“I know that more recently Kansas has been the home to a lot of people who like to use Jesus’s name to be unkind and uncivil to people unlike themselves. But I also know that there were always more people around who stood by Jesus’s message of love and kindness. It’s been a good forty years since I last went to Kansas, and I imagine it’s changed like this country’s changed—sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. I know that of all the great shifts that have occurred in America—the freedom of the slaves, the rights of women, the equality of gays and lesbians, the Black Lives Matter reckoning, the fight for trans rights—none has happened easily, and certainly none has happened instantly and without serious attacks and backlash. But the reason we have the rights that we have is because the fair-minded people who came before us would not give up.

  “In my life, I have seen elections stolen—either outright or through the electoral college. I have seen wars fought for no real reason, and I have seen wars fought because there was no other way to get to peace. I have seen the rich get richer and I have seen the poor get poorer. I have seen facts get harder and harder to hide—and easier and easier to manipulate. I have been angry and I have been frustrated and I have been ecstatic and I have been proven right and wrong and back again. I have given up on some things, but I have refused to give up on most things. And I can honestly say that all of it—all of it—seems to have led me to where we are, here and now.

  “I’m not saying we’re going to change everything. Heck, I don’t even know if we’re going to change anything. But there are moments—either in your own life or the life of the world around you—when an event looks you right in the eye and says: This is important. What are you going to do? And our answer—right here, right now—is that we are going to take a stand. We are not going to give up. We are not going to let things happen because we don’t want to get involved. We are going to intervene, because it’s our right—if not our duty—as citizens to intervene. Justice doesn’t triumph because anybody tells it to. It triumphs when we push it and carry it and shout it and embrace it until it triumphs. That’s what we’re doing here. That’s why we’re going.”

  I had never seen Virgil speak so long and so forcefully before, and from the look on his face when he was done, I would’ve guessed that Virgil had never seen it, either. We all cheered after his final word and continued cheering when Clive closed the door and pulled the bus out onto the highway. Then, slowly, we settled into our seats. We started to get lost in our thoughts. We watched as the sky dimmed and the headlights turned on.

  Jimmy leaned against the window, staring out at the blur of cars and roadside. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, nor did I feel comfortable asking. I wanted us to be on this journey together, but in some small way it felt like we were each on our own journey. The best I could do was take mine on the same path as his. The best I could hope was to be by his side as we went along.

  I closed my eyes and felt us taken forward.

  PART TWO

  fourteen

  We were driving through the middle of the country in the middle of the night. I’d lost track of place in the same way I’d lost track of time—all I knew was that it was late, and we were on a highway, and I couldn’t sleep. Friday night and Saturday day had passed uneventfully as we drove deeper into America. Now it was Saturday night, and I’d almost grown used to the sound of the bus breathing its heat. Everyone else seemed to be asleep, their eyes closed and their screens at rest. I felt a stirring next to me—Jimmy taking a look out of the window, watching all the nowhere-somewhere passing at a headlight pace, his face a shifting map of shadows.

  “You up?” I asked gently.

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice lower with the weight of nighttime. “Just thinking.”

  “What about?” My own voice was a bare whisper, a pencil mark on the air.

  “I dunno. Things.”

  Over the past twenty-four hours, I’d been letting the rips between us heal slowly rather than try to fix them with too many stitches of apology. I relied on the quiet gestures, like putting my hand on his leg now, grounding us together as everything else moved by.

  “What kind of things?” I asked.

  Silence for a beat. A slight moan from somewhere behind us—dialogue with a bad dream, or the sound of a half-awake stretch. I was fully turned to him now, secretly glad he was awake so I didn’t have to take such empty distance alone.

  “I think we have to be realistic,” he said, measuring out his words as if he were using each one to fill the gap in a puzzle.

  “About winning this?” I asked.

  “No. About us.”

  Now he was looking at me head-on, and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what he meant. I’d always hated the word realistic. Or, more truthfully, I’d always hated the way people used the word realistic—as if it were a limitation, as if reality were something that conformed so severely to likelihood that surprising things could never, ever happen. From what I’d seen, reality was much more complicated than that. Sometimes it was remarkably predictable, but a lot of the time it didn’t go the way anybody would expect. I didn’t believe in using probabilities to rule out possibilities.

  It wasn’t like Jimmy to put so much faith in realistic. I thought he knew how little sense reality made. Especially in terms of us.

  “Where is this coming from?” I asked now. “We don’t want to be realistic. Love isn’t realistic.”

  I could immediately see that it was a mistake to use the word love—it didn’t make Jimmy any more comfortable with the conversation. But I didn’t want to take it back, either, because that would mean something much worse than discomfort.

  He put his hand on mine, so I could feel his palm on my skin and his leg underneath my own palm. The warmth there, so familiar.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “Really. I’m just talking about—I don’t know, the long term. I know you don’t like to talk about it or think about it…but I guess I can’t help it. I mean, we’re sixteen. I’m almost seventeen. We can’t act like this is going to be forever, right?”

  “But we can’t act like it’s not,” I insisted. “Why would we do that?”

  It’s not like I knew for sure that Jimmy and I were going to grow old together—that we were going to still be in love through college and after college and all the years beyond that. It’s not like I had our wedding planned and our children ready for their school pictures and the wallpaper for our bedroom picked out. But, sure, I had daydreams. I had hopes, even if I didn’t have certainty or even faith. I liked those daydreams. I saw no reason to free myself from them prematurely.

  Jimmy didn’t argue with me. But he didn’t say anything to make it better, either, leaving me to be the one to continue.

  “Is this about what happened before we left?” I had to ask. “About me not coming? I told you I was sorry about that.”

  “It’s not that,” he said, the sadness so clear across his face, mingled with the lasting tiredness. “I guess I’ve just been thinking—there are so many things that are bigger than us. There are so many people we haven’t met, so many places we’ve never been. I love you, and I love being with you, and I don’t want that to change. But I can’t ignore the fact that it might change. Right?”

  Did he really want me to tell him he was right? Say, Yeah, let’s be realistic. Let’s start to wonder when it’s going to end. Let’s give in to the odds that we won’t be together ’til we die. Let’s allow ourselves to give up a little…and then watch as that giving up grows and grows and grows until we’ve given up altogether.

  I couldn’t tell him any of that. I would not be the one to lead us down that path.

  I leaned over to him, my elbow hitting the button for the reading light above us, sparking its small spotlight halo. Keeping the one hand between his two different touches, I moved my other hand to his cheek, then back to his hair. When I kissed him, I closed my eyes. He wasn’t ready for the kiss, but he received it. I pulled back before he could lose his linger.

  “That’s what I know,” I said, my voice still barely above a whisper, my eyes steady.

  He smiled a little. Shook his head at me. Thinking it was too simple, but not disputing it.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “Ever.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Another sound came from the back of the bus—this time a shhhh.

  Jimmy curved himself more into the seat, ready for sleep. I felt, though, that I couldn’t let him—not yet. I wanted to erase as much of this conversation as possible before he left me awake.

  “I don’t want to have to think about this,” I told him honestly.

  “I know,” he said, complete understanding in his voice. “I’m sorry I said it. Really, it isn’t anything. I’m just tired. I should never open my mouth after midnight. Especially on a bus.”

  “The only way to deal with the future is to make sure the present is okay.”

  He moved his hand from my hand, onto my thigh.

  “It is,” he said. “I promise. We’ll be okay.”

  He was closing his eyes now. Moving his hand over my thigh, under my shirt, up my skin.

  I closed my eyes. Felt him gliding there. Then resting, right on my side, arm around and holding me gently.

  His breathing slowed. I opened my eyes and studied his face, watched his chest rise and fall. I’d seen him like this so many times, more in shades of day than shades of night. Napping, sleeping, breathing…I felt such tender fascination to see it. I could be his quiet watcher for as long as he was next to me.

  Suddenly there was a shout from the back of the bus.

  “WHAT THE—?”

  Jimmy opened his eyes, pulled back his hand, and we both turned at the same time. There, a few rows behind us, Mira was standing in the aisle, screaming at Keisha and Sara, who had somehow managed to sneak to the back of the bus together, a single blanket covering them both.

  “HOW COULD YOU?”

  Other people were stirring now, waking.

  “I can explain,” Keisha said quietly, trying to establish a calmer tone.

  “Okay. Explain.”

  Sara decided to jump in. “We were just—”

  “I don’t want to hear a single word from you. I want to hear it from her.”

  But Keisha just started crying.

  “Oh my God,” Jimmy whispered to me. “Were Keisha and Sara—?”

  “Yeah,” I told him.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded.

  “What?” Mira was yelling now. “WHAT?!?”

  Finally there was another person in the aisle—Janna coming to put her hand on Mira’s shoulder, to take them back to their seat in the front. Sara stood up—both she and Keisha had been clothed under the blanket—saying it wasn’t what Mira thought, it wasn’t what it might look like. Keisha’s every sob seemed to contradict this.

  Most people were still asleep, their hard slumber fueled by the exhaustion of the day. As Janna and Mira walked past me, I didn’t know whether to acknowledge them or to pretend to be asleep. They probably wouldn’t have noticed me or Jimmy either way—Mira was crying now, too, and Janna was taking that burden onto herself.

  I craned my neck again to see Sara and Keisha. Keisha was a wreck, and Sara didn’t seem to know how to work the salvage. For a brief moment, Sara’s eyes caught mine. I was amazed at the intensity of blame I felt toward her—for being the older one, for being the one who had more power, for being the one I assumed was the instigator. And also, I had to admit, for being the one who wasn’t part of our group of friends.

  The look she gave me wasn’t beseeching—she didn’t want me to pull Keisha away like Janna had done with Mira. And it wasn’t apologetic. It was just matter-of-fact. We both knew what was going on, and that it had reached its inevitable breaking point. The only question was which way it would break.

  “What should we do?” I asked Jimmy.

  “What can we do?” he asked back. “No way to put the bus in reverse and make time go backward.”

  Flora came down the aisle, using the back of each seat as a handhold. When she got to our row, she nodded to us and tried to smile. Then she plunged on, told Sara it would probably be best if she moved to another seat, then sat down beside Keisha and told her it was okay, there was nothing wrong with crying it out. Sara hovered awkwardly over them, and I thought there was something in the way she didn’t really want to leave, something that made me feel a little less anger. It was only after she walked farther back in the bus and sat in a seat where Keisha wouldn’t see her that Sara herself began to cry.

  “Look,” Jimmy said. At first I thought he was going to say something about Sara. But then I turned and found he was resting his head against the window, staring out, pointing. I leaned in to see what he saw. There were bends and a rise in the highway ahead of us, so we could suddenly see the long rows of taillights wending their way west. There had to be hundreds of them, a long trail of red-bar Morse code, with only a few contrasting headlights moving the other way.

  “Do you think they’re all going to Kansas?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. Then he took my hand in his and closed his eyes again.

  I knew how hard it would be to fall asleep while sitting on a bus, holding someone else’s hand. I was too awake with thoughts, too awake with questions. With so many cars on the road in the middle of the night, with so many people crying in the close darkness of our bus, with so many uncertainties about what would happen to us, it seemed strange to think that this was our reality. But I guess that’s what it was. And it was changing all the time.

  fifteen

  My parents and I never went on big vacations when I was younger. Mostly we stayed within a few hours of our house. Money was an issue—and then there was the matter of time, which was an even bigger issue for my family. Both my parents had jobs, and those jobs required them to work more and more hours as the economy worsened. Even when my mom was home with me, she was also at her workstation, trying to get her assignments done. I remember times when she would read her memos aloud to me in her best storybook voice, trying to trick me into believing that international travel restrictions were as transfixing as the location of wild things. Vacation days became voluntary for my parents, meaning that both of them were paid more if they left the office less. In a time when there were so many people out of work, replaced by computers and outsourcing, it wasn’t like my parents were going to put up a fight. I was the only one who resisted. I wanted to go to Australia. I wanted to see the Grand Canyon. My parents had shown me YouTube videos, but it wasn’t the same. I wanted to touch a koala. I wanted the Grand Canyon to hear my voice.

  The older I got, the more I realized how lucky we were. In American history, most economic downturns were ended when young people were sent to fight wars. In this case, the President tried to start a war within our country to distract the people who were suffering on his watch. And even though we were Jewish and I was gay, I knew most strangers would look at my family and see white people first, and we’d get an advantage from that. It would be stupid to try to deny that.

  Even when sickness spread and hate crimes against Jews and queer people increased, my family stayed safe. We tried to expand our bubble to include a regular life, but not expand it so much that it was thin enough to pop. If that was the price to pay for not traveling, I was willing to pay it.

  Still, as the bus drove on through Ohio and Indiana and Illinois, I started to get a sense of everything I’d been missing. I was used to everything kinda looking the same—the same superstores, the same fast-food places, the same caffeine stops. I knew there were tens of thousands of each of them, spread out across the country, all dressed in the same architecture and, it felt, pumped with the same air. But what I hadn’t counted on was the difference of the land. I thought I’d seen flatness before, but nothing at all compared to the way the highway stretched out across the plains, an infinitely straight line of pavement with exits that led to nowhere close. As we dipped a little south, the trees were still shedding their final colored leaves—green muting into shades of rust and coffee and mud. It all passed in a blur, but every now and then I would notice a detail—a hand-painted billboard urging salvation, two kids running through a field of grazing cows, a huge old statue of a brown-haired boy clutching a hamburger and smiling slyly. It made me sense the individuals in the multitude, the truth that not everywhere in America was just like everywhere else.

  I wanted this to be encouraging rather than scary.

  * * *

  —

  It was right before dawn on Sunday morning when we made it to Kansas City, Missouri, in the hopes of making a quick crossing into Kansas City, Kansas. But there weren’t going to be any quick crossings that day—the sheer number of people trying to get into Kansas and farther on to Topeka was preventing that. By the time we got to the Kansas Turnpike it was a near-complete standstill.

  “Kansas is turning into a parking lot!” Gus observed. “And this bus is starting to smell like a locker room.”

  This wasn’t entirely true, but all of us were definitely ready for a shower and a change of clothes. We were used to seeing one another day by day, but we weren’t used to being with one another day into day. Most of us were wearing deodorant, but it seemed to have taken the weekend off.

  Gus wasn’t going to let this mess up his style, though. Somehow he managed to squeeze into the bus’s coffin-size bathroom and change into a tight orange-and-purple T-shirt that read I’m Too Sexy to Let You Steal This Election.

  On our news feeds, we saw the mass of cars and buses and trucks converging on Topeka—helicopters sent back pictures of highways that looked like strings of slowly moving beads. Some people gave up on their cars and started to walk—marching and chanting and plunging forward until they got to the state capitol.