Field Trip

There's nothing quite like hitting the open road. The wind in your hair. The prerequisite potato chips and chocolates, passed around the car like a bong. The backseat driver. Tonight it was Samantha, who was shocked to find me turning at what she called "the wrong exit." "This isn't the way!" she shrieked. I offered to make a U, but it was too late. So, all the way to the mountain, she kept whispering to Miranda, "This way's too long. My way's shorter." She meant it as a whisper, but her voice wasn't exactly made for whispering, and her words floated all the way to the front seat. "Whatever, bitch," I hissed from behind the wheel. I threatened to leave her in the middle of nowhere, in the dark spots between the fruit vendors and the vinegar peddlers -- but nothing scared Samantha. Except maybe a vagina, but that's another story.

As was the custom, we switched off the headlights when we drove through ghost-like towns. We made scary noises as we snaked our way up the backroads -- just like those annoying characters in scary movies, the ones who always end up dead.

We had stopped at a mega-convenience store earlier. The kind that even had a Starbucks. The goal was to load up on chips and soda, of course. Then we spotted this good-looking "boy". Charlotte immediately perked up from her perch and screamed, "Tristan!" -- simply because the name suited him. He turned toward us, making us giggle like crazy. Tristan then ducked into the men's room, and we sat in the car for a few seconds, debating the wisdom of following him inside. Because it was that kind of night. But we decided against it, of course. Because we were chickens. So all the way up the mountain, we pointed to every SUV zipping past us, every sporty sedan at the side of the road, screaming "Is that Tristan? Is that Tristan?" at the top of our lungs.

Charlotte starred in her own music video later that night. Miranda provided the scoring, while Samantha shot it via her Nokia. We had to pick up every fifteen seconds, however, as that was about as much fake emotion this particular Nokie could handle in one sitting. Which was just as well -- as that was five seconds more than I could take. So every ten seconds or so, you could hear me laughing and ruining the mood. But Samantha actually ruined the shot way before I did, because she could only hold out for about three seconds. So, if you think about it, Charlotte's video was actually scored by Samantha's Ernie-like giggles.

Starbucks was one of the night's stops. We eyed hot boys with hot girls as we sipped our tall, hot drinks. Of course, we ultimately decided that not even one of those pairings would work out. Two hots, we figured, could only end in third degree burns. Think Brad and Jen. Anyway, Samantha motioned to the black lake beneath us, and our eyes strained to catch a glimpse of her "estate". But we could see nothing. Only a string of lights winked at us from below. Tiny houses lining the shore like fireflies. As we trudged back to the car, it started to rain. We laughed up the hill -- Charlotte and Miranda got drenched, Samantha teetered in her impossibly high heels, and I, well, I had the car keys and got out of the wet scene quickly.

We sped home at midnight. The caramel macchiato did little to wake me. At one point, everyone was asleep -- including me -- and I was driving. Tristan was nowhere to be seen. He was probably already at his weekend house in some resort town. (He seemed like the type to have one.) I asked Samantha to show me her shortcut, but it turned out that Ms. This-is-the-wrong-way couldn't locate "the right way" so late at night. The shortcut apparently turned into a pumpkin at midnight and rolled away. So it was my way or the highway. And they couldn't care less, because it was lights-out inside my trusty Lancer. Charlotte was the first to go off, her eyes fluttering open and close for the first few kilometers, but, to be honest, she was already gone even before we pulled out of the parking lot. Then off went Samantha, snoring softly in the backseat, dreaming of warm lake waters and the imaginary "right way". Miranda was the longest holdout, but soon, even she succumbed to the memory of a giant koi, the delicious cool air, the insistent lullaby of rubber hitting the concrete seams. And as for me, I watched five sleepy towns pass by.