Skinny Dip
“What the hell were you thinking?”
Bees flew from my mother’s mouth and stung my eardrums.
“Mom, I told you I was sorry! I don’t know what else you want me to say! It won’t happen again.” The overhead lights of my kitchen created a spotlight, and I was beginning to sweat, despite the cooling effect my soaking wet clothes were having on my body as the air conditioning vents cranked forcefully into the room. My wet hair was dripping into tiny puddles all around my chair. Would the wetness of my clothes somehow mask the pungent smell of the rum that I had ingested and was now oozing from every pore on my damp body? Probably not.
“Damn right, it won’t,” my mother said. “You are not seeing Evan, nor are you leaving this house, until you graduate.”
At this point, I pushed my chair away from the kitchen table and practically leapt up the flight of stairs leading to my room. When I got up there I immediately stripped off my clothes and put on a t-shirt and shorts. As I lay on my bed, colors and shapes swirled above my head. They started to mix and spin clockwise around the face of Jimi Hendrix. I stared at them, wondering what it would feel like if I could somehow be mixed with them; spinning and blending, all warm and welcoming. I let myself get lost in these thoughts, and then abruptly focused my attention. “I wish I had a joint right now,” I whispered out loud.
My head began to clear and my mind raced back to the beginning of the night. I laughed to myself.
A few of my friends and I had gone to Samantha’s house around 4:00 PM that day. Her family was having their annual summer barbeque. For my friends and I, this was an excuse to get completely shit-faced and feed her schnauzer hot dogs until he puked all over the deck. Always a good time.
When I arrived, Sam was already wasted, and the rest of my friends were diligently working on it, as they played beer pong against Sam’s elder family members. Her dad handed me a strong pina colada, and then another, and another. So from approximately four forty-five to ten thirty, my actions seem to have escaped me. From what Sam told me later on, I didn’t do anything seriously regrettable, besides slip on the steps leading up to her back door and revealing my underwear-less ass to her great-aunt.
Around ten forty five, I got a phone call from my boyfriend, Evan. Apparently, one of his friends was having a house party, and he wanted me to meet him there. Samantha’s barbeque was winding down anyway, so my inebriated friends and I began our trek to the party.
“Are we allowed to just be like, walking around the streets with these cups?” Mike asked, to no one in particular.
“I think so. Because like, they aren’t labeled. No one would know what’s in them, ya know?” The open container laws had clearly escaped Samantha at that moment. And I think we were all pretty oblivious to the fact that we reeked of cheap beer and Captain Morgans.
Our procession marched through the streets like we owned them. The truth is, we kind of did. We were seniors; the big men and women on campus. Underclassmen kissed our feet and bowed in our presence. We walked our celebrity asses down the red carpet to the house party, all the while knowing that our icon status would be short lived, as we were leaving for college in a few short months; where we would be flung back to the bottom of the social barrel.
After 3 or 4 unintelligible phone calls to Evan for directions, we made it. The echoing roar of the crowd permeated throughout the neighborhood. It wove through bushed and around trees, surrounded the houses and knocked on the windows. The air was full of life; so thick with joy and happiness that it could only have been divided by the crack of an opening beer can, or the pop of a bottle opener. We reveled in the serenity of our comfortable lives and comfortable friends and comfortable houses. Thoughts of the new and unfamiliar that awaited us were pushed to the farthest corners of our mind for the next few hours.
As soon as we entered the threshold we all separated, each diving separately into this sea of drunk, slightly sweaty teenage bodies. I headed to the left, where many people seemed to be flocking, to find Evan. I assumed he would be somewhere close to the keg. Alas, there was my prince. Being supported by two of his friends, Evan was doing a keg stand. You would think after 3 years of dating, and 3 years of witnessing this same event occur at almost every party I ever went to, I would get used to this sight. Yet I still practically feared for his life every time. Two hundred and twenty pounds is a lot of weight to hold upside down. Especially when it is has been pumped full of beer.
Anyway, Evan’s friends released him, and he picked me up and kissed me hard on the lips. When he does things like this, it sometimes makes me feel like he actually loves me like he says he does. But then he will ignore my phone calls, or be an hour late picking me up, and then I remember that he doesn’t. From the outside looking in, our relationship resembles perfection. From the inside looking out, perfection is far away.
“How was Sam’s?” he asked me. It always amazed me how he could act practically sober until the moment he was about to puke. I knew that he downed at least ten beers by now, and could not possibly be as coherent as he was currently sounding.
“It was fun. Her dad got a keg for us, and there was a ton of liquor.”
“Good.” Mundane conversations like this have been the norm for Evan and me for the past two months. I know, for a fact, that Evan has been hooking up with a girl from the next town for about two months. I called him out on it when I found out, about 2 months ago. Of course, he denied it. I mean, what else was he going to do? Admit it? I think not. While this does bother me, I can’t really say that I am completely guiltless. I’ve been seeing one of my cousin’s band mates for over a year. I admit, sometimes my morals are questionable. But whose aren’t? You only live once. But, Evan has no idea about that. So there really is no justification for what he is doing with that slut in East Meadow. Plus, I really do love him. I think we both just get bored. At least the feeling is mutual, right?
We chatted for a bit, I did a few shots, and before I knew it, it was one thirty. My parents always ask me to be home by two. While I know that they will be asleep when I get in, I have this subconscious fear that the one night I will come home at three, they will be waiting up for me: I trip up the steps to the front door, fumble with the handle, and sloppily thruste my body through the threshold only to find my dad sitting at the kitchen table. My alcohol soaked brain interprets the scowl on his face to mean that I need to jog to my room as quickly, but as noiselessly, as possible. In doing so I certainly look like a fool, but I hope that my consideration for my sleeping brother and sister count for something in the muddled realm of teenage waywardness and parental execration. So I told Evan that I had to get going soon, and after many slurred goodbyes he and I walked out, hand in hand.
Now normally, on these summer nights after we have been out drinking, Evan and I will go up to the elementary school by my house and have some one-on-one time. Usually we chat for awhile, make out for awhile, and do other things that should never be done on a playground that is used by small children. But tonight, Evan suggested we go swimming instead. In the public pool. Naked. What self-respecting, college-bound, straight-A daddy’s little girl commits such a heinous act? A drunken, horny one; that’s who.
We had no sooner stripped down to nothing and jumped in the deep end than a police car shined its blindingly bright lights on us. My heart just about stopped beating. We just stared at the car. We ducked down so that only our droopy eyes were above the water. “Maybe he won’t see us…” I remember thinking to myself. The drivers side door popped open and a round, balding officer exited. His flat feet sounded like flippers as they slapped the damn cement. He clumsily hopped over the chain link fence and waddled to the side of the pool. He shined his long flashlight into our eyes and parted his hair lined lips to speak.
“The pool is closed, kids. Get your clothes on. I’ll take you home.” These last four words from the cop sent chills down my spine and I seemed to instantly sober up.
Extremely embarrassed, we hurriedly got dressed and climbed into the back seat of the cop car. Our wet bodies squeaked on the leather seats, and I began my feeble attempt at coercing the officer to let us out of the car.
“Officer, please. We won’t ever go to the pool again. We promise… Could you please just drop us off a block away from our houses?”
He laughed. “Nope, sorry kids. You need to be taught a lesson. Maybe next time you will have some dignity and keep your clothes on.”
I continued to beg for the next 6 minutes. I pleaded with the officer to let us out, to please not tell our parents what had happened. I was really more concerned with myself rather than Evan. His parents would probably just laugh at this. This would not be the first time he was taken home by the cops. My parents, on the other hand, would have my head on a platter. As we pulled up to my house, I could hear the dog barking inside, as he always did when a car pulled into the driveway.
And so, after a short explanation from the policeman, my parents shut the front door and let ‘er rip.
“I thought we raised you differently than this.”
“This really disappoints us.”
“You have let us down. Don’t you have any self respect?”
“You should really be ashamed. Aren’t you embarrassed?”
“I never thought my daughter would be end up being this type of girl.”
“I really thought you were the type of girl that knew when to say when.”
These words were literally flying from my parents’ mouths; as if they had been building up on top of each other for years, patiently awaiting the day when the chains would be cut and they would be free to torment my brain. Luckily, I was still pretty drunk. I could not discern one voice from the other, and I felt like I was in a movie. Very strange, but kind of cool at the same time.
I snapped back into reality for long enough to tell my parents that I wouldn’t do it again, and proceeded to hastily make way to my room. And now, a week later, I sit out here on a lawn chair, the strong summer sun browning my skin. I realize now that the events of last weekend pretty much summarize my high school experience: Getting drunk with my best friends. Walking the streets or our neighborhood in a drunken stupor, trying to find a party. Skinny dipping in a public pool. Getting into trouble with my parents. Spending time with a boyfriend that I no longer have any attraction to, simply because of the comforting routine the relationship provides me with.
My sister pranced over to me from the deck, looking like a carbon copy of me when I was thirteen. Her dark skin and piercing blue eyes stunned strangers that gazed upon her, but to me it was just like looking in the mirror; ordinary and unmoving.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I’m reflecting,” I told her.
“Sounds boring. Wanna walk to the beach?” she asked me, unaffected.
“Can’t. I’m grounded, remember?”
“Oh yeah, sorry.” She went in the house to get a towel and some flip flops to walk down to the beach.
I put on my iPod and enjoyed the sun from my backyard.
