The girl and her wild adventure:

The girl wondered as she people watched from the checkered patio of that tiny café. How she got to the place she was at now. Sipping, slowly, almost one would say, methodically on the Vietnamese iced coffee she questioned what she was doing here. Still living in the tiny town she'd been born in, still praying to her parents' God, wearing her mother's handed down Levi's, spoiling herself once a week on coffee. 

It had never occurred to the girl to leave her town, to get on the local bus, take that bus to the nearest functioning city then get on the nearest Amtrack and take that Amtrack somewhere where that had more than one proper coffee house and more than one outlet mall. No one ever leaved, she realized. 

Barbarious. The girl thought. Ludicrous. All these people staying in the same place, like sedentary animals disinterested in the unfamiliar. 

Maybe it was because she'd started that community college last Fall that she had all these adventurous thoughts. Or maybe it was because Summer session was in Finals week and the girl felt like she was being pushed down by the very air itself. Like she could no longer exert enough force to counteract the airs weight. Either way she had gotten to a point where she no longer wanted to read of History or look at the Mona Lisa in a Textbook. She wanted her life to be like a history novel, compact, intriguing, scandalous. She wanted to live in a world where people didn't stay in the same place for more than two years. And most of all she wanted to see that tiny picture of Mona Lisa. See the face of God, pray because she had faith, eat very little or very much without fearing how her non-exsistant husband if she gained four or ten pounds. 

An hour later with her coffee down, crossiant finished, and Roman history final studied for, the girl picked up her crocheted bag, unlocked her pale green Electra bike and rode home. Down the dirt path flanked by leaning Spanish moss trees and sunflowers. Her bike dropped with a clatter, her feet sunk into damp marsh and her cotton dress swayed around her leg in the breeze as the girl walked up the four creaking steps to that never changing house of hers. Sidestepping the broken strip of wood in the middle of her Mama's wrap around porch the girl, like always placed two fingers to her lips and placed those two fingers onto the front door of the white house her family had had for quite literally generations. 

Closing the door beside her and dropping her bag onto the hook next to the mirror and the picture of a Confederate solider hanging on the wall she couldn't help but think. I'd probably just end up on the wrong side of history anyway, this family always seems to choose the wrong side. She realized then what her Political Science teacher was always saying to her, she wasn't Liberal like her Mama called her. She was conservation. Stuck in the monotony of finding enjoyment in familiar things.