LIFE OF THE PARTY
I saw a lot of strangers in the halls that first day of high school, but the halls themselves were already feeling familiar. I'd been in the building several times during the summer for cheerleading practice. Just the week before school started I'd gone with all the varsity and junior varsity cheerleaders to hang banners and posters in the hallways to encourage our football team to victory in their opening game.
Since school started on a Friday, and the first varsity game of the season was scheduled for that very night, being a cheerleader solved another potential problem for me. Unlike most of my sophomore friends who'd been worrying for weeks about what they'd wear the first day of school — what would make them look good and appear older — I didn't even have a choice.
My first day outfit was my cheerleading uniform, which guaranteed my acceptance and assured me I'd be noticed even in the midst of the crowd. I walked through the halls with confidence and pride that day. I smiled and waved whenever I spotted a football player wearing a jersey. And every time one of them would smile back, the butterflies would flutter in my stomach and I'd tell myself, High school is going to be great.
I realized, too, that I had an advantage over a lot of other sophomores — even some of those who'd been the leaders of the in-crowd in junior high. From cheerleading and other summer activities I already knew a number of upperclassmen. I already belonged — at least more than most of my friends. As a junior varsity cheerleader, I didn't actually cheer during the varsity games on Friday nights (the JV usually played on Saturday mornings). In many ways, I had the best of all possible worlds. I could wear my prestigious cheerleading outfit to the game, the biggest social event of the week, but I was totally free to sit in the stands, flirt with boys, drink (so long as I didn't get caught), and just have a great time.
Almost every Friday evening my friends and I would find someone to drive out to some little town in the country where I'd run into a store and buy stockpiles of lime vodka — a concoction stronger than beer, but not hard liquor (which you had to be twenty-one to buy). Then I'd head back to town and join the crowd of kids clustered in parked cars around the school parking lot. I'd drink until almost kick-off, and then join the rest of the crowd in the stands and cheer my buzzing head off. At halftime, and occasionally during time-outs, I'd slip back to the car and drink some more. By the end of the game I'd be loaded.
Some weeks, if my parents were out of town, I'd alter my routine. Instead of driving around before the game, I'd have people meet at my house — an even more private place to drink where we'd sometimes challenge each other to various drinking contests. One stunt we'd try would be to guzzle a beer. We'd tilt our head back, hold a full can of beer above our open mouth, pop it open, and gulp it down as fast as it poured out — in one giant swallow — trying not to choke or pour beer all over our clothes.
I always tried to win whatever drinking competitions we'd dream up, and I prided myself on my drinking prowess. I never minded drinking fast and hard because I never worried about getting drunk. In fact I always drank until I was high. I liked the buzz.
The first two or three drinks relaxed me enough so I could enjoy myself; I'd never have had the nerve to do the things I did or to talk to the people I talked to if I hadn't gotten high. Five or six drinks rid me of my inhibitions, and I'd be so funny I'd get everyone laughing. The next day my friends would laugh as they recounted my antics and funny remarks again and again. "You were great last night, Becky," they'd say. "You were sooo funny!" And I'd bask in the glory of my life-of-the-party reputation.
I never knew how much my reputation had to do with meeting Kent. But one night as the student bus returned to the school parking lot after another game, he offered to take some of us girls home. Kent was a senior, and while he wasn't the football star I'd always dreamed about, he was a varsity wrestler and good-looking as well.
I could hardly believe my good fortune when he dropped the other girls off before he took me home. We sat in his car and talked for a while. Kent seemed kind of shy. But when he awkwardly admitted he'd had a crush on me for some time, I immediately assured him I'd noticed him, and liked him, too. After we kissed good night, I went bouncing into the house. Incredible, I told myself. A senior guy likes me. And he's so cute. I could hardly wait to tell my friends.
In the weeks that followed, Kent and I began to date regularly. I liked him a lot. He seemed to be such a sharp guy. I couldn't figure out why he wanted to date me. And I tried not to care too much for fear he'd drop me.
Kent and I drank quite a bit when we went out together, but I drank more when I went out with the girls. Between football games, dates with Kent, and another weekly night out with the girls, my weekends filled up fast. I'd be busy Friday through Sunday night, and I'd be drinking all three nights.
It seemed most high school kids drank, but I usually drank more than most — I'd never been one to do anything halfway. My growing reputation as a big drinker simply meant I was a heartier partyer and more fun to be around. The only "problem" was not being able to be too open about my drinking. I had to be careful because cheerleaders weren't allowed to drink. And I couldn't let my parents know either.
The squeaky-clean cheerleader image presented the bigger challenge. Keeping my parents in the dark merely meant that I almost always spent Friday nights at the home of some friends who had a much later curfew. All in all, I figured I had my drinking under control.
The night of the homecoming game I even turned down an invitation to a weekly pregame drinking party. I wanted to be absolutely sober because I was going to actually get to cheer; several of the varsity cheerleaders were on the homecoming court, and the JV squad had been asked to fill in. There was no way I was going to let my pregame fun interfere with my cheerleading responsibility. Plus, this was going to be my proudest cheerleading moment ever, and I wasn't about to risk losing it for a few drinks. I knew there'd be enough time to celebrate in the second half when all the ceremonies were over and the varsity squad returned to full strength.
Cheering at that homecoming game was a highlight of the football season. Where the JV squad was used to small crowds of parents and friends on Saturday mornings, the homecoming crowd was the biggest of the year. The fans were hyped up, the lights were bright. Just standing on that field at the center of all that attention was an incredible high. As we went through our routines and I listened to the response of the crowd in the stands, I told myself, Just wait till next year. Next year I'll make varsity. Next year it'll be like this every week.
When the homecoming ceremonies concluded at halftime and the full varsity squad returned for the third and fourth quarters, I felt a real sense of sadness to have to go back up into the stands and cheer with the rest of the crowd. But I countered the letdown with a number of trips to the parking lot, where I very quickly made up for my pregame abstinence.
In fact, I awakened the next morning a little surprised to find myself lying in friend Sue's bed. I rolled over and looked at the shape in the sleeping bag on the floor beside the bed. Sue was still asleep. So I closed my eyes, attempting to ignore the throbbing in my head and at the same time trying to remember how I'd gotten there.
When I finally heard Sue roll over, I hung my head over the edge of the bed and asked. "You awake?"
She moaned softly in reply. "I feel like I've been dead for a week." A minute or so later she raised her head and opened her eyes just enough to squint at me. "Are you alive?"
"Barely."
"If I feel this horrible, I hate to think what your head is doing."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
Sue rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. "You were a riot — more smashed than I've ever seen you."
I just listened, waiting for her to go on and say something that would jog my memory. Instead, she started laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"I can't believe you turned around right there in the stands and asked Pete Gray to kiss you!"
"No! I didn't do that!"
"You certainly did!"
"I don't believe it!" Pete Gray was one of the most popular senior boys in the school. I didn't even really know him. "Are you sure? I don't remember it."
"I'm not surprised, Beck. I said you were smashed. I barely got you home."
"Why? What happened?"
"You don't remember?" She was incredulous.
"No. Tell me."
"You had a few more drinks in the parking lot after the game and you decided to walk home from school. We were cutting through the community college campus when you had to stop. You leaned up against a tree and threw up. We walked a little farther and you fell down and"— she started to laugh — "you had to crawl in the grass to a tree so you could stand up again. You threw up a couple more times and then we walked the rest of the way home.
"I don't know what made you sicker. The booze or all the laughing we did when you threw up. It was a scream!"
I didn't remember one bit of it. It was as if I hadn't even been there and Sue was telling me a story that happened to someone else. It felt a little strange when I explained to her that I didn't remember a thing after the start of the fourth quarter, but I trusted her so I didn't worry about what she thought. I just chalked the whole incident up to the fact that I'd never had that much to drink before in one night.
I had almost as much to drink that very Saturday night when I went to a big homecoming weekend party at the home of some senior guy whose parents were evidently out of town. I had a few drinks in the car so I was feeling pretty mellow by the time I arrived at the party.
I greeted a number of familiar faces passing by. But mostly I watched, listening to the music and sipping on my supply of beer. As the evening wore on and each beer added its effect, I remember feeling as if I was slowly sliding down the wall until I sat on the floor with an empty beer can in my hand, the wall at my back, and a faceless blur of people dancing, talking, and laughing high above me. After a time of staring at moving knees and feet, I slid laboriously back up the wall and made my way to a room and slept until my friends decided to head home.
I woke up the next morning with uncharacteristic regrets. I realized I'd been at one of the most prestigious parties of the year, with the most popular kids in school, and I'd spent the entire evening propped against a wall or sleeping in a spare room. I also felt bad to think that Shawna Davis had seen me so obviously drunk — not exactly the ideal image for a Central cheerleader. It was the first time since I'd begun drinking back in the summer that I felt any lingering embarrassment over my behavior. However, my regrets weren't enough to make me change my pattern of regular weekend drinking.
Somehow I continued to keep my drinking a secret from my parents. If they had any suspicions, they at least didn't confront me on the subject. There were related conflicts though.
One Sunday morning as I was trying to sleep off a hangover, my mom came into my room and stepped to the foot of my bed. "Get up, Becky," she said. "It's time to get ready for church."
I didn't respond.
"Did you hear me? Are you awake, Becky?"
"I'm awake."
"You're gonna have to hurry," she said as she retreated into the hall.
She returned a few minutes later. "Rebecca!" she exclaimed when she saw me still buried under the covers. "You're gonna be late! Get up right now!"
"I'm not going," I declared without moving.
"Yes, you are!"
"I am not!"
With each exchange the volume rose until we were yelling at each other. My father came rushing in. "Get up!" he ordered. "And stop talking to you mother like that. She's the only mother you've got." Then he turned and strode out, his role as enforcer completed.
"I can't go now," I told my mother, using the last line of defense. "There isn't even time to shower."
"Then just put your clothes on, comb your hair, and get in the car," she replied and stalked out.
Minutes later I was in the car, but my jaws were clenched and I didn't say a word the whole way to church or on the way back. And as soon as we got home again at noon, I went to my room, slammed the door, and refused to do anything with the family the rest of the day.
Every Saturday I'd try to think of some strategy that would enable me to stay home Sunday mornings. But nothing seemed to work. Although we didn't always have screaming fights about it, I always made sure my mom knew I was going against my will. Yet I never seemed to be able to wear her down.
In fact, she wasn't content with my going only to Sunday morning church. As I passed through the kitchen one Sunday afternoon, Mom asked, "Are you planning to go to youth group tonight?"
"No," was all I said. I'd gone through confirmation during ninth grade. But with all the other activities going on, I hadn't made it to youth group since school started. Besides being busy and having other priorities, I didn't want to associate with the kids in our church. Many of them were straight and didn't party, dance, or care about the things I cared about, so I didn't see any point.
But Mom refused to back off. "Why don't you think about it, Becky? When your sister was in high school she so enjoyed —"
"I'm not my sister!" I snapped. I'd heard it proudly told before that Susie had been elected president of the church youth group. She'd also been selected Outstanding Senior Girl in her class, made fantastic grades, and even won awards for good citizenship.
Any comparison with either of my siblings created additional resentments that I never voiced. I remembered how involved my parents had been in Susie's and Fred's high school experiences. Any time Susie was in any sort of program, the whole family went. I don't remember my parents ever missing one of Fred's football games: they always seemed so proud. But now that I was in high school, now that I was a cheerleader, they didn't go to my games.
I don't want to be like my sister, I told myself. I'm my own person. And I'm not going to that youth group.
It wasn't as if I hadn't shown some leadership of my own. Not only was I a cheerleader, but I was chosen to be a sophomore server at the school's big annual December Dance — a formal affair held for juniors and seniors. So despite a growing reputation as a big drinker and a rowdy cutup in class, I was right where I wanted to be — in the middle of the social scene. Despite my parents, I had everything under control.
One day, in health class, our P.E. instructor lectured on alcoholism. I sat in the middle of the room and joked around with my friends. The teacher talked as if we didn't know anything about alcohol, so we feigned surprise at everything she said. "Wow." "No kidding?" "Is that right?"
When she listed some of the warning signs of a drinking problem, we all pretended to furiously take notes. The whole time we were rolling our eyes, making faces at each other, and snickering under our breaths.
I did take notice when she wrote, "Blackouts — loss of memory," on the board. Staring at those words for a few moments. I thought of the night of the homecoming game. But I shrugged that off as the teacher also wrote, "Frequent absences from work, drinking in the morning, drinking every day, and drinking alone."
None of those signs described me. I didn't need to drink. I just did it for the fun and the excitement. Nothing more. I knew some people had drinking problems; I'd seen derelicts on the sidewalk in downtown Chicago, but drinking wasn't a problem for me. If anything, it was an advantage.