there's a caravan of us. i've never been to the lake. i wish you weren't with us. i thought i wanted to be with B instead of you, but then last night happened. i realize i don't know who i am anymore. we stop at a gas station and you disgust me. every boy there is acting like a brain-dead monkey. M looks at me and knows i'm miserable. we buy more twizzlers and smoke behind the building.
you hate me now. we're doing this for them. we'll pretend everything's fine, that this is just a bump in the road. i tell you that T's driving is making me nervous. you ask if i want to ride with you the rest of the way. you smell like an ashtray. i'd rather walk.
we're back on the road. M and T fight because she knows about my irrational fear of mountain highways and she's trying to help. he hates me. it's mutual. i smoke a cigarette in The Tahoe.
we're at the campsite. no one is happy. M holds my wrist between her middle and index fingers and pulls it down to her hip. "do you want to leave?" yes. "are you hungry? we could eat." i'd love to eat. "we'll take The Tahoe."
we're going to drink beer while the sun's still out. it's her idea of rebelling. i'll do whatever she says. "you've never had gazpacho? you'll love it." i'm embarrassed. we order the beers triumphantly. she complains about T, i complain about you. we're feeding on cucumbers and tomatoes and anger. there are giant salmon-colored flowers painted on the walls. we had to walk up stairs to get here, too, but the restaurant doesn't smell like her parents' house. i still don't want to leave.
we're back in The Tahoe. if i see you again i might die. she knows about B. we think this is about him. it's not.