I Think…
I finally managed to make a friend in high school. Her name is Lacey, she drives a Karmann Ghia, is quite attractive albeit a bit strange in my opinion, and very friendly.
It’s lunchtime and we’ve decided to skip the horrible cafeteria food and just laze around in the sun. I feel so cool. It’s the early 80’s and I’m lazing around in the sun on the lawn of my awesome new American school with my new American friend, hearing about her adventures. She tells me all these strange stories that sound so exotic, I feel like the king in an American version of 1001 Nights.
Lacey says she likes to share her stories with me because I don’t judge her like others do. To be quite frank. I think I don’t judge her because I don’t fully grasp a lot of what she tells me, but I’d rather keep that to myself. It’s easy to nod and pretend that I know exactly what she’s talking about.
Today, she is telling me about a “swinger” party that she recently attended. I have no idea what a swinger party is other than it obviously involves a swing. Needless to say, I’m not going to ask and sound stupid, but I’m dying to find out why the swing is such an integral part of this party that it’s named after it. I’ll have to look it up in the dictionary later.
She tells me that when she and her boyfriend first got to this party, they were asked to place their keys into a bowl. Then they all sat around and had some drinks-alcoholic drinks! I try very hard not to gasp at this revelation because even I know that cool American kids drink alcohol. The fact that my mother would absolutely flog me if I so much as entertained the thought of an alcoholic drink is a fact I keep to myself.
Lacey tells me that after having a few drinks, they take turns putting on a blindfold and taking a random key out of the bowl. Whoever’s key she takes out, is the person that must go into a room with her and do “you know what.”
Even though I nod with a confident “of course” look on my face, to be entirely honest, I don’t know what. All I know for sure is that there is a swing in the room. As to “you know what,” she most certainly cannot be talking about sex because she’s there with her boyfriend, so that is out of the question. Maybe they push each other on the swing? I’m not quite sure why that is supposed to be fun but obviously, I can’t ask. I finally made a friend. I don’t want her to think that I’m a complete idiot.
As it is, it is nothing short of a miracle that I actually have a friend. My mom has so many strict rules for me that I’m virtually a prisoner at home. School gets out at 3:00 and I’m expected to be home no later than 3:30. No excuses. It doesn’t matter if I want to go study with friends, go get something to eat, or anything else completely benign. The answer is always a resounding no.
I understand that this is my mother’s way of protecting me from an unknown culture. She keeps saying, “I don’t know where these people have been or where they come from.”
I’m not quite sure what “where they’ve been” has anything to do with going to the local Burger King for an hour after school, but there is no arguing with my mother.
“When you turn 18, you can do what you want. Until then, you live by my rules and my rules say you must come home immediately after school every single day. No excuses,” she says.
So the fact that Lacey, a girl who is pretty and relatively popular in school, would even talk to me is so exciting that I don’t want to say a single thing to reveal that I’m not cool enough to know what “you know what” is.
But I figure questions about other aspects of the party are ok. So I ask her where the party was.
“At Joe Schmo’s house, you know, you never know where it is until a friend tells you where to go and then you just show up,” she says twirling a strand of bright orange hair around her finger.
Another dead end. I’ve never heard of Joe Schmo. I can tell she’s eager to talk about it though and is playing coy to be cool. So I search for something else to ask her.
“So who did you end up going into the room with?” I ask. That is bound to give me some information we can discuss.
“John Doe,” she says. “You know it’s that kind of party,” she adds with a wink.
Oh, thank goodness! I know who John Doe is.
Just this morning, our math teacher was discussing a problem and said “assume you sell 50 widgets to John Doe.” I have no idea what widgets are but at least I know John Doe is very popular at this school. Everybody seems to be talking about him.
“Oh my God,” I say excitedly. “You went in the room with John Doe? That is soooo cool. He’s so popular. I’d love to meet him. Can you introduce me to him?”
She glares at me in disgust. “Whatever,” she says, annoyed. She gets up and walks away leaving me staring after her wondering what I could have possibly said to offend her.