Or, things I wish I wasn’t stupid enough to do in the first place, but now that I’m older and have a little perspective, I’m sort of glad I did.
This week’s Teen Rite of Passage isn’t warm and fuzzy. Nope, it’s about doing stupid things, facing the consequences, and hopefully learning a thing or two. But before we jump into all that, I’d like to illustrate my horribly humiliating point and the only way to do that is to climb into my time machine. It’s already set for 1986. Cue the wavy lines and trippy time machine music….
Silver stars twinkle in a clear, navy blue sky. Low waves slap against the rocky shoreline. Firewood crackles and pop as tiny, smoky embers float in the crisp autumn air. Bartles and Jaymes Premium Wine coolers flow, and so does the Meisterbrau, a decidedly un-premium beer.
It’s a beach party bonfire in my Long Island hometown. A place so small and boring it’s not big enough to actually be classified as a town. Officially, it’s a hamlet, which has nothing to do with Shakespeare’s play or a mini-pig. No, our sad little enclave doesn’t even have a 7-Eleven yet. So, since there’s nowhere else to hang out, we do the only logical thing—set driftwood on fire and get drunk.
I’m here with one goal in mind: to spend some extracurricular time with Preppy Plaidpants, [not his real name] one of my biology lab partners who, despite being an arrogant asshole, also makes my stomach flutter and heart skip. Yup, I’m that 10th grader—a seemingly smart girl who’s so desperate for a guy’s attention, my standards are, well, low. But you see, he and his friends invited me—me!—to the bonfire tonight so I’m reasonably sure I’ve got some chance at success.
My friends and I cluster together, guzzling our beverages. A figure approaches. Tipsy from too much fruity Premium Red, I peer into the smoky haze billowing off the flaming stack of downed trees. It’s a guy, but he’s rounder and shorter than Preppy. Oh, it’s Honcho, [not his real nick-name] Preppy’s sidekick. And he’s smoking a cigar, its glowing tip a bright red beacon in the night. What does he want? I scratch my buzzed head. Maybe Preppy sent him over to ask me to sit with them. As Honcho nears, I stand and brush the sand from my jeans. My heart stutters, wondering what kind of missive he’s been dispatched to deliver.
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What's a happenin' hot stuff? Note: Honcho was not hanging upside down on the beach. |
“Um…” I mumble, wondering how things changed so dramatically from my aspiration to reality, but I’m too blitzed to figure it out. Before I know it, Honcho’s nudging my arm. “Come on, let’s take a walk.”
Perched on my shoulder, Bartles whispers into my right ear, “Go on. It’s not happening with Preppy. You might as well hook up with someone tonight.”
But then Jaymes stomps his tiny wing-tipped foot on my left shoulder and yells, “No, you don’t even like Honcho! You came here to be with Preppy!”
But then Jaymes stomps his tiny wing-tipped foot on my left shoulder and yells, “No, you don’t even like Honcho! You came here to be with Preppy!”
“Aw, don’t be such a prude,” Bartles sneers.
“I’m not and I’m sick of that accusation.” Jaymes huffs, exasperated because really, Bartles does throw that one around a little too frequently. But then Jaymes regains his composure. “Listen, Honcho is Preppy’s friend. If you hang out with him tonight, Preppy will lose all interest.”
Bartles snorts. “He already has. Why do you think he let Honcho come down here in the first place?”
Well, put that way, I can’t argue with Bartles’ logic. Ignoring Jaymes’ pleas to the contrary—and those of my bewildered friends—I take that walk and roll around with Honcho in the sand for a few fumbling, beer-cooler-cigar-laced minutes. It’s not terribly satisfying. For either of us. Because we’re both neophytes in the ways of amour, and the liquid infusion hasn’t exactly improved our fledging technique. When we’re done, I wipe my lips and dust myself off, knowing he’ll probably blab to his friends—like I will to mine—but at least this episode is behind me.
Until Monday morning. When it seems I can’t take a step without someone taunting, “Honcho!” Through the halls. At my locker. In class. It’s all I hear. My stomach clenches and I’m fairly sure I might puke. Oh God, oh God, oh God, how does everyone know???? And why do they care? One guy, another member of Preppy’s crew, sums it up perfectly when he nods condescendingly and mocks, “Doin’ the Monday Morning Walk of Shame.” He sounds just like the Makin’ Copies guy on Saturday Night Live. I want to thrust my balled fist into his snide face.
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Guess, what guys? I made out with Lea at the bonfire!!!! |
So, why revisit this particularly horrifying chapter from my adolescence? Because the abject humiliation was good for me then, and frankly, very good for me now. Then, because it taught me a valuable lesson: don’t get drunk at a beach party and mess around with a guy you don’t even like. Eventually I even learned not to fall for arrogant assholes. But this particular memory is golden now because it makes me a better writer. Although my characters deal with paranormal foes, they still make mistakes—sometimes innocently, sometimes stupidly—and have to face the consequences. Occasionally they get humiliated, feel small or embarrassed. Remembering something this devastating helps me channel that angst to create compelling characters and realistic circumstances and reactions.
In my book, The Hoodoo Apprentice, the heroine, Emma Guthrie makes a few whoppers of her own while trying to save her brother from a wicked flesh-eating curse. But she’s plucky and smart and works her way out of *most* of her mistakes. Along the way, she finds herself on a moonlit beach with the love of her life. Luckily for her, aside from not being an arrogant asshole, Cooper Beaumont is a southern gentleman, who’d never kiss and tell!
~Lea