Very Far Away from Anywhere Else by Ursula K. Le Guin Page B

tried to get the back of my neck away from my collar, which had gotten wet while I waited at the bus stop and felt like the Icy Hand of Death. And I sat there and felt guilty. About taking the bus.
    Guilty about taking the bus. About taking the
bus.
Listen, the really terrible thing about being young is the triviality.

    The reason I felt guilty about taking the bus is this. It was five days since my birthday, right? For my birthday my father had given me a present. A really fantastic present. It was unbelievable. He must have planned it and saved for it for years, literally. He had it there waiting when I got home from school. It was parked in front of the house, but I didn't even notice it. He kept hinting, but I didn't get the hints. Finally he had to take me out and show it to me. When he gave me the keys, his face got all twisted up as if he felt like crying with pride and pleasure.
    It was a car, of course. I won't say the brand name because I think there's enough advertising around already. It was a new car. Clock, radio, all the extras. It took him an hour to show me all the extras.
    I had learned to drive, and got my license in October. It seemed useful, if there was an emergency; and I could do some errands for my mother and get off by myself that way. She had a car, my father had a car, now I had a car. Three people, three cars. Only the thing was, I didn't want a car.

    What did the thing cost? I didn't ask, but it was at least three thousand dollars. My father is a cpa, and we don't have that kind of money for unnecessary things. For that kind of money I could have lived for a year or more at MIT, if I got a tuition scholarship. That's what came into my head right away, before he'd even opened the shiny little door. He could have put the money into savings. Of course, I could sell the car and not take too bad a loss on it if I did it soon. That came into my head too, and that was when he put the keys in my hand and said, "She's all yours, son!" and his face twisted up that way.

    And I smiled. I guess.
    I don't know if I fooled him. If so, it was probably the first time I ever succeeded in fooling anybody; but I think so, because he wanted so badly to be fooled, to believe that I was struck dumb with joy and gratitude. That sounds as if I was scornful of him. I don't mean it that way.
    We took the car out for a ride right away, of course. I drove up into the park, and he drove it back—he was itching to get his hands on the wheel—and all that was fine. The trouble came when he found out on Monday that I hadn't driven my new car to school. Why not?
    I couldn't tell him why not. I only half understood it myself. If I drove the thing to school and parked it in the school lot, Id given in. I owned it. It owned me. I was the owner of a new car with all the extras. People at school would say, "Hey how about that. Hey wow. How about Fastback Griffiths!" Some of them would sneer, but some of them would honestly admire it, and maybe me for being lucky enough to own it. And that's what I couldn't take. I didn't know who I was, but I knew one thing: I wasn't the seat-fixture of an automobile. What I was was the type who walks to school (it's 2.7 miles by the shortest route) because walking is the kind of exercise I like, and I really like the streets of the city. The sidewalks, the buildings, the people you pass. Not the brake lights on the back of the car in front of yours.

    Well, anyhow, that was where I drew the line. I'd already tried very ingeniously to hide the line, by driving errands for Mother on Saturday, and volunteering to take both my parents for a drive in the country on Sunday in "my new car." But Monday evening he found the line. Didn't you take the car to school? Why not?

    So there I was on Tuesday riding the bus and feeling guilty. I wasn't even walking, after all my explanations of how I liked to walk and doctors say the exercise of walking is the best of all for the human body. I was riding the