By Tess Donnelly
The first time I snuck out I was thirteen. It was a warm July night in Framingham. I was bored while spending the night at my deadbeat father’s shoebox apartment. Luckily he lived a mile down the street from the summer camp I was a counselor at. My friend Grace texted me, telling me to sneak out of the apartment and meet her at camp because she had just stolen some weed from her older brother. She was in that rebellious phase of our youth, where behaving was the last thing she wanted to do. Grace turned fifteen that summer, and I looked up to her like she was my much cooler older sister.
It was 10:30pm when I mustered up the courage to creep around my father passed out drunk on the couch. I grabbed his Penn State sweatshirt that hung almost to my knees, so worn in that the fleece inside felt rough against my skin. I turned the volume up on his TV three more notches so he would not hear the door closing behind me. The hallways smelled of laundry detergent and someone’s burnt food. As I made my way through the parking lot, I texted Grace, “On my way” and put my lime green headphones on.
I walked along Salem End Road on the grass, the town refused to put a sidewalk on such a narrow road. The only light I had was that of my phone screen, and the cars flying past me. Nobody could see me in my dark sweatshirt until they were right next to me, slamming on their breaks. The cars blew wind against my legs, and the gusts of air felt cold. The air smelled like swamp when I approached the bridge. My halfway marker, but the most dangerous part of my journey; the road is even skinnier at the bridge. I waited for two cars to pass before running across, afraid of becoming somebody’s hood ornament. A pit started to fall in my stomach, and suddenly realized how dangerous it was for a thirteen-year-old to be walking alone at night. ‘Grace is doing this too’ I thought to calm myself out of thinking I would become another set of flowers on the side of the road.
I saw the bright blue sign of the property and knew my walk was done. ‘Pilgrim Day Camp’ greeted me as I jumped the stone wall to avoid getting hit by a car at the most poorly designed four way stop I’ve ever seen. I text Grace, “Here, how far are you?”, and sit at a picnic table next to the parking lot. The paint of the bench was peeling from the humidity that summer and scratched the back of my legs. My phone gave me the low battery notification, forgetting to charge it during my nervousness back in the apartment.
Pacing around the parking lot I texted Grace, “Where are you?”, she lived much closer and should have been there before me. It was 11:30pm. I walk through the clearing and up the hill to the pool. Passing the security camera, I pull up the
