You catch Alex staring at the stars.
You do not sleep. You lie on your inflatable mattress—which Alex accidentally deflated while trying to "fluff it"—and stare at the tent ceiling, fantasizing about your own bedroom, your weighted blanket, and the sweet silence of solitude. Sunrise comes. Your mom wakes up refreshed and annoying chipper. -ENG- Camp With Mom and My Annoying Friend Who ...
Your mom insists on using a fire starter block that expired in 1998. Alex insists they are a "pyro expert" because they once lit a candle. You just want a hot dog. You catch Alex staring at the stars
"Are you awake? I think I heard a raccoon." You: "Go to sleep." Alex: "What if it’s not a raccoon? What if it’s a skinwalker? I watched a video. Do you think this land is sacred? We should apologize to the trees." You: "Go. To. Sleep." Alex: "I have to pee. Will you come with me? I’m scared of the dark. Also, your mom snores. Should we wake her up to check if she’s breathing?" Sunrise comes
You eat a granola bar in the woods, alone, pretending to look for firewood just to get away from the conversation about Alex’s "chakra alignment." To salvage the trip, your mom rents a kayak. A tandem kayak. You have to share with Alex.
Then, the tent bag comes out. Your mom pulls out the tent poles. "I don't need the instructions," she says, sweating. "I did this in Girl Scouts during the Carter administration." Act II: The "Helpful" Friend Alex picks up a pole. "Oh, I saw a life hack for this on YouTube. You just spin it like a baton." Alex spins it. The pole extends, smacks your mom in the back of the head, and collapses into a pile of fiberglass spaghetti. Act III: The Blame Game After 90 minutes of tangled nylon, snapped clips, and one muttered curse word from your mom (which you will treasure forever), the tent is standing. Barely. It looks like a depressed mushroom.