a few stops along though, so I look out the window to see the familiar procession following us, of anxious mothers and fathers gripping their steering wheel.

As usual, I am nervous. Not even the prospect of using my new pencils soothes me. I look out to the cars once more. Normal cars, filled with normal people who go to normal schools, have normal air fresheners attached to their normal mirrors.

This procession is not normal. Attached to many of these mirrors are crosses made of palms from the last Palm Sunday. They are slightly brown and withered now. On some mirrors hang funny looking beaded necklaces with crosses that I have had to explain to my non-Catholic friends are called rosaries. At the sight I smile in comfort. I have nothing to worry about. My mom will find a parking space. She will pray to Saint Anthony!