every one of them a weird genius. People in New York loved art and
music so much, she said, that artists sold paintings right on the sidewalk
next to string quartets playing Mozart. Even Central Park wasn't as
dangerous as people in West Virginia thought. On the weekends, it was
filled with roller skaters and Frisbee players and jugglers and mimes
with their faces painted white. She knew I'd love it once I got there. I
knew it, too.
Ever since I'd started eleventh grade, I'd been counting off the months—
twenty-two of them—until I would join Lori. I had my plan worked out.
Once I had graduated from high school, I'd move to New York, enroll at
a city college, and then get a job with AP or UPI, the wire services whose
stories unspooled from the Welch Daily News Teletype machines, or
with one of the famous New York papers. I'd overhear the reporters at
The Welch Daily News make jokes to one another about the highfalutin
writers who worked at those papers. I was determined to become one. In
the middle of my junior year, I went to Miss Katona, the high school
guidance counselor, to ask for the names of colleges in New York. Miss
Katona lifted the glasses that dangled from a cord around her neck and
peered at me through them. Bluefield State was only thirty-six miles
away, she said, and with my grades, I could probably get a full
scholarship.
"I want to go to college in New York," I said.
Miss Katona gave me a puzzled frown. "Whatever for?"
"That's where I want to live."
Miss Katona said that in her view, this was a bad idea. It was easier to go
to college in the state where you had attended high school. You were
considered in-state, which meant acceptance was more likely and tuition
was cheaper.