I just need to sneak out of the house first. It’s Friday night, but if I’m in, there’s no way my dad won’t question why I want to go back out after ten p.m.
I’ve personally never snuck out (there’s never a particularly compelling reason to), but I’ve seen Owen do it hundreds of times. And even though I’ve seen him get grounded dozens of times, that doesn’t faze me. Great, my parents’ punishment would just be an excuse to not deal with my soon-to-be blown up social life.
I move swiftly and quietly toward the front door, an amplified version of how I normally act around my family. It’s all too easy. Mom’s still at work. Dad’s got noise canceling headphones and a dream. Lake Arrowhead is about an hour and a half away, but would anyone even notice I was gone? They don’t even know the sleepover was canceled. If I’m caught walking back into the house at one a.m., I can always tell my parents someone wasn’t feeling well and the sleepover ended early.
Still, I tiptoe my way back toward the front door. Owen and Liam are still deep in their games. The universe eggs me on as I sneak to the door.
“Going to a party?” Owen says it with a disbelieving scoff.
I could keep going, ignore him. He doesn’t really care. But my hands start to sweat. “No,” I answer as I grab the front door handle.
“Then whatareyou doing?” This gets me to look back. Owen’s got his controller on the coffee table, and he’s fully looking at me. His expression is neutral. It could even seem like concern if I squint hard enough. Owen actually caring about me would normally have me analyzing every minuscule beat of the interaction, searching for clues he wants to be close again. Tonight, I only feel impatient for the interaction to be over.
When Owen first started getting shitfaced at baseball parties, I asked him that same question with the same expression all the time. A little thrill runs through me seeing how the tables have turned.
“I’m going for a drive,” I say and open the front door.
This might be a terrible mistake. Maybe Owen will call our parents and get me stopped in my tracks. As I get back into my car and punch the address formycamping trip into the navigation, I think I want to be caught a little bit.
But no one comes out of the house. No one texts or calls. I drive to the freeway, imagining the many ways this conversation could go.
Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you went on a trip without me? As if you could ever stop yourselves from talking about something fun you did together?
Too direct. Their answers could just beyesandyesand they’d send me away and label me as a freak for the rest of high school.
I merge from the suburban sprawl of the 134 to the 18, the highway that will eventually morph to farms and forest. Everything’s moving too fast away from me.
Was I ever really your friend, or was I always a joke once I left the room?What’s the point of keeping me around if so? It’s not like I do your homework or am the only one with a car.
I don’t think I want the answer to that.
Were you always going to do this, or did I do something wrong?
I glance at my speedometer, realizing with a hitch in my chest that I’ve gone above eighty. Mom told me never to go above seventy. I slow down. But even so, I zip past the few other cars and trucks on the road, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. I’ve never driven this fast this late at night before.
Is it because I annoyed you talking about Winona Ryder or horror movies or the books I was reading? Is it because I have crushes but can’t talk to anyone whether I like them or not? Because I don’t own designer bags or praise Paisley correctly?
It has to have been Paisley’s idea. Harlow and Opal do whatever Paisley says.Ido whatever Paisley says.
I can’t wait to hear what shitty excuse Paisley comes up with. I want her to squirm.
The highway lanes slip away. Eight lanes to six to four.
But when I hit two lanes and this all starts becomingreal, I feel unnerved. My mental wheels stop spinning in the same direction imagining this confrontation with my friends. I turn on a playlist, my podcasts all too horror to be appropriate right now.
There might be no way to get past park security, so then what? I call them and they don’t answer. Do I get a hotel room?CanI get a hotel room?
There’s no one on the road with me. Streetlights are sparse to none. I’m inching past eighty again, but don’t slow down. I feel like a little kid sprinting away from monsters that don’t really exist. Only one mile before I get off the highway.
When Paisley texted me that they were going to die—why did she even want to go camping? If they wanted to dump me or go on some other vacation together, why do it in a way that our flawless leader hates? None of this makes sense. They can hardly plan anything, let alone a trip like this. How did they pull all this together?
Will they ever even talk to me again?
The entrance to the campsite falls swiftly into view. The visitors’ center is dark, the only signs of life in echoes: the blink of the light of a ranger station nearby, the orange glow of a few campfires maybe a quarter mile away. Far enough that I can’t hear the raucous laughter I’m sure my friends are sharing without me.
The parking lot is nearly empty, making it more than easy to find exactly I’m looking for: Paisley’s Audi with the LET ME MERGE OR I’LL START CRYING sticker. I park on the other side of the lot, my script in my head ready to go.
But I can’t get my muscles to move. I stare off at the signs pointing to the campgrounds. I can picture it so easily—storming in to find them around a fire. But then I imagine having to unzip their tent door if they’re all asleep by now. I imagine the phrases they’d use—What the fuck, Emma? What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like such a fucking freak?
