Truant

Our high school principal wagged his finger over two manila folders lying on his desk, labeled with our names— my boyfriend and me— called to his office for skipping school. The day before, we ditched Latin and world history to chase shadows of clouds on a motorcycle. We roared down rolling asphalt roads through the Missouri River bottoms beyond town, our heads emptied of review tests and future plans. We stopped on a dirt lane to hear a meadowlark’s liquid song, smell heart-break blossom of wild plum. Beyond leaning fence posts and barbwire, a tractor drew straight lines across the field unfurling its cape of blackbirds. Now forty years after that geography lesson in spring, I remember the principal’s words. How right he was in saying: This will be part of your permanent record.