"Are you ready, honey?" Dad asks.
"As ready as I'll ever be," I reply, my voice shaky even though I'm trying to sound brave. The reality of what we're about to do is finally hitting me. My stomach feels uneasy, and I'm glad I only managed to eat a little bit of toast for breakfast.
We're standing outside the camper, both of us staring at the big, ugly brown vehicle that will be our home for the summer. It's huge, made of metal and fiberglass, and it feels like a giant in front of us. The tires look strong enough, but the rest of it... I'm not so sure.
"You think this thing will hold up?" I ask as I run my hand along the side, feeling the rough texture of the rust spots barely covered by fresh paint. My fingers find a small bubble in the paint, and I resist the urge to pick at it.
"Of course," Dad says, puffing up his chest with pride. He looks like a peacock showing off its feathers. "I did the repairs myself." He pats the side of the camper. The hollow sound his hand makes against the metal doesn't do much to reassure me. It sounds like knocking on a hollow tree, and I quickly push away the thought of our camper falling apart halfway through our trip.
"Great," I mutter under my breath, trying not to let my doubt show but knowing I'm not doing a good job. Dad's attempts at fixing things are hit or miss. I think about the crooked bookshelf in the living room and the kitchen faucet that never stops dripping.
"Hey, it'll be fine," he says, ruffling my hair. His hand lingers for a moment, and I can feel how much he wants to reassure me and make this trip perfect.
"Yeah, whatever," I say, shrugging off his hand, pretending to be annoyed but secretly glad for the comfort. We've been doing this dance lately—me, trying to be more independent, and him, trying to hold onto his little girl just a bit longer.
He smiles, a warm smile that reminds me of easier times. It's the smile he had when he'd come to my room after a bad dream or when he'd watch me in school plays. It's a smile that says, "I'm here, and everything will be okay." The wrinkles around his eyes deepen as he does. "So, are you ready?" he asks again, this time more gently.
"Yeah. And Dana should be here soon," I say, checking the time on my phone. It's 7:47 AM. Dana's usually on time, so she should be here any minute now.
"Alright, let's go inside and see if we need to pack anything else," he says, heading toward the door. The old hinges squeak as he pulls it open. A small group of sparrows flies out from a nearby bush, startled by the noise.
We step into the camper, and the smell of stale air hits me like a wall. It's dusty, with a mix of old leather and something that might be mildew. The furniture is worn, the fabric faded and torn in some spots, but it feels cozy in a strange way. Sunlight comes through the slightly dirty windows, casting a warm light over the inside and highlighting all the little flaws that make this space ours.
"It's not bad," I say, looking around. My eyes take in the faded curtains. The tiny kitchen with its small sink and compact stove seems both cute and a bit overwhelming—I wonder how we'll cook in such a small space. The booth-style table where we'll eat our meals looks inviting, despite the worn seats.
"It's not," he agrees as he checks the bags.
"So, do we need to pack anything else?" I ask.
"I don't think so," he replies, scratching his chin as he thinks. He looks around the room, mentally going over an invisible list. "We've got clothes, food, an emergency kit... Yeah, I think we're good."
"Alright," I say, sitting down on the sofa.
"Are you nervous?" he asks, leaning against the counter in the kitchenette.
YOU ARE READING
Never 18
Teen FictionLinda Anderson is 17 years old. And she is dying. And she is angry. Of course she is. She will never get the chance to fulfill her dreams: falling in love, getting married, and having children. But she is mostly sad because she won't be able to fulf...