Ten Miles Past Normal - By Frances O'Roark Dowell Page 0,5
love of trashy magazines, a dedicated passion for funky shoes, and an abiding belief that there exists somewhere an island of cute, smart boys who are interested in girls for their minds. We’ve yet to find this magical land, but we haven’t given up hope.
This past summer Sarah picked up a copy of the Atlantic in her dentist’s office and read a horrifying account of child slave labor in the cocoa fields of Ghana. Sarah lives for chocolate, but now she can’t bring herself to eat it. Solution? Become the U.S. ambassador to Ghana and convert cocoa production into a democratic, humane, and child-friendly industry we can all feel good about.
“I’d already been considering a career in politics,” she explained to me at the pool soon after her decision was made. “And you know how I feel about chocolate.”
In preparation for her ambassadorship, Sarah signed up for the Great Girls and Women of American History elective, and I signed up too, so we’d have at least one class together. Sarah’s hoping to pick up some helpful hints by studying famous women politicians such as Hilary Rodham Clinton, Nancy Pelosi, and, of course, Geraldine Ferraro, former vice-presidential candidate and onetime U.S. ambassador to the United Nations Commission on Human Rights.
After I finish with the milking, get the girls fed, and freshen their water, it’s off to make myself presentable for what I’ve come to think of as the Real World. When you live in Farm World—or in our case, Mini-Farm World, a land of five acres, a flock of chickens, and one small goat herd—smelly jeans and muddy boots are perfectly acceptable. But in the Real World, a little more effort is expected.
“I’m going to Sarah’s,” I yell to my dad from the back porch after I’ve showered and put on jeans that don’t stink to high heaven. He’s fixing a wheel on the chicken tractor, the mobile coop our flock lives in. “I guess you don’t have time to give me a ride, do you?”
My dad shakes his head. “Sorry. Too much work to do. Be back by one, okay?”
“Okay,” I yell, then head out back, where my trusty bike is leaning against the side of the garage. As I begin my ride down the gravel driveway, I pretend I’m actually riding a moped through the Italian countryside, and in a matter of moments I’ll be in the center of Venice, where I’ll meet my charming and fashionable friends for espresso and gossip.
By the time I’ve turned left onto Haw River Road, I’ve forgotten that Farm World even exists.
Chapter Four
The Bus Ride of Doom
The bus picks me up Monday at the end of our driveway, the same way it does every morning, only on this particular Monday morning I have triple-checked my shoes for problem odors. I’m the first passenger and have my pick of seats. In my opinion, row six is the optimal spot. You’re not so far up front as to be noticed by every single person who gets on the bus, but not so far back that the two stoner guys try to engage you in philosophical discussions about Fudgsicles.
The long morning bus ride is essential to my mental and psychological well-being. For one thing, Manneville High School is huge, collecting students from middle schools across the county, and it isn’t hard to feel completely beside the point once you walk through its heavily alarmed front doors and merge into the hallway traffic. So it’s important to have some time in the morning to remind yourself your life isn’t totally insignificant, even if chances are slim you’ll see anybody in the next seven hours who realizes it.
Monday bus rides are especially important. After a weekend of being around people who know my name, act as if what I say is reasonably interesting, and appreciate the contributions I make to the general welfare of the collective, it’s a shock to find myself at school, where no one seems to have ever heard of me. Or if they have, it’s because of that morning I spent walking around with a clump of straw in my hair until I ran into Sarah, who quickly plucked it out, or the week of the worm castings rash, or else the time—oh well, why dwell?
And you wonder why I eat lunch in the library.
“Today I’m going to eat in the cafeteria,” I whisper into my notebook, the way I do every Monday, and then I slump down in my seat because I know