“Now, Evan, your idea was transportation. That’s too broad. We’ll split that. How about the railroad? Early turnpikes? Coasters? Those were sailing boats that carried people and supplies before there were roads. Wendy? One of those?”

“I was thinking of comparing 1997 and 1897,” said Wendy.

“Okay, but let’s make it a shorter period,” said Mrs. Johnson. “Contrast what the town is now with the way it was for your grandparents.”

“My grandparents live in Ohio,” said Wendy. “I bet Macey’s the only one in the entire state who lives near her grandparents.”

You live with your grandmother? Me too.

“Macey, what a good idea. You do the grandparent comparison.”

Macey’s tongue was dry and thick inside the trap of her mouth. The words came out furry. “I’m going to do an old arson that took place in 1959. The town’s first black teacher got burned out of his home.”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Johnson, “I’m sure that’s not the case. That sort of thing never happened around here. You and I will think of something better.”

Macey retreated over the carpet, feeling her way backward along bookcases and displays.

“I want to do churches,” said Bethany. “White steeples against blue skies are what people think of when they think of New England.”

… when churchyards yawn and Hell itself breathes …

“We’re not doing travel posters,” said Mrs. Johnson. “This is a history project.”

Austin found Macey drenched in tears, as if she had just bobbed up from underwater.

She dried her face on his T-shirt. Today it was navy, with a faded Chicago skyline.

They don’t even let you say your whole speech before they bury you.

6

They hadn’t let Macey skip an afternoon of school for a funeral, but only a few days later, Mom had a trip to San Francisco—worth skipping school for. It was time they did something as a family, said Mom, and since Dad could arrange to go, too, Macey and her parents boarded a plane Sunday night.

Macey fell in love with San Francisco. It was so vertical, so white and sparkly. She wasn’t used to walking with her feet angled like a ballerina. The city was full of people: all walking, all the time, just as willing to trespass as Macey; and, like Dad, reading out loud from guidebooks that said where famous people lived, or had lived once, or were reputed to have lived if you stretched the facts.

“Every hill we climb, I want to have a house there most,” said Macey.

“All the running in the world,” said her father, gasping for breath, “didn’t prepare me to climb these hills. I’m wheezing like an old geezer.”

“That’s because you didn’t do all the running in the world. You just talked about all the running in the world.”