I sit in the parking lot of the Superette and look through my backpack. I will certainly not lack for reading. My independent study notebook for Western Civ is in there, my calculus textbook, with homework for over the vacation, a couple of disorganized binders, and a copy of Moby Dick, which I told my AP English teacher I would look at over the break.

Before long, the bus pulls in, its headlights shining.

Although I’ve gone down Main Street many times on a bus, this bus is higher than the school bus, and the windows are bigger. I look down on the brief bit of town—Al’s Superette, the Arms, the used furniture store, the discount liquors, Teresa’s Bridal Shoppe, the Crossways Tavern.

When we get to the on-ramp of the highway, one sign says EAST, and the other says WEST. The bus swings to the left instead of to the right, and I’m going down a road I’ve never been on before.

I get to Buffalo, wait, and change buses. It isn’t until I cross the first state line that I get it. It hits me so hard that I actually start to cry. I get out my upward mobility notebook and write it down. I get it, Grimshaw, I write. You had to go. I get it now.

eleven

IT’S A GOOD THING I HAD no idea how big the country was going to be. By Chicago, the bus driver’s told us not to smoke, drink, or cross the yellow line enough times in Spanish that I have the announcement memorized. By St. Louis, she forgets to say it in English a couple of times. In Tulsa, and somewhere in Arizona, I borrow phones and leave messages at home, but I don’t get anyone in person.