One year, both younger, we had sat peeling scuppernongs and muscadines in the parking lot behind the high school football field.  A man named Gus had a truck-full and we'd grabbed about a pound and a half and brought them with us in a shopping bag down from the other side of the river.  This guy Gus was always selling fruits and vegetables off the edge of the road from Augusta to Aiken.  Overturned boxes on the grass were watermelon stands and the open truck bed was an island of peaches or green beans or pecans.  He called us the biker girls.  We'd always pedal across the bridge to ride northeast until South Carolina got the better of us with its nothingness and we'd turn around again.  It was Friday.  We had thrown our bikes down and watched the sun dial shadows under the wheels spin.  The last teacher had left the school.  He would most likely be making a pit stop at the Bojangles on the way home and eat a chicken box in the car or maybe hit the movie rental store and bump into a few students with their younger siblings and moms and remember that they hadn't yet been able to fly far from their nests and that they had wants and needs that were as simple as being taller or getting a driver's license or being able to go back and say goodbye to their grandma when she was still around.  That last teacher would think about how the videos were now DVDs.  He would choose two movies and an old-school brown and yellow box of candy.