Emerson Middle School was one of two in Wiscasset, and the better of the two. They offered football and softball, for one, which each required the purchase of equipment and their crimson-and-gold uniforms. On the other end of Wiscasset, Harding Middle School's only sport was cross country, because it only required sneakers. Harding only had four field trips a year. Emerson had [i]seven[/i]. The differences would have seemed insignificant to adult eyes, but through the view of their students, the differences were as clear as night and day. Harding's leaky roofs and red-faced principal made the school a juvenile equivalent to serving a term at Folsom prison, whereas Emerson's backpack regulations, PTA meetings, and considerable budget made their school a young Coloradan's idea of what walking through the courtyard at Harvard might feel like.

Today, eight of Emerson's students had felt as if they were select members of an ivy league university more than ever. The school's book club, instead of spending their Thursday studying geometry, The Outsiders, the Rain Cycle, [i]or[/i] the Louisiana Purchase, had been brought early that morning to [i]the[/i] Colorado State Library. Their tour, while as stuffy and long-winded as they had expected, included an [i]outside lunch[/i] at the Library's picnic area, a picture with the library's turtle tank, and a tour of the [i]Staff Only[/i] rooms. Some rooms were filled with banned books, others misprinted books. Rows of books that were used to carry messages in World War II, and books that were from China and read from the top down. Books that had been signed by famous authors, books that were hundreds of years old, and rare books that were now their text's only remaining copy. Donated books with doodles in the margins from the 1800's, textbooks checked out of schools signed by people like Harry Truman, and picture books made by artists in the 60's, bound with things like rubber, wood, denim, and fur.

Now, they were on the bus once more, returning to Emerson Middle School to be picked up by their parents or walk home. Fortunately, it was still autumn, and Wiscasset's autumns were far more pleasant than its winters. Rows of tall, deciduous trees paved the sidewalks and covered the streets like the ceilings of cathedrals, filling the streets with red, orange, and gold leaves that filtered the last bits of the day's warm, amber sunlight. The remnants of the long summer had all but disappeared, and every day there seemed to be fewer and fewer plastic pools or trampolines decorating lawns, and more and more gourds, plastic ghosts, and bundles of dried flowers decorating doors. Although the sleepy town was far from buzzing with excitement, it was still a picturesque portrait of a small town in the Rocky Mountains. Humble, one to two story vinyl-sided buildings made up the bulk of the town -- the past ten years having been far from a good time to develop real estate, if you listened to the boring matters that made up the adult world -- between clusters of rocky hills too short to call mountains, and too large to flatten and build more houses on.

By now it was nearly six, and on the other side of the sky, the sun was beginning to set. The school bus pulled into Emerson Middle School's parking lot, bringing their hours-long travel to an end with a satisfying hiss. At the head of the bus, Mr. George stood up from his seat with a grunt.

"Alright children, form a single file line." He said, pointing down the cramped aisle of the bus, only barely wide enough for them to have entered in the first place. "I have four of you marked for pick-up by parent and I see four sets of parents outside, good stuff. Remember, just because we had a field trip today, your presentations for Book Club are still up tomorrow." His second sentence was only half-heard, falling on ears that were rushing to leave the bus. Mr. George sighed, fastening his belt over his gut and giving a nod to the bus driver.

"See you for the museum trip, Georgie." The bus driver said in a gravelly motor rev of a voice, as Mr. George left the bus. George had always thought he sounded like Homer Simpson's wife, though he was no more likely to tell him today than he had been yesterday. Leaving the bus, Mr. George's eye caught that of one Elijah Cardozo, and the two exchanged a knowing nod.

"My man." Mr. George hollered, giving Cardozo a friendly finger-gun.

"How you doing?" Elijah responded, attention halfway between his daughter's recollection of the library and something his wife was discussing with him. Always good to see another brother out here in the sticks. Mr. George reached his car, an old Pinto with an unfortunate paintjob somewhere between light tan and seafoam green, and entered with another grunt. He adjusted his rear view mirror, and flattened his jheri curls. The man watching him forty feet away silently shook his head. These were not the actions of a man who had committed a crime so great that it wasn't listed in public law. These were the actions of a blissfully ignorant man who had taken his class on a field trip. It had to have been one of the children. It [i]had to[/i].