The windows are open and mixtures of blue sky and green trees whiz by me as I drive down the open road.

Today I’m an Alice. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be an Agatha. Or a Molly. Or maybe even a Candice. Who knows?

I’m too young, they say. I’ve gotta return to Dover, they say. I say: no way.

Hey, that rhymed! They say, no way. Huh. Maybe I should become a poet. But I don’t really need to ‘become’ a poet, do I? I can just start writing poems and then say to anyone who asks, “yes, I am indeed a poet. I’m like Mark Twain, or whomever.”

Mother and father are wrong. Plain and simple. I’m eighteen. I can do whatever I want. For example, this car is not even mine. It’s Lorina’s. She’s twenty-four and until recently was engaged to William Genslinger. He’s got a house with seven bedrooms.

I’ve got a groovy pair of black sunglasses. My hair’s blowing in the hot wind. I’ve got on some slick black gloves on. I could be Linda McCartney––‘cept I would never subject myself to…sex…with Paul. George, definitely. His lyrics are like poetry and he’s got a wicked smile.

Oh, it’s Peter, Paul and Mary! Gotta crank this up. If I had my waaaaaay, in this wicked world…they totally get me.

The great thing about leaving home is that you can blast your records––which I’ve got stowed in the backseat––without mother or father bombarding into your room and complaining about how you could be practicing your viola or studying for your upcoming art history exam. I don’t even care about art, to be honest––they’re all just pictures. There are no words involved, so why do we have to put thoughts to them? They’re literally just blobs of pain mixed together in a certain way to create a picture. Art is arbitrary.

I have no idea where I’m going. The great thing about leaving home is that you’re not on a schedule anymore. I’m not late for anything. At home I always rushed out to school at the last minute, hardly having time for a bite of toast.

I don’t have school anymore, though. Peace out, prospective finishing schools. So dated.

It’s like, I’m eighteen. I’m an adult. And as an adult, I think I’ll drive into the nearest diner and stuff my face with pies. I don’t need to watch my figure. I don’t care what mother says about my weight. Not at all.

I wonder what everyone at home is thinking right now. Mother’s probably fraught with worry. Father’s probably gone to sigh and drink a scotch. It was bound to happen sooner or later, he’s probably thinking. Yeah. I bet they’re downright worried sick. Serves them right, though. Right? I think I’ve got some pretty good reasons to leave.

Gosh! More Peter, Paul and Mary. Do radio stations know exactly who’s listening to them and then tailor their song list based on said listener’s musical likes and dislikes?

Lemon tree, very pretty
And the lemon flower so sweet, but the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat

How do they know me so well? I’m the fruit of the lemon. The lemon’s my family. Yeah, they’re pretty. Mother goes to a fab hairdresser. But I seem to be the sour one, as they always told me. I’ve always been too brash, too impulsive. Mother even called me ‘callous’ on one occasion. But I’ve also been too caring, too loyal as well. Can a girl ever win?

Maybe I’ll head out to San Francisco. They all just live out there and vibe together. Gosh, that sounds so hip. I wanna vibe!

Mother never let me stay out late. I never even went with someone. Maybe I’ll meet someone in San Francisco.

Minnesota’s got the biggest ball of twine, though. Decisions, decisions.

Nobody ever let me make decisions for myself. But y’know what? It’s my turn.

I’m seeing a shoddy little truck stop up ahead.

This looks like the perfect place to park. An older man is filling up on gas and smiles at me. I wave back. People are so nice!

I pull a cigarette out of my pocket along with the little lighter I nicked from father’s coat in the front hall closet just before I left. I put it to my lips before I remember that this Camel Light is the last thing I’ll ever have to remember father by. Should I waste it all now?

Oh well.

I inhale and then cough furiously. I’ll get used to it. Maybe I’ll even like it one day.

I enter the little convenience store on a quest to buy some little snack pies. Oh, I do hope they have cherry!

As I’m browsing it occurs to me that I left my windows rolled down.

I do hope no one can smell Lorina’s rotting flesh from the trunk.