My Myspace page becomes a giant collage depicting my undeniable love for Dana and Tegan and Sara. I’m not hiding anything. In fact, I think I’m making it pretty impossible for anyone who knows me to say, “that girl MUST be straight.”
The hippies hoot and holler, dance barefoot around the flames, and generally enjoy themselves. We’re standing on the outskirts, drinking cans of PBR. Wes is littering.
“He walked over and poured a scotch and water. He walked into the bedroom with it, took off his shirt, pants, shoes, stockings. In his shorts he went to bed with the drink. It was 15 minutes to noon. No ambition, no talent, no chance.”
He pleads with God for answers — something to ease Charlotte’s suffering. His fingers drum nervously on the wheel as he pulls up to the church. He sits for a minute. Finally, he kills the engine.
Maybe that’s where I belonged after all. Oh, how this journey had fallen apart. A night that had once sparkled, and now, here I was, sliding into the backseat of a squad car.
