There are fireworks being set off two hundred yards from where I'm sitting. I don't live in a red state, but there's something about the promise of meat on a grill, cold beer, warm air that turns people patriotic. I feel so low class, blue collar, everyone around me consumed by the lust for symbolism and illegal explosives. The fact that my neighbors in the court went out of their way, under risk of arrest, to make noise and light makes this whole holiday more fascinating. Me? I'm in the mood to drink in my cutoffs. Why today? Was it today that made me fall in love with a guido in Wendy's? What possessed me to be so possessed, while my mother and Veronica smoked cigarettes the way they used to smoke joints. He had a cigarette behind his ear, wifebeater, et all. So horrible, so tacky, so fascinating. I'm trying to get things straight, because my days have been shaken up by too many old movies, too many vices, and not enough sleep. It seems like I can't stop living like I'm waiting for something, wondering things like why she hasn't called. I'm thinking in time zones, translating, subtracting three hours, six. None of it matters, or none of it should. I shouldn't care, and I don't, as my smoke mixes with their smoke. All the confused fireflys in the darkness, punctuated by reds and blues. I'm realizing what it means to be sixteen. Accepting it. I found my mother's Phantom soundtrack, and I listen to it as I go to sleep. It's what I was thinking about, out on the roof, watching And now getting yelled out for my background, which I don't really like anyway. "Claire, no 'kill.' Please. Disappear this girl, erase. Not kill. No comebacks, remember?" Yeah. Yeah. I know. I'm rambling. I know. " 'Just think of it. A secret engagement. Look, your future bride. Just think of it.' 'But why is it secret? What have we to hide?' "