Ambition

Take long strides out of the cafeteria door and leave it swinging for the girl behind you to catch. Walk determinedly, like you know why and where and how you’re going, like the weight of your backpack on your shoulder blades doesn’t bother you at all. Tell yourself you’re going places. Tell yourself yeah right. Follow the path past the stadium and remember autumn football games, the wind brisk, the seats cool and his arm around your shoulders warm, heavy and comforting. Keep walking; fast, intentional steps that let everyone know what you’re thinking and let everyone know you don’t want to talk. Notice how suffocating the air is today, so hot it feels like glue is loping down your throat when you breathe in. Smile to the track team through your gritted teeth as they jog past, leisurely. Crush a dandelion. Answer your phone when it rings. It’s your best friend, in the library, asking where are you, why didn’t you wait for me, I’m in the library, you sound angry and you never are. Tell her sorry and I’ll see you tomorrow and I know. Don’t stop walking. Walk it all off, every single ounce, up the sidewalk and past every single perfect suburban house. Think about cookie cutter developments, how you’re glad not to live in one. Think about your grandmother’s house, five minutes from yours, how you’ll be the first to leave this town and yes, you’ll come back, but you’ll get away for a while, see new places, explore and discover the way you cannot here. Think about how you’ll be sad to leave the people and the cobblestones downtown and the dark green train station where you went for Take Your Kid to Work Day with your dad when you were little. Don’t stop walking. Cross the street when the light turns red. Cross it without looking. Tell yourself that nothing ever happens in this town. Hear the squeal of tires, quick and bracing, behind you. Walk on the new sidewalks they just put in. Think about how the workers looked so caged, so assigned, so accepting of their fate to lay cement and drink coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts for the rest of their days. Tell yourself that will not happen. You’re going places. Don’t stop walking. Cross the street again, onto the circle road that leads to your house. Hear yourself: Ok, now, my street’s coming up. The little side street, right after the speed limit sign. Feel the car: slowing but unsure, the driver cautious, worried he’ll miss your street because it’s so tucked away, nowhere, a tiny house on a tiny road in a tiny town where the most exciting thing is the Fourth of July parade that you’re always away for anyway. Walk up the hill you used to have to walk your bike up as a kid because it was too steep. Think about how it’s actually quite docile, a baby hill, not a challenge at all. Smirk. Wave to Steve, the man who’s married to Debbie, who fosters stray kittens. Ask him how are you, yes, it’s hot out today, have a nice afternoon. You know every person on your block. Most of them have lived here since before you were born, before your parents bought the little house they thought would last for three years, maybe five, before they found something bigger and better and more exciting and larger. No one ever moves away, just dies. Walk past the Baltz’s house, who insist on paying you to bring in their mail when they’re away even though you would do it for free. Say hi to Trish. You babysit her kids, and all the kids on this block. There isn’t a kid you don’t babysit. You’ll use the money for college, somewhere new. Reach it. Your house. Your driveway. Your front yard, your maple tree, your mailbox. Don’t walk up the slope, run, run around the side and to the back door that everyone uses. People on your block leave the front doors open, the back doors locked. Snatch up your key from your wallet where you keep your license, your license, a ticket out of here. Unlock the door with a knowledgable twist that comes from years of unlocking the same lock, over and over, the lock that hasn’t changed since you were born, the key that hasn’t changed since your mother handed it to you, gave you such responsibility and you felt so proud, like a baby bird that flew, and you thought: I’m going places. Slide the door open and walk inside and set your backpack on the floor. Greet the dog. Appreciate the quiet you will have till 3:30, when your brother and sister get home, and then your mom, and then your dad. Smell the air, hot and scented like the apple cakes your mother bakes unceasingly. Make hot chocolate even though it’s boiling outside and remember those football games, far away, in the distance.