Road-Trippers

One: A Hard Day's Night

In retrospect, I could've gotten away with this even if my parents weren't attending Mr. Frank's Kitchen Appliances Convention this spring break.

My brown eyes open the second I hear that beautiful brring! of the dismissal bell (which I can't help but compare to the opening chord of "A Hard Day's Night"), and I sling my backpack over my shoulder, hurrying out the door into the crowd of celebrating students. Many kids back away as I pass, trying to stay out of my way. I don't normally run out of school like this, yet I allow the first few minutes of Spring Break as an exception. I comb back my hair with a pale hand as I cascade down the handrails. Hopping off the handrail, I book it down the sidewalk.

"Templeton!"

I stop dead in my tracks, turning around. "Mr. Rigby!" The grouchy blonde man now standing in front of me is staring down at his twenty-dollar watch, hands on his hips.

"Aren't you a little fast, Mr. Templeton?"

"Well, yes, sir," I say assuredly, my eyes as wide as can be. I slide a hand into my red Varsity jacket's pocket, lifting the other hand up in a shrug. "I've got things to do, places to be. I'm sure you do as well, Mr. Rigby."

"Don't smart-mouth me, Templeton. Just please slow down. There's no reason to run. You've got all the time you need to dilly-dally at home." Dilly-dally? I'm not dilly-dallying this spring break, or at least I don't think I will be.

Because I don't see how arguing could possibly help me in this situation (and I'd like to think I'm a good kid), I nod, smiling up at the old-school history teacher and say, "Don't worry, I won't run. I wouldn't want to hurt anyone, anyways. Have a nice break, Mr. Rigby."

I wrinkle my nose and wave, walking away as slowly as possible. Mr. Rigby smiles, spinning the other direction on his right foot, but turns back and shakes his head when he sees me dashing down the road. What can I say-

It's been a hard day's night, and I've been working like a dog. It's been a hard day's night, I should be sleeping like a log.

Along the way, I high-five about ten kids, finger-gun my best friend, Levi, ruffle the hair of some early-release kid from the middle school (don't worry, I know him), and quickly grasp my friend (who just so happens to be a girl)'s hand.

"Joey!" I can hear her laugh. Her friends are giggling, knowing I am always going somewhere. I look back and see her shaking her head, her curly blonde hair bobbing back behind her. She turns back to her friends, her little green backpack dropping to the floor.

The roads are pretty crowded today as many parents anxiously rush to school, attempting to get their kids in the car to ship themselves off to Mammoth. I'm going somewhere else.

I run straight through the traffic, my eyes fixed on the sidewalk across the road. Normally, the sidewalk would appear wavy in the heat, but today was the perfect temperature: seventy-two degrees. My parents artificially alter the warmth of our house to that exact temperature!

Once I have safely jay-walked (sometimes when you're excited, you do things that you don't normally do), I run down into the park. The only people there are old women on benches feeding birds a random assortment of seeds, toddlers with their overwhelmed parents, and a circle of early-release kids laughing. Sometimes I wish I were an early-release kid. They, however, don't have the absence of time to race home like this.

Leaping into the sandbox, I can see my house beyond the park wall. Soon, I'm climbing over it, looking every direction so I can escape whoever catches me. The only one whose eyes are on me is a three-year-old girl, hand stuck in a bucket of sand. She runs to her mother once I say hello.