Nowhere to Go but Everywhere is a piercing coming-of-age novel about the perils and pleasures of learning to chart your own path.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Nowhere to Go but Everywhere by Jessica Rao, which releases September 29th 2026.
Helena Vinci might like grunge and Camel Lights, but she’s not a fan of frat boys or anything else about Albany college life. When she drops out and takes a job waiting tables near the Capitol, her plan is to save up to see “the real world” out west. But soon she finds herself trapped in a new way, torn between two men – a sexy DJ and a fellow slacker with wanderlust – and a third, a politician who promises financial security, but at a price. When and how will Helena learn that you don’t have to go on the road to find yourself?
Chapter 1
To me, the best part of school was riding the University at Albany bus around town. It was an old, beat-up thing that had been painted purple and gold, the school colors, and it made a loop from the main campus to downtown and back again. I liked to see the city.
When the bus pulled out of the cobblestone circle onto Washington Avenue, there was this long stretch of office buildings. The sign out front said “State Department of
Taxation and Finance.” Every time the bus passed, I thought to myself that it must be hell. Even if the sun was shining, there was this gray hue that came off the place. If I went to
school for anything that caused me to work there, I figured I might as well drop out. My mom, on the other hand, had this fantasy that I would work on Wall Street, the “hometown industry” as she liked to call it.
As the bus bumped along, moving farther from the frat boys, and the Denny’s, and the quick-lube places near campus, I felt like I had been drugged. But the fog always
lifted when we hit the traffic light that marked the beginning of a neighborhood. There were houses with patches of lawn and short trees, and I always wondered about the people who lived inside them.
One evening in the early spring, when yellow forsythia was popping up in the little yards on either side of the wide avenue, and the window next to my seat was open a crack
to let in the cold wind, the bus stopped at a light on the corner of Manning Boulevard. I pressed my forehead against the dirty window and saw a man standing in his driveway next to a station wagon. He was wearing a light- colored suit and held a brown briefcase. The hair was thin on top of his head, and he was staring off past the bus.
I’m not sure if the light was broken, but it seemed like someone had pressed pause on the Earth’s rotation. I stared at the man. When we finally lurched forward, I turned to
my right and noticed that across the aisle, there was a guy sitting with his legs stretched out under the seat in front of him. He was wearing a white t-shirt, leather jacket, and
jeans, and his light brown hair hung in his face. On the Road was in his lap. Nodding toward the briefcase man, he said,
“I’m never going to be him.”
“What?”
“I’m never going to be that guy back there. You know, trapped. Walter Mitty.”
Walter Mitty. I had kind of paid attention in my high school English class when we were supposed to have read that story, so I sort of knew what he meant, but still, who brings up Walter Mitty to a stranger on a bus?
“Yeah, no interest here.”
“I don’t mean to be hard on the guy, but he looked like he couldn’t deal.”
“He probably just got off from work at those offices back there. New meaning to, ‘Life sucks and then you die.’”
A smile formed on his too-serious face. “Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe he’s going inside to smoke a bowl.”
“I don’t think so. Not the type.”
Not sure if it was my knowledge of who smoked weed and who didn’t, or if he liked that I knew about Mitty, but he leaned toward me and extended his hand. “Henry,” he
said.
At that moment, the boy came into focus. He looked like a Fifties greaser, minus the grease.
“So, where are you heading?”
I felt embarrassed all of a sudden. “Nowhere, actually. I was just riding around. You?”
He sat up. “Work. I got a job at a print shop.”
“They’re not hiring, are they?”
“I don’t think so, but the place is all guys anyway. Why? You looking for a job?”
“I guess I am, but I should probably wait until the summer and get one at home.”
“Where’s that?”
“Brooklyn.”
His eyes lit up and I got the sense that he must be an upstate boy, seeing as there were only two types of people at this school: Long Island frat boys and hicks.
“Why? Where are you from? Wait, don’t tell me you’re a cow-tipper.”
“I’m not a cow-tipper.”
“Nothing wrong with being a hick. Hicks are people too.”
“Listen, Brooklyn, I’m not a hick. I’m from Albany.”
“Oh. Albany. I see.”
“Hey, I’m not the one tooling around on a bus with no place to go.”
“I was kid—”
“So was I.”
The bus stopped. I looked out the window, and we were in front of a drugstore. There were a couple of homeless guys leaning on the glass window.
He stood up and tossed the hair from his eyes. “You’d be right if you thought I knew the country better than the city, but if you stop into Royal Press on Dove Street, I’ll see if they need somebody.”
I nodded. “Okay, I’ll do that.”
“Do it soon ‘cause I’m not going to be on this bus much longer. I’m done with school.”
He got off the bus, lit a cigarette, and started walking down Lark Street, the block known for being the city’s “Greenwich Village.” I leaned forward to watch him walk,
his arms swinging. He looked back at the bus, and when he did, I looked away even though I was pretty sure he couldn’t see inside.
