“You and I aren’t that alike, Lexi,” I said, because I wanted it to be true. I knew it sounded harsh, but I blamed her a little bit for making me open up a wound, reminding me of my insecurities and not being the slightest bit aware of it.

But the truth was, Lexi and I were more alike than I wanted to admit.

Cole and Kori were the brave ones. Lexi and I were timid. I hid my vulnerability, making quite the job of it. But not Lexi. Lexi kept hers proudly on display, and sometimes looking at her made me feel like I was standing in front of a mirror naked. All the raw spots glaringly obvious. And sometimes when Lexi’s all buddy-buddy with my mother, I also ask, “Why’s it so easy for her?”

Just thinking about my MIA mother made a familiar, antsy energy start up inside of me. I felt it every time I thought about my father leaving me. I usually channeled my anxiety by programming games on my computer, but out here in the park that was impossible. My fingers twitched like a dreaming dog’s legs, finding imaginary keys, reaching for letters to string together. Muscle memory, it’s called. My fingers could run code lines even if I were in a coma. I could hear the gentle tapping of my fingers on my plastic beer cup like a Morse code repeating an SOS.

Save Me. Help Me. Hear Me.

But Lexi, oblivious to my unease, continued to babble.

I finished off my beer in a long chug, as eager to get a little drunk as I was to have a reason to get away from Lexi and her reminders. As if right on cue, up came Poor Josh. I was so not in the mood to patiently wait while he P-P-P-Porky P-Pigged his way through a conversation with me.

I couldn’t handle sitting still. My bones twitched with desperation to move and get away. “Hey Josh, Lexi was just asking me about the Gorillaz. They’re like your favorite group, right?” I said, stabbing out what was left of my cigarette. Then, because I knew neither of them drank: “Does anyone need another beer? I’m going.”

And I was out of there, shouldering my way through the musky heat of too many people—sweaty boys, perfumed girls, grungy stoners who never washed their flannel shirts. Marijuana seemed to waft off them all. If it weren’t for the mandatory Colorado history class, I would have sworn Cannabis sativa was the state plant. They don’t call it the High Country for nothing.