I flung the Marlboro Lights onto the dashboard. They skittered across the faded green vinyl then wedged up against the windshield. It was my first pack, courtesy of Tucker, who was a year older than me but could pass for 18 (at the Texaco, anyway.) Cigarettes grossed me out, but I hoped smoking would quell my ridiculous urge to eat everything in sight. Sketchy, I know, but worth a try.

The shiny metal key slipped snugly into the ignition. Being at the wheel of my own car (at least for the summer) brought on a sudden rush. My ass wriggled giddily as I fired up the engine and the hulking International Scout shook to life hoarse and raw. It sounded as if metal were eating metal and the whole thing was about to blow.

“Whoa, Amy! It’s gotten louder,” Lisa said.

“You think?” I bellowed.

Boober — my family’s black, curly-haired dog — backed away in the gravel driveway, a ridge of fur prickling on his back. Behind him loomed the Maroon Mule, a mule barn from Crested Butte’s original silver mine, which my father had converted into ski condos.

“It’s okay, Boober. Don’t freak,” I called out to him.

It was totally against the law for a vehicle to be as loud as the Scout. And the decibel level wasn’t the only thing illegal about our ride. With a five-years’ expired registration and my learner’s permit, requiring an adult to be present whenever I drove, Lisa and I were outlaws on the dirt roads of Crested Butte. This only added to the goose bumps percolating on my forearms. If we made it out of town without getting stopped, Lisa and I would be home free.

Our plan was to spend the summer in a teepee high up in the Elk Mountains above the Colorado town. It would be a world where we set our own rules – a prospect so enticing that it made me dizzy. Each of us had our own reasons for wanting to get out of Dodge. Luckily, it was l979 and we had somehow sold our “open-minded” parents on our scheme.

“Go for it,” Lisa barked.

Exhaust fumes drifted into the fragile alpine air. A spindly stand of aspens shimmied in the Scout’s blast. I glanced back at the rear unit of the Maroon Mule, with its two-story glass wall offering an unobstructed view of Crested Butte Mountain. The children’s bedrooms in our summer home were downstairs, the living room and kitchen on the middle level, and my dad’s quarters in a third story loft. Even though I loved our barn wood-paneled summer home, this summer I’d darken the door only when supplies ran out at the teepee.

My best friend Lisa’s graceful features gave no hint of her mountain-goat constitution and her love of a challenge. There was nothing exotic about her face, but its smooth proportions inspired awe in boys – and some girls, for that matter. Her straight, slightly pointed nose, strong chin and pillowed lips were simple and well drawn and her pretty ears sported tiny gold hoops. Lisa’s one flashy feature was her robin’s egg blue eyes, capped by lazy, Paul McCartney lids. Oh, and her perfect, boyish ass. That was flashy, too, in its own compact way. Lisa belonged to the rarified subset of total foxes who looked flawless naked. I tried hard not to hold it against her.

Although we had been best friends since fifth grade, Lisa didn’t know I’d been binging and throwing up every day for over a year. I’d basically rather die – or become a chain smoker –than let her in on my secret.