She cried the rest of the night, her voice slicing the darkness through the trees and we all tossed in our beds and cursed her and when she was gone the next morning we were not sorry. Lucie returned to her parents who were getting divorced and making her twelve year old life shit while we stayed nestled in our haven of pine trees and coffee parties and late night bonfires. We were too cool to be affected. We laughed and painted our toenails blue with a bottle Jasmine had brought from home, violating some obscure camp rule about no make-up, and we sang to ourselves as the light was cracking in through the tent and the cold air just starting to invade our space of warmth.
And then there was a burst of air, the tent flaps thrown back and a silhouette etched in the pale dawn sunlight, a small figure still in pyjamas with long hair knotted on her head and she looked at us, though we could not see her eyes, and her voice was thin as she hissed, "It's your fault Lucie's gone. You think you're so cool. You think you're so old. Well I think you're perverts, you fucking lesbians!" her voice cracked and shook the air and every leaf and every branch trembled, "I hate you!"
We said nothing because there was nothing to say, no defense for the undeniable. The sun rose and our shadows disappeared and our nails dried to hard blue. We had made our enemies without making a sound.
Ah, to be young and carefree again.
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Hey--what's going on? - 11 April, 2008
I wasn't cool - 30 July, 2004
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Going to 17th and U - 27 April, 2004
- - 08 April, 2004