They would be protesting. Screaming. It became a tune, with the same refrain, and the same lyrics, "If you leave now, you'll have no future. If you leave now, you'll be a bum."
"I'll be back in the fall when school starts." Or "I'll be back after the weekend."
"If you leave now, don't dare come back. How are you going to live? You don't have any money. Why do you have to leave?"
"It's natural. It's a biological urge. Like little birds testing their wings. I can't help myself."
There were a bunch of people waiting for me, in the street in front of the house, honking the horn of a cream T-bird, or a black Impala convertible, or a pale blue Rambler.
"Bye, I'll see you soon."
"Do you want some money?"
"No. Thanks anyway. Bye."
We sped off. I told my friends in the car that I was an alien to my parents. It was better that I didn't hang around there too much. At this point it would always dawn on me that there was another problem. Not only was I an alien to my parents, but I was an alien to my friends.
