The following text is taken from an autobiographical account of growing up. Since I'm still in my senior year of high school none of my memories are too far in the past... To say the least I've a bad case of senioritis¹ but am fighting well. Anyhow, this seemed to be a pretty profound morning for me about a week ago... The morning commute is, unfortunately, the same as it's always been. The same grueling forty-five minutes of persistent chatter and the consuming static of a radio that's permanently stuck on “too loud”. My only salvation is a single friend, the only soul on this forsaken mass-transit with a shred of dignity and intelligence – and I shouldn't just say a shred, she's practically brimming with it. As I fold myself into the cracked faux leather seat, my knees press into the bench in front of me and I note, not for the first time, that I'm much too tall for this. In an ineffective effort to escape the monsters around us, we both slide into the confines of the seat and bunker down for the daily ritual. It begins as per usual, we simultaneously contribute to an awkward silence then share common trivialities, like we're meeting for the first time, or passing shopping-carts in the grocery store. After surveying the oblivious newcomers, I groan and break the silence, “They make me feel so old, you know?" I say, nodding my chin toward the junior high students clustered in the front six seats. She laughs in agreement and compliments my ponytail, comments on my barrette². She has a tendency to do that on days like this; it's like she can sense when I'm feeling down on myself. It typically makes me feel a bit better. I try and do the same for her, but I'm a terrible judge of facial expression. Some idiot in the back just decided to go and open a window, even though the dead admit it's cold outside. Some kids yell that it is only –2° and to shut the window, but I just pull my khaki wool jacket tighter across my chest and kick off my gray flats so I can tuck my feet beneath me and keep my toes warm. My confidant does the same and zips up her black windbreaker, there's a moment of rustling that follows from her arms swishing across her torso while she rearranges her numerous bags. I shiver and we exchange a meaningful look that says simply "why?” because we both know the window will end up open all week. I look again at her and her mountain of clutter and think, she'll be a crazy bag lady someday... The thought makes me smile since I'm sure she knows it too and I idly play with the impossible lock ties of my own vintage blue messenger bag. It's at this time that I really notice how ravenous I am. I pull a small container of leftovers out of my bag to munch at as we converse and bump along. “Do you remember feeling six?” she asks while drawing on the frost-covered plexi-glass. For a moment I have to stop chewing and seriously think. Images, hard to conjure, dimly flash; the salty taste of play-dough, the smell of summer and other various events that I would not care to dwell on. “No.” I finally answer, “I remember some things from being six, but the feeling escapes me entirely.” And it truly did, I just felt well... cold, a little old and just plain hungry. No matter how hard I tried I couldn't bring back that feeling of uninhibited innocence that currently belongs to my little sister. While we talked, complained and generally gossiped, the thought lingered in the back of my mind: just why was it so terrifically difficult to return to a long forgotten mindset? It frustrated me terribly that I could remember everything that happened, but it was like watching somebody else. In some weird way I felt as though I was intruding on someone else's experiences, trying to unravel some alter me's emotions and motivations. The vehicle stops and I'm returned, full force, to the present. The school gossip is climbing the stairs and I lean over and whisper, “It's too early for this." Shamefully we both plug our ears with headphones and miserably feign sleep. It's all for nothing though since, Mouth, as we'll call her, plops into the seat next to us and pulls the headphones out to talk. For the next fifteen minutes my savior and I exchange casual “help me” glances as we get a month's worth of gossip at 30MPH, and once again Mouth's life story that either of us could repeat word for word. ¹ senioritis: decreased motivation toward studies displayed by students who are nearing the end of their school life ² barrette: a clasp or pin for holding hair in place

1. (a)Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to convey the writer's thoughts and feelings.[15]
2. (b)Later, the friend records her thoughts and feelings about the writer and the journey in her diary. Write a section of the diary entry (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract.[10]