The Center

Chapter 3 - "Every man builds his world

The ride through Grand Junction is bumpy. When Jackson's not looking, I crack open the water and take a drink. I did it. Everyone on this bus, except the guard, knows that I'm not someone to mess with. My stomach no longer bothers me, but my destination does. Like it or not, I'll be starting a new school. New people to deal with. And this time I won't have Cousin Bailey for the move―not that she helped much in Virginia. Whatever. I can handle it.

Outside the bus window, the dry, small-town streets slip away. The ugly, green bus chugs up hill. I do regret making Dee Dee think she can depend on me to protect her. That's not going to happen. I don't do people. It takes no effort to recall my famous uncle placing his hand on his heart and stating with gusto, "The correct moral focus of a person's life is the pursuit of his own happiness." It's not a direct quote of Ayn Rand, but close enough. Senator John Manchester believes Nanny Bella's Jesus is just an excuse to hinder happiness.

I reach into the back pocket of my jeans. Uncle John's note takes a little effort to retrieve, but I'm able to pinch it between two fingers and pull it out. He didn't write the note himself, but I can't complain. Shoot, he's the only one from my family who gave me anything.

I don't care who's watchingme as I lean forward and smell the paper. The dusty scent of libraries calms me. It will be okay. I pull the page back and read the printed quote:

"Do not let your fire go out,

spark by irreplaceable spark,

in the hopeless swamps of the approximate

the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all.

Do not let the hero in your soul perish,

in lonely frustration

for the life you deserved,

but have never been able to reach.

Check your road and the nature of your battle.

The world you desire can be won.

It exists. It is real. It is possible.

It is yours."

- Ayn Rand

I swallow. I'll make it. The bus groans into a turn. Impenetrable rock walls loom on the left. A tree-filled abyss drops down on the right. On my side.

I move away from the window.

Not cool.

Uncle John's note reassures me as I face mortality. It was flippant to seekdeath in a plane crash. The idea that Mother or Father would weep over me wasludicrous. Uncle John's right. I was the only one who cared about me. With the real possibility of plummeting off a jagged cliff, every cell in my body hungers to live.

It doesn't help that everyone else in the bus is equally scared. Dee Dee whimpers behind me and Fisher doesn't even tease her. I glimpse out the window. I can't see the edge of the road, only treetops and sky. Oh gosh, I thought I'd known mountains in California, but nothing this tall. Nothing this sheer or sharp. Harsh pointed rocks on the left indicate the descent I can't see below me.

The bus' transmission grinds down to a lower gear. Jackson takes a tight turn. The sky next to me stretches wide. Clouds hang below us. He's going too fast. I'm not in a hurry to get to The Center and I'm in less of a hurry to die. Although the air in the bus feels hot, my leather-covered toes are icicles. . Although the air in the bus feels hot, my leather-covered toes are icicles. The higher we get, the more snow appears on the mountain edges. I hug my coat hoping it would cushion me if this bus careens off the edge. I stare out the window.