Home Is Where My People Are: The Roads That Lead Us to Where We Belong by Sophie Hudson

left Sister’s car there the day before   —she asked Barry to go ahead and get a table at El Toro while we returned the U-Haul. We figured it wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to get everything taken care of, so after we checked the back of the U-Haul to make sure the truck was empty and the dolly that we’d rented was still there, we shut the door and climbed in the cab. Sister was driving; I was mainly there to provide navigational support and perhaps some mild comic relief.
    Sister didn’t want to have to drive in reverse on any part of the narrow residential streets in Kerri’s neighborhood, so we took a slightly roundabout route up to Peachtree Road, where Sister managed to make a tight left turn without incident. We slowly moved past all the places that had become so familiar to me over the course of the summer: Turtle’s Records, where I’d purchased way too many cassette singles; Oxford Books, where I’d discovered the writing wonder that is Anne Rivers Siddons; El Toro, where at least once a week I commiserated with Sister, Barry, and Paige; and Pier 1, where I’d walked the aisles and wondered if I’d ever be cool enough to own a futon.
    Dreams are pretty simple when you’re eighteen, aren’t they?
    Sister was doing her best to stay in the far right lane on Peachtree, which was no small feat, considering the size of that U-Haul and the cramped lanes on a busy stretch of road. We eventually came to a stop at a red light on a hill just past the Pier 1, and I was about to share my MeaningfulSummer Memories with Sister when we heard a sound from the back of the truck that was most definitely an explosion.
    Okay. So it wasn’t really an explosion. But I’ll be doggone if it didn’t sound like one. Sister and I stared at each other for a split second, neither of us having any earthly idea what had happened, and just as I was getting ready to ask Sister if maybe someone had hit us from behind, I looked in the side mirror and realized that we must not have fastened the back door as securely as we thought we had.
    Because that dolly we’d rented from the U-Haul folks was sliding down Peachtree Road faster than a redneck driving in an ice storm on bald tires.
    Sister threw the U-Haul into park, and we both jumped out. We were like Jill and Kris Munroe on Charlie’s Angels   —except we were chasing a dolly instead of, you know, an evil hypnotist or the head of an underground gambling ring. And also we weren’t private detectives and had never to my knowledge driven Mustangs. Even still, I remember thinking very clearly that there was no way we were going to catch that dolly unless a car or a curb got in its way.
    Or maybe Sabrina Duncan could come to our rescue. She always seemed to run superfast, whereas Kelly Garrett seemed much more concerned about her hair.
    Fortunately   —mercifully   —the dolly took a turn and ran into the curb. Sister and I managed to corral it and wheel it back to the truck, where we hoisted it into the back and made sure the lock was fully fastened and secure this time. The oddity of the whole experience was lost on us until the second Sister turned the lock   —and then we started to laugh so hard we couldn’t breathe. I don’t think either one of us made a sound as our mouths hung open and the tears ran down our faces; we were so stooped over from hysterics that it was a battle to even walk back to the cab of the truck. I finally had to stop and will myself to stand up straight, and when I did, I added one more Peachtree Road memory to my personal collection.
    I’d bought music there. I’d read books there. I’d window-shopped for furniture there. And thanks to the rogue dolly that escaped the confines of our U-Haul, I’d also wet my pants there.
    Amen and amen.

    Just between us, I was kind of a hot mess when I was eighteen. Oh, I was sweet enough and nice enough and knew how to play the good little church girl as well as anybody. I kept my public