even know where it is,” I said.
“It’s outside of Boston. In New Hampshire.”
“New Hamp … shire?” This state was clearly not on my radar.
“Yes, New Hampshire. It’s only a month, Mark. Maybe it will be fun.”
“Well, Mother,” I said, “we all thought that Kimberly blowing up Melrose Place was going to be fun and look at what a mess that turned out to be!”
It turns out, there are places worse than D.C. after all. Hidden Crest, New Hampshire, for example, is one of them. Located near Dartmouth College, Hidden Crest is a quaint and dreary lakeside town where the devil and his children set up shop and called it a summer camp. As my father and stepmother dropped me off in this fresh hell, I finally mustered up the courage to use a word that I had been waiting to drop at just the right occasion.
“CUNT!” I yelled at my stepmother.
“MARK!” my father yelled.
“That’s what she is. She is a cunt. And the worst part is, she knows it.”
My stepmother just stood there and smiled at me. She was probably thinking about how she was going to poison my father, get away with it, and steal all of his money while I was gone at camp.
“I HATE YOU!” I yelled at my father. “But I hate her more!”
“Why me?” the devil whisperer questioned.
“BECAUSE THIS WAS ALL YOUR IDEA!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. Other parents dropping their children off began to casually eavesdrop on our conversation as they sent their children on their way. I continued at foghorn level: “I’m not even your son; I don’t know why you even care. Why can’t you just let me do what I want to do? I wasn’t hurting anyone.”
“Because you are not acting how a boy is supposed to act,” she replied.
“Oh, and you know so much about how boys are supposed to act, don’t you?” I said. “You don’t even know how women your own age are supposed to act. Someone who drinks as much, smokes as much, and takes as many pills as you do should not be telling anyone how to act!” Had I been about ten years older, the two of us would have most likely been the best of friends due to her bad habits. She’s pretty much everything I look for in a friend in adulthood, but at twelve, I hated her.
“YOU’RE SUCH A BRAT!” my stepmother yelled.
“Oh yeah?” I said. “I may be a brat, BUT YOU’RE STILL A CUNT!” I was so incredibly loud that everyone around us stopped dead in their tracks. Had this been a cartoon, an elderly woman would have said, “My word,” as her monocle droppedinto her champagne glass. I wondered where the hell Kimberly was. Couldn’t she have blown up my stepmother instead of my beloved Heather Locklear?
“Hello,” a man said as he came up behind me.
“HOLY SHIT!” I yelled. He scared me. He came at me like the Flash, but when I turned around a small, sixty-something-year-old man was standing there, wearing a Polo shirt with a monogrammed H on it. I was hoping the H stood for
Hello, Dolly!
, a production that was possibly in the works for later in the summer, but much to my chagrin, it stood for Hidden Crest. I turned around again to see what my father and stepmother were up to, but when I looked behind me all I saw was a cloud of smoke. They had driven away so quickly and without a proper good-bye that I felt abandoned. Kind of like how Dumpster prom babies must feel.
“Welcome to Hidden Crest,” the man said. “You must be Mark. I’m Carl. I hear you are not very happy to be here?”
“What tipped you off? The fact that I just called my stepmother a cunt or the fact that I am currently planning an escape route in my head right now?”
“Oh, there is no escaping Hidden Crest, my friend,” Carl said eerily. “There isn’t a town around here for miles. You’ll be walking a mighty long time to find anyone to help you.”
“I’ll find a way—just you wait.” Clearly my smart-ass shenanigans were not going to fly here. If I was going to escape, I was going to have to
“It’s outside of Boston. In New Hampshire.”
“New Hamp … shire?” This state was clearly not on my radar.
“Yes, New Hampshire. It’s only a month, Mark. Maybe it will be fun.”
“Well, Mother,” I said, “we all thought that Kimberly blowing up Melrose Place was going to be fun and look at what a mess that turned out to be!”
It turns out, there are places worse than D.C. after all. Hidden Crest, New Hampshire, for example, is one of them. Located near Dartmouth College, Hidden Crest is a quaint and dreary lakeside town where the devil and his children set up shop and called it a summer camp. As my father and stepmother dropped me off in this fresh hell, I finally mustered up the courage to use a word that I had been waiting to drop at just the right occasion.
“CUNT!” I yelled at my stepmother.
“MARK!” my father yelled.
“That’s what she is. She is a cunt. And the worst part is, she knows it.”
My stepmother just stood there and smiled at me. She was probably thinking about how she was going to poison my father, get away with it, and steal all of his money while I was gone at camp.
“I HATE YOU!” I yelled at my father. “But I hate her more!”
“Why me?” the devil whisperer questioned.
“BECAUSE THIS WAS ALL YOUR IDEA!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. Other parents dropping their children off began to casually eavesdrop on our conversation as they sent their children on their way. I continued at foghorn level: “I’m not even your son; I don’t know why you even care. Why can’t you just let me do what I want to do? I wasn’t hurting anyone.”
“Because you are not acting how a boy is supposed to act,” she replied.
“Oh, and you know so much about how boys are supposed to act, don’t you?” I said. “You don’t even know how women your own age are supposed to act. Someone who drinks as much, smokes as much, and takes as many pills as you do should not be telling anyone how to act!” Had I been about ten years older, the two of us would have most likely been the best of friends due to her bad habits. She’s pretty much everything I look for in a friend in adulthood, but at twelve, I hated her.
“YOU’RE SUCH A BRAT!” my stepmother yelled.
“Oh yeah?” I said. “I may be a brat, BUT YOU’RE STILL A CUNT!” I was so incredibly loud that everyone around us stopped dead in their tracks. Had this been a cartoon, an elderly woman would have said, “My word,” as her monocle droppedinto her champagne glass. I wondered where the hell Kimberly was. Couldn’t she have blown up my stepmother instead of my beloved Heather Locklear?
“Hello,” a man said as he came up behind me.
“HOLY SHIT!” I yelled. He scared me. He came at me like the Flash, but when I turned around a small, sixty-something-year-old man was standing there, wearing a Polo shirt with a monogrammed H on it. I was hoping the H stood for
Hello, Dolly!
, a production that was possibly in the works for later in the summer, but much to my chagrin, it stood for Hidden Crest. I turned around again to see what my father and stepmother were up to, but when I looked behind me all I saw was a cloud of smoke. They had driven away so quickly and without a proper good-bye that I felt abandoned. Kind of like how Dumpster prom babies must feel.
“Welcome to Hidden Crest,” the man said. “You must be Mark. I’m Carl. I hear you are not very happy to be here?”
“What tipped you off? The fact that I just called my stepmother a cunt or the fact that I am currently planning an escape route in my head right now?”
“Oh, there is no escaping Hidden Crest, my friend,” Carl said eerily. “There isn’t a town around here for miles. You’ll be walking a mighty long time to find anyone to help you.”
“I’ll find a way—just you wait.” Clearly my smart-ass shenanigans were not going to fly here. If I was going to escape, I was going to have to
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