Delta Winds: A Magazine of Student Essays
A Publication of San Joaquin Delta College
Friday, the day I have been waiting for all week arrives. Tonight is the night of the biggest party of the year. This party will launch us into a summer full of teenage independence and rebellion. With excitement in our voices, my friends and I walk home talking about tonight's event. "What do I wear?" "How should I do my hair?" These are all extremely important maneuvers needed to hook that certain boy I have been watching. One boy stands ten feet above all others as he saunters through the crowded school halls. With chestnut hair and a smile that takes my breath away, he came packaged and stamped straight from heaven. Convincing myself he feels the same for me, I spend many hours day-dreaming about our perfect life together as a couple. I am eagerly awaiting the evening and the chance of spending time with him.
Trusting only my best friend, I ignore questions from others for details about my plans. As I walk up the stairs of my front porch, my thoughts switch from fantasy to reality: Be cool, do not blow this. Before I can race to my room, I see my mother sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee after a long day at work. She waits to hear the door open. Modifying my customary quick grumble, I step into the kitchen and sit down with her.
I start talking about my day. Oh no! Did I just ask her about hers? Although conversation is not foreign to our relationship, the phenomenon of asking her how her day was could cause suspicion. Nevertheless, I am far too consumed with delusions of love to take notice of the irregularity of the discussion.
My mother, recognizing the opportunity, seizes the rare chance to bestow on me her memories of teenage years gone by. The all too familiar lecture of heartache due to undesirable decisions commences. "When I was a girl, blah, blah, blah, just your age blah, blah, blah" or something like that; I had heard it all before.
All my thoughts are focused on the night. Straining to look interested, I realize she has asked me a question. I quickly respond with the standard answer, "Don't worry, Mom."
Giving me a look of insight, she asks, "What are your plans for this weekend?"
Knowing about this party for weeks, I have devised a perfect plan. If all calculation is correct, one plan should cover all possible assaults of questions. Nonchalant, I calmly remind her of the plans I had made a few weeks ago. "Remember? I made plans with a few of the girls, to spend the night doing makeovers and eating pizza?"
"Sounds like fun," she says. Almost feeling guilty, I hesitate as I walk to my room. Packing takes forever when trying to find the perfect outfit, one that stands out, one that would make my mom gasp for air.
Beep, the horn blows out front. I give her a kiss and hand her a piece of paper containing the number where I can be reached. This too is part of the plan: eliminate any reason for her to ask questions. Brilliant! Radio blasting, we drive away.
After spending hours on makeup and using about two cans of hair spray, I emerge triumphant. Resembling an extra in a Madonna video, I am ready for the night.
Later, we arrive at the party around the same time as most of the guests. Eagerly I look in each car, searching for the one face I long to see. At last I spot him, standing next to a group of boys all laughing and shoving each other. While walking over to say "Hi," I am handed a plastic cup filled with the teen beverage of choice -- beer, of course. After slurping up the foam and taking a big gulp, I cringe at the bitter taste. Anxious to fit in, I drink it down fast and ask for a refill. I walk over to join the conversation and make my presence known.
After several dances and a few refills, I am living the dream I desperately wanted. Holding me tight in his arms is the most perfect boy on the planet. In a soft voice he whispers in my ear, "Let's go upstairs." Hormones in overdrive, I convince myself that my deepest hope has been validated; he loves me. Pulling me down on the bed, he kisses me. My heart is in my throat. As his hands start exploring my body, a feeling of conviction runs through me. I hear my mother's voice in the air. Reluctantly, I pull away. "I can 't do this." Ignoring my plea, he kisses me again. Now the voice is loud in my head, so I resist the physical urge to stay and run out of the room.
In the bathroom, I wash my face trying desperately to regain my sobriety. A knock at the door captures my attention. "Are you ok?" he shouts.
"I'll be right out." Feeling dizzy, I lie down on the floor; it feels cool, and it is helping me compose myself.
After five or ten minutes, I feel better. Upon exiting the bathroom, I am expecting to see my Prince Charming waiting to rescue me and safely return me home. Boy! Am I wrong. The only thing in the hallway is an echo of music and voices. In the distance I hear a girl laughing.
Pulling me toward the familiar door at the end of the hall is a constant giggle. Opening the door I see a sight that will remain with me the rest of my tragic teenage life. My love is lying beside another girl -- and yelling at me to leave and shut the door. How could he do this to me? I love him. I feel the tears welling in my eyes and my heart breaking like fine china. Desperately, I search for my friends.
After locking the bedroom door, I begin to tell the girls. We hug and swear never to fall in love again; we conclude that all boys are jerks and only want one thing. Then I hear a painstaking voice in my ears. This is it, the lecture I have heard many times, "When I was a girl, . . . ." Only this time the words seem to take on new meaning. How could she know?
Feeling like someone ran over me with a truck, I walk into the house. All I want is to march straight to my room, wallow in self-pity and recover. To my dismay there she is sitting where I left her last night, drinking coffee in her robe and slippers with a fresh look of morning on her face. "Wow!" she says. "Rough night of makeovers?" Certain that she knows, I wait for her to scold me. Instead she calmly directs me toward the bathroom. I look over at her with tears in my eyes.
Wiping the tears from my face and looking into my eyes, she says, "I guess you didn't read the warning on the package."
"What warning?" I ask.
"The one that comes on all perfect packages from heaven: The Parental Advisory." We look at each other and laugh.