Posts Tagged ‘high school’

first date // past

“Where are we going?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“It’s a surprise,” he said in that growly sexy voice. He was 18 and out of high school, I was 16 and in the thick of teenage drama with its extreme highs and gut-wrenching lows–up for anything, experimental, reckless and naive.

At a party, his hand had brushed up against mine when reaching for his beer. It was as if time had stood still. I closed my eyes and everything went in slow motion. The long stroke of his dark finger across the back of my wrist, the way his head cocked, his eyes meeting mine just for a moment.

We’d only ever hung out in groups. We’d stare at each other from across the room–his gaze intense with those dark, sunken eyes. Then he’d look away, engaged in conversation, sipping a beer, nodding in agreement. His dark jeans and motorcycle boots, that simple white shirt with the black leather jacket hanging loosely off his muscular arms. The thighs of his pants greasy from working on his bike, his jacket dusty from walking the trails. His clothes smelled like 40 ounces of Olde English. His breath, a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes.

The inside of his car filled my nostrils–musty, sweaty, the smell of a man, I thought. “How much farther?” I asked innocently. We were screeching down the windy back roads of McCourtney. I knew this road well–my parents lived way down at the end–past where anyone had ever been. Except Adam. Who also lived past the point where any towny would go. We were boondock folks. The real rural. I felt safe knowing exactly where we were. Next, we’d pass the animal shelter, then the horse ranch. Then, we’d make our way up to the highest point of the mountain–the dump on our left and the most magnificent sunsets to our right.

The road was pitch black at the darkest hour of the night. It was treacherous even in the brightest part of the afternoon on account of the truckers illegally driving these back roads to avoid tolls–big pickups with trash spewing out from under their loose-fitting tarps. Deer, rabbits, snakes, critters of all sort roamed these woods and were known for darting out into the gray abyss of pavement just as cars were coming round one of the many bends in the road.

Tonight there was a full moon and a mountain lion warning (there was was always a mountain lion warning.) “What are you doing?” I screeched with excitement and fear.

“It’s fine. I can see everything” he said, as his rough hand touched my bare knee. I felt warm between my legs. “The moon is light enough,” he assured me as my eyes adjusted to where the beam of his lights had been. We turned off to the left. Where exactly had we turned? My eyes hadn’t quite acclimated and I’d somehow missed the placement of the road we’d gone down. Had we passed the dump? Had we passed the ranch?

“I’ve never been down here,” I said, searching the trees for something familiar. It was a dirt road, narrow and completely isolated–not one house, not a single driveway, just a road that kept ascending. The trees were thick, we couldn’t see anything but the glint of moonlight off the rocks just ahead of us.

“I thought I’d show you something new,” he said. He looked at me, a crooked half-smile, “Are you scared?”

“No,” I lied, feeling my knees shaking. I let my arm hang out the open window. The cool air whistled around my fingertips, my palm stretched out like a bat soaring through the dark night. The sound of the tires kicking up rocks against the tinny underbelly of his car, the dusty smell mixing with all of his smells and the pine needles and the spring flowers–my head was filled and confused, drunk on olfactory input.

“You..” I started, sounding drunk and confused, “…smell good,” I finished. He smiled and sort of looked down at the steering wheel.

“You’re a weird kid, you know that?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “I’ve been told.” I tilted my head to the right, my ear filled with wind and my hair flapped against my bare shoulder.

“You cold?” he asked.

“Um, a little. Yeah,” I admitted, rubbing the goosebumps on my arms.

“Hang on,” he said as he guided my hand to the steering wheel, “hold this for a sec.”

“Adam, I can’t!” I screamed. “I don’t have a license…and, I can’t see anything!” He laughed. I’d never heard his laugh before. It was real. It was big and low and genuine. The kind of laugh that makes everyone around you giggle. And, so I did.

He yanked his jacket sleeves off each arm, leaned over and put it around my shoulders. “Kinda cheesy, don’t you think?” I asked. “I mean, the whole, ‘give a girl your coat’ thing. It’s very John Hughes of you.” We’d bonded over our love of eighties movies, Portishead and our parallel upbringing.

“Yeah, well, sometimes a girl just needs your jacket.” He looked at me through those heavy lids. His eyes a deep brown, his thick black rockabilly hair wind-blown and askew. He’d grown up on a commune too. He was the first kid I’d met who was like me–weird and too grown for his age–reflective, sensitive and unable to fit in anywhere.

“This is it,” he said. There were two other parked cars. He brought me to a lookout? I thought.

“It’s a little ways from here.”

“This isn’t really my thing. Where are we?” I asked anxiously.

“Come on, I’ll show you,” he whispered.

We walked, and tripped, up a rocky path for what felt like miles into a clearing. I could make out a structure–a stone building, a rounded arena or stage or…I couldn’t quite make it out. It was falling apart, there were huge chunks of rock everywhere. As we got closer I could see melted wax on some of the outer walls, red and black graffiti and movement inside.

“I don’t like it here. I don’t like it here at all, Adam. Let’s go.” I said turning fast, catching my bare leg on a blackberry bramble. I pulled at the long vine, scraping the thorns all the way down my calf.

“Hey, wait a minute..” I heard him yell.

I did my best to retrace the path we’d climbed–losing my footing every now and again. He caught up, started to say something and stopped short.

We walked in silence.

“What was that?” I asked, slamming the car door.

“I don’t know it’s just kind of a hangout. People go there to drink and chill. There’s all these weird, creepy stories about like seances and devil worshippers who like, do their magic up there or whatever. But, it’s just kids trying to freak you out.”

“It gave me the heebie jeebies and it’s weird and freaky,” I said breathlessly. I could feel the droplets of blood on my calf. I better not have stepped in poison oak, I thought. “And, keep your fucking lights on. I’m not trying to die tonight.”

He shifted nervously in his seat, gripped the steering wheel too tight and cleared his throat, “I thought you’d be into it. There’s a really great view up there. And, it’s spooky but in a cool way.”

“I get it, I’m not pissed. I just felt weird up there, that’s all. Thanks for taking off with me.”

The sound of the wind took on a different tone in the quiet of his car–eerie, cold, lonely. Adam seemed to be breathing his cigarettes, not so much smoking them. His inhalations were deep, reflective almost, and he didn’t bother to blow the smoke out so much as simply exhale it naturally.

Adam turned onto the long, dirt road. “I can walk from here,” I said.

“It’s far, it’s dark out, let me drive you.”

“No, really it’s cool,” I countered, in need of the fresh air and the moonlight and the stars and the solitary walk. He leaned over to kiss me–I let him. His breath was hot and smoky and he pushed his tongue too far down my throat. I pulled back, attempted a half-smile and said goodnight.

I stood still, in the light of the moon, at the end of my road and watched him reverse his car back onto pavement. Dust rose up where his wheels had momentarily spun out on the gravel. I watched as the red of his tail lights faded behind the second hill of our shared road.

work // past

“You’ll get over him,” she whispered as she downed a shot of creamy, unfiltered sake. I’m not sad because of some guy, you twit, I thought as the 19-year-old waitress crouched down behind the sake bar with me as I sobbed. Something had set me off. Some movement of a plate or a gentle hand gesture, maybe it was the way that elegant woman had unfolded her napkin–something had unleashed the well of sadness that had been lingering just below the surface. I had turned from the table, plates in hand, a stream of tears falling from my chin, and silently slid down the wall until I was out of sight. I had planned on a quiet cry, just letting the sadness valve open for a short time–until I could find some way of plugging it up and getting back to work.

She offered me a shot, “If they don’t drink it, we shouldn’t just let it go to waste.” We had a policy of eating any untouched sushi and drinking any unfinished sake. “It’s not like they’re drinking from the bottle,” we’d told ourselves. “They didn’t actually touch the sushi. I mean, it’s on an entirely different plate. It’s totally not gross to eat off a platter of unfinished food,” we’d convinced each other. I didn’t have the energy to explain to her that I was mourning. Mourning my mothers slow decline into nothingness, watching her body finally decay the way I had watched her mind rot over the past five years–not the demise of some crush. I didn’t have the patience to watch as she attempted to grasp the seriousness of my situation, the weight of the truth. I couldn’t bear to politely nod as she fumbled around for some platitude that would serve only to make her feel better. You live in a bubble, I thought as I stared into her dark eyes, following the shine of her tightly pulled back ponytail, down her slender shoulders, over her perfect tits.

I was only a few years older than her but it felt like we lived on different planets. She, with her pressed black pants and heels, next to my threadbare Dickies and black sneakers–how did she wear those heels all day? We must have covered two miles during our 8-hour shift–not to mention all the bending down to place the bowls just so and the ginger to the left and the wasabi on the right and all the trekking back to the kitchen, carrying boxes of avocados and bags of shredded cabbage. I got a weekly lecture on how my shirts weren’t clean enough, “But, I washed them, I swear,” I lied. I had two shirts to wear to work, which meant if I worked 5 days a week, I’d have to do laundry twice during my workweek. I didn’t even have a car–I hitchhiked to work every day–how was I supposed to hitch (arms filled with dirty clothes) to the laundromat twice a week? Meanwhile, she looked like she’d bought a new shirt for each shift. I was fresh out of college–filled with sermons on feminism and class struggles, on systemic racism and the wealth gap. I had traveled Europe and the U.S., I’d lived outside our small town for four years and would never have returned had my mother not been dying. She was fresh out of high school, no desire to go to college, no desire to do much beyond wait tables and look beautiful. What a wonderful life, I thought, staring at her manicured hands. I’ll never feel that. I will never know what it’s like to be unburdened, to be young, to be free from responsibility.

“Yeah, he’s a real shit,” I said–creating the version of my life she could comprehend. “But, I’ll get over it, him, whatever.” I faltered. “Totally,” she said through her bright white teeth. “Now, let’s get back to work before Madame sees us!” She grabbed my arm, handed me another shot of sake and stacked my plates. “You’ll so find someone better,” she offered as a parting sentiment. “Yeah,” I responded. “Totally replaceable.”

 

on not trying

When I was in high school my daily uniform was a pair of blue or black Dickies with a belt, a faded thrift store t-shirt and a cardigan. I donned one stars or converse and I wore my hair in a short pixie cut.

If I decided to dress up, I wore platform shoes, a thrifted dress or skirt and a grandpa sweater. Occasionally my mom would save up or my grandmother would give her some cash and we’d go to JCPennys and splurge on new shirts. Or, we’d hit Ross for a new dress and a nice pair of shoes. I wore makeup onstage. Never off.

My friend Joanna was like a different species. She had stacks of high fashion magazines, books about how to apply makeup for different occasions and a credit card that her parents entrusted to her for whatever she deemed necessary. Her bathroom looked like a pharmacy — filled with tonics and creams, toners and foundations, a rainbow of lipsticks, eyeshadow and a garden of perfumes. I remember lifting the lids from those delicate glass bottles, each like a tiny potion, magical, mystical, enchanting. She had a weekday scent and a weekend scent, a special occasion smell and an eau de date elixir which was particularly jasmin-y.

Joanna had a walk-in closet filled with designer clothes. Her parents were both doctors and they lived in a giant house at the top of a hill overlooking a gorgeous vineyard. She had a hot tub and cable television and her own car. To me, she was living like the rich and famous.

Joanna introduced me to glitter. And, to accessories. She loaned me her makeup books and gave me tubes of gels and lotions she deemed unfit for her skin type.

She had a brother and a sister, both of whom played instruments, went to college and led what could only be considered normal, healthy lives. In stark contrast to my siblings who were getting kicked out of school (if they were attending at all) deeply involved with drugs and alcohol, and either in serious (and seriously abusive relationships) or living unhealthy lives of solitude and loneliness.

Joanna’s life represented the life I could have led. If my parents were honest and driven and, you know, not polygamists.

We were both good students. Great, even. Honors classes, tons of extracurriculars, college-bound. We had focus. And drive. Something not a lot of our peers had. Joanna was determined to be rich and famous. By any means — modeling, acting, music, writing — whatever medium got her there, she didn’t care. She knew exactly what she wanted.

I, on the other hand, was fueled by the theater. I loved to sing and dance too. But, I knew I needed to be an actor when I grew up. Broadway in New York City. That was my fantasy. I knew it wouldn’t be lucrative but I didn’t care. I would be fulfilled and I would be living my dream in the big city. Where no one knew who I was and no one knew where I came from.

Life took a few turns. I zigged and zagged and ended up on a very different path. When I got into my dream college, which had been chosen for its impressive theater program, I immediately decided to put acting on hold. Academics, I decided. That’s what college is supposed to be about. I did a few productions my first year, The Vagina monologues and some modern take on Greek dramas, but mostly I studied. And read. And, attended lectures and sit-ins. I protested and I drafted petitions, I fought close to home (unionize our food service employees) and far from home (WB/WTF, anti-war, anti-Bush) I marched and made signs and attended workshops on what to do when you get arrested.

I lost acting somewhere along the way. I got more interested in change. And, then education and reform and living the change I wanted to see.

I’m still not so skilled at applying makeup. I don’t use any special creams. I don’t know a thing about moisturizers or toners (what is the point of a toner?) But, I’m very okay with that. I buy mascara from the drugstore and leave my hair almost exactly as it naturally falls. I loathe blow dryers and I just do not have the patience to put on a full face of makeup every day. I choose comfort over style and efficiency over cutesy. I like the way I look all dolled up but it’s just not sustainable for me. I think you have to really enjoy the process. And, you have to put forth the energy required. I just don’t have it in me. And, something tells me that if it’s not there at 34, it probably ain’t ever showing up.

bad choices and the friends you make them with // past

It was just before midnight. We were all hanging out in the parking lot of our high school theater after a Saturday night show. We were riding high, feeling like superstars. We’d had a great review in the local paper and a packed house since opening night. We were still in our stage makeup — white faces and red-orange lips. I was wearing tight capris, a white muscle tank and black converse. My uniform of the month. Partially inspired by my character, Rizzo, who was a badass and, I thought, a true feminist.

A few of the local musicians who’d been performing in our live orchestra were hanging out. They were older and cooler and capable of legally purchasing alcohol. We drank forties crouched behind the concrete steps, ducking behind the large, round pillars when security circled around, shining their patrol lights in our direction.

I was adventurous. Some may say, wild. But, I was always safe. Well, mostly safe. I never drove drunk. I never drove with someone who had been drinking. I always had a party-buddy and we watched out for each other. If she passed out, I was in charge of getting her home safely and vice versa. We also had a designated driver, non-participant-partier, who was so damn sweet and such a good friend. And, also a Mormon. Which meant that he never drank and never did drugs and was always available to drive us home or hold our hair while we puked or carry us in his well-tanned, muscular arms after we decided to roll down a rocky hill. An idea that seemed really amusing before the scrapes and bruises set in.

“Your turn!” one of the guys shouted in my direction. It looked fun. It seemed pretty stupid, I knew that even then. But, the guys made it look so easy. “You just jump out and start running,” they’d explained. Like it was as simple as pulling on a pair of socks. Jump out of a fast-moving car and you will be fine. Sure.

“Okay, go!” I screamed. The green door of Sid’s Volvo was wide open, the toes of my chucks peering from the sticky, carpeted floor onto the dark pavement. As the car sped up, I started to reconsider my choice. This is crazy, I thought. I can’t do this. But before I could lose my nerve — or my standing as the toughest chick they knew — I jumped. At first it seemed fine. I was pummeling through the air fast — faster than I’d ever run on my own — but my legs were moving. My feet were hitting the asphalt so hard I could feel the muscles in my thighs constricitng and my knees were already aching. But, I was so busy screaming and smiling and flailing my arms and keeping up with my feet that I didn’t see the curb. That little six-inch block of concrete. That unassuming, completely inconspicuous piece of scenery. It had never seemed like a threat before. But to a human running faster than her body is capable, hurtling at the speed of an automotive, it was enough to stop me in my tracks. Well, no, actually, it was enough to send me flying through the air, in a high arc, which ended with my right knee on the sidewalk. All of my weight, all of that inertia. Knee, meet concrete. Concrete, meet and destroy knee.

“I’m fine. I’m fine!” I shouted, forcing back the ocean of tears stinging behind my eyes, hoping that my tight capris would contain my already swelling knee. “Haha, it’s all good,” I lied. “That was hella crazy. I’m gonna go get a drink of water,” I said, limping toward the fountain on the other side of the theater lot.

“Are you okay?” Josh asked, running up behind me.

“I’m fine. Jesus! Leave me alone! What the fuck?!” I screamed at him, embarrassed that he’d noticed I was hurt. I had hoped to limp off into the dark, get some water, assess the damage, maybe cry a little and then return to the group and pretend that I was fine.

“Hey! Not cool. Don’t yell at me just because I’m the only one who actually came to see if you were okay. You’re obviously hurt,” he said. He was right. I knew it was bad. My knee was already the size of a softball and I couldn’t straighten my leg beyond a ninety-degree angle. He reached his arm under me and helped me to the drinking fountain. I took a long swig and smiled up at him.

“Thanks,” I offered. “You’re right. Thanks for being the only one who gives a shit.”

“Sure. Are you okay? Seriously?”

“I’ll be fine. Can you bring your car around. I think I need to get some ice on this. Will your mom be cool with me coming over again tonight?” I asked, skeptical he’d say yes. I’d been sleeping at his place almost every night for two months.

“Of course. You know she loves you. God, she loves you more than me, I think,” He replied. He must have told his mom what’s going on at my house, I thought. Or maybe she’s just super chill. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. They had central air in the summer and heated floors in the winter. They had a huge house with clean, waxed wooden floors and a hot tub and a giant kitchen that was always stocked with food. It was heavenly.

“Cool. You’re the best,” I sniffled as he guided me to the grass. “I’ll wait for you here.”