[Just joining this story? Start here.]
Not only do I hate her, I want her to know I hate her.
What’s the point in hating someone if they don’t know? So I catch her eye and stare. I give her my glariest, dirtiest look. I have no idea how long that mean stare lasts or how long it might have lasted or what her reaction is or anything, because all of a sudden, God smites me. No, seriously. Everything is going dark. What am I doing on my knees? Mom grabs my elbow and whispers, “Are you ok?”
Everyone in the visitor’s center is looking at us. Mom and Dad hustle us out as quietly and inconspicuously as possible because heaven forbid we make a scene.
We scuttle out and make our way back to the camper. I hear Sweetest ask, “What happened?”
Mom says something like, “She fainted. She needs some food.”
Back in the camper, Mom makes me sit down. She gives me orange juice and a pop tart. And before you go judging my mother for not feeding us nutritious meals, I’ll have you know that the only time we ever get pop tarts is on vacation, so stop hatin’ on my mother!
Wait a minute, were you seriously just hatin’ on my mother? You fuckin’ bitch, I will rip your hair out strand by strand and claw out your eyes, and have you ever heard of a titty twister? You’re about to get one….
Sorry. Old habits and all that.
Ok, so being a mean girl might have had something to do with this whole basement thing.