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[code]The Campsite - Campfire.[/code][hr]


A tinge of red came to Rita’s pale cheeks as Martin made his dramatic entrance, which she played off with an exaggerated eye roll and an amused smile—all while mentally blaming it on the alcohol. Since June, when Mama Cromwell rented out the fold-out couch to Rita for all of her life’s savings, she had spent pretty much every day with the boy after he had played the role of her tour guide for an afternoon. She had met a few other people that summer, but he was about the only one that she could consider to be a friend. 

“I doubt me being here’s gonna change those mosquitos minds regarding who they’re gonna eat. I heard they liked the sweet ones. Wonder why they’re going after you, then,” she said, screwing up her face in faux confusion before she lightly jabbed him with an elbow.

The girl whose turn she had stolen began, at the behest of the others, to tell a scary story. Rita sat back and listened, her knee bobbing up and down. She wondered how a forest could possibly manifest her fear of showing up naked for class; did the trees just steal all of her clothes or did they cast a spell on her that made her think she was dressed? She pushed the thought out of her mind and instead focused on the story to its completion, not realizing until the end that the hairs on the back of her neck were actually standing on end. [i]Had she just made that up in the spur of the moment? Holy crap. That was kind of good.[/i] 

But it wasn’t make you fall out of your seat, screaming bloody murder good. Rita jumped when Claire shouted, her hands going up to cover her mouth as the air around the campfire grew oppressive. The girl started to yell. It didn’t register with Rita right away that the freaked out girl was yelling at her, not until she was rushing towards her like a bull that had seen red. Panic shot through Rita’s systems, but she neither fought nor took flight. Instead, she flinched; she had already given up, already accepted the hit that had not been thrown quite yet. She didn’t even know these people and already she was making enemies. At least in Texas they didn’t start hating her until after they knew her name. 

“I-I-I-I-I.” 

Oh, Christ, there’s the real Rita, skipping like a scratched disc in a bumpy car. So much for pretending to be confident. Her eyes darted back and forth; nothing but unfamiliar faces. She didn’t even really know Martin. Shit, she could feel tears welling up; her strained voice did little to make her appear strong. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s not mine. It seemed fine, though, I think it was fine. I don’t know. I don’t even like weed. I just held it in my mouth and exhaled. I don’t even know if that works. I was just trying—” 

Yeah, better not finish that sentence. Maybe that weird little noise (not quite a hiccup, not quite a cry, technically human) Rita made instead would pass for as a valid excuse. Not nearly as embarrassing as admitting that she was trying to appear cool so that others would validate her existence. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she said with a whimper, her eyes looking at anything but Claire.