Our high-school principal wagged his finger over two manila folders lying on his desk, labeled with our names — my boyfriend and me, called to his office for skipping school. The day before, we’d ditched Latin and world history to chase shadows of clouds on a motorcycle. We roared down rural roads, through the Missouri River bottoms beyond town, wind teasing the hair on our bare heads, empty of review tests and future plans. We stopped on a dirt road to hear a meadowlark’s skittish song and smell the heartbreak blossom of wild plum. Beyond leaning fence posts and barbwire, a tractor drew straight lines across a field unfurling its cape of blackbirds. Now, fifty years after that geography lesson of spring, I remember the words of the principal, how right he was in saying: This will become part of your permanent record.