The humid air filled our hair with water droplets, at least that is the only way I can account for the sweat flooding down the napes of our necks. The Mamas and Papas sing of their California dreams to us, in this place that could not have been further from the foreign land they preached about. Approaching the beginning of our ascent into the mountain, their voices raise. Clara belted out screeching notes in between long puffs on her Davidoff cigarette. Julie joined in, attempting to harmonize. Rolling runs of notes off her tongue, she flaunts her five or so singing lessons, a gift from her parents during their trip to Rome three summers ago. I turn the knob on the radio and discreetly stomp on the pedal, drowning out the two of them. Glen shoots me a sideways glance, a whispering smirk crossing his lips. The front cover of his newest issue of TIME magazine flaps in the wind, on the verge of taking flight. He clamps his hands down on it, not daring to let go of his only untainted connection to the outside world.

As we rise, Simon and Garfunkel’s voices tinkle their way out of the speakers. Julie and Clara squeal with delight, joining in for another concert, louder and more screeching than before. Sitting in between the singers, Scottie lays his head back, resting from his throbbing headache. His bloodshot eyes stay hidden behind his aviators. Despite his depleted state, his arms are wrapped around Clara and Julie’s waists. No one could deny Scottie’s charm. The two girls were best friends since primary school, having bonded over the number of summer homes they laid claim to, but the two of them had been eyeing Scottie all summer. I’ve seen him split up friendships claiming existence until kingdom come, relishing in his power to do so.

I pull into our usual spot. Shaded by the trees at the edge of the field, I shut off the engine, regrettably silencing Mr. Cash. Scottie, a choir boy since before I came into town, had a voice meant for the angels’ ears, and it was the only thing that shut up Julie and Clara. Glen is the first to jump out of the convertible, not bothering to open the door. Scottie follows suit, only to turn and help Clara and Julie out of the car, not missing the opportunity to watch their long legs stretch out as they search for stable footing in their heels. I roll my eyes. I’ve known the boy since Mrs. Hopkins’ third grade class. He was the first person I had seen with skin as tanned as mine in winter, on account of his recent vacation to Australia. Having just moved from Atlanta, I bonded with him over dreaded music lessons, lectures from our banker fathers in financing our piggy banks, and nannies that felt more like mothers. Little did we know, our fathers would soon be partners of their own bank, now the largest chain in the region.

We stroll over to the tree stumps. The spot felt so old, sacred. Maybe it was our worship of the freedom it brought us that made it feel that way. Settling into the stumps’ lumps and crumbling edges, Glen pulls out his tin box, one we worshipped even more that this place of ritual. I look over at the car resting in the shade, wishing these stumps were living, able to shade the occasion. Using the photographs of the Los Angeles riots as a makeshift table, Glen rolled the joint using his magazine. Clara, a virgin to this ritual, stared at Scottie, twirling her curled hair acting as though what she was doing with us wasn’t really happening. I imagine her the night before, twisting her soft locks into her new Clairol Kindness kit, sticking out her tongue in concentration as she clipped the curlers in perfectly. Scottie, having strategically placed himself so the harsh midday rays of the sun were at his hunched back, pulled out a thermos, the one he used every Saturday morning after a rough Friday night in the next town. Glen laughs softly, concentrating on creating a perfect roll of crude paper and euphoria.

“Tough night, huh, Scottie?” In the middle of a long drink of coffee, Scottie flips the bird in Glen’s general direction. Glen smiles, finishing the joint and shimmying out his monogrammed Dunhill lighter from his front jean pocket. He lights the paper, starting the ritual. The droplets in the air stick to my skin, glueing me to the tree stump. Hadn't they found a little girl’s shoe under a stump like this once? Was it these woods they think she’s buried in? When it is my turn, I drag the fire down my throat and into my belly, letting it linger there before passing it off. With the sun heating our hunched backs, I feel cooked from the inside and out. But I hold the fire there, letting it brown and simmer my insides. I finally release the smoke and it creeps and lingers around me. There is no wind to disperse the rules I am breaking. We stay at the stumps for what feels like a long time, slowly forming a lopsided circle, imitative of our clouded cognitions. What feels like minutes becomes hours and while the droplets stay suspended in the sky, the heating lamp begins its descent. I stand, beginning the end of the ritual.

We walk back to the car, Clara and Julie singing to a radio that I cannot hear, stumbling in their tight skirts and heels. I applaud their effort. I was like them once, wanting to feel pretty and special on my escape from reality. I’ve learned since then. Driving home, the droplets attempt to cling to my hair, but my speed down the shaded mountain pass doesn’t give them much of a chance. As my high wanes off, I peek back at the others in my rearview mirror. Glen looks at the photographs in his magazine with childlike wonder. The girls have their heads laid back, their bodies limp and stupid with bliss. Scottie is the only one who seems of able function. His glasses lift from their resting place, uncovering his now exposed eyes. He sees me watching and winks. Our night is not over.

I drop off Glen and the girls at the diner, settle them into our usual booth, giving the frail and tired girl their orders. Letting her know to keep the fries coming. She knows this routine as much as I do. As I walk out, the red neon of the diner’s sign blinks to life. Scottie has already leaped into the front seat by the time the door rings shut behind me. I climb in and start the engine.

“I’ve really got those girls wrapped around my finger, don’t I?” I don’t say anything and he doesn’t expect me to. We watch the girls stare out into the night from inside the diner, longing for a last glance at the boy they both swear to their diaries they will marry. Their high already beginning to slip away, they realize he is sitting with me in the front seat and though they say nothing, their daggered eyes are enough.

“Yeah, you do,” I finally reply.

We turn onto Alexander Street and shut off the headlights, creeping down the newly paved road. Our fathers, having financed the community project to repave the roads, had not realized the motives behind Scottie and I encouraging them to do so. The rubber of my tires, silent against the road, stroll through the crumbling glass factory walls at the end of Alexander and into the abandoned production floor. Our usual spot. Scottie jumps out, gingerly stepping around loose shards of uncollected glass. He opens the janitor closet door at the back corner of the enormous room, moonlight beginning to peek through the exposed roof. Walking over with the locked box, I see sweat dripping down his sideburns, illuminated by the moon reflecting off the glass shards. He opens the car door quietly and gets in, giggling as Julie and Clara had.

This was the real high he and I had been waiting for all day, just entertaining the beginners with the weak stuff at the tree stumps. I hand him the paper with the combination for the lock, stuffing it back in the slit on the underbelly of my steering wheel when he is done The lock clips open and the lid falls back. We grab stray shards of glass from the dirtied floor, whipping off the grime with our shirts. We cut the stuff with his Canoe pocket knife, creating white dust. I make a line and pull back my hair. The ritual begins.