TROUBLE HITS
Before long, problems did develop. Lots of them.
One night when my folks were to be gone, a friend named Penny and I worked out a plan. About a half hour after my parents left, she and our two boyfriends arrived. We turned up the stereo and turned down the lights. The guys poured some shots and beers, and while I'd never tried that combination before, I gamely downed two or three rounds. Then Kent and I claimed the living room couch and began making out.
We'd hardly begun to warm up when I heard a sound that chilled me to the depths of my soul. A key turned in the lock, the front door swung open, and my father stepped into the house.
I froze momentarily in Kent's arms. But my dad stopped in the semidarkness not five feet from the couch were we were lying and nonchalantly began to light his pipe. He hadn't seen anything or anyone yet. But I knew he would.
When I saw him reach for the light switch, I leaped from the couch. And by the time the lights came on I stood in the middle of the room, screaming at my father. "What are you doing here? You said you were going to be gone for the evening!"
I watched as the shock and total surprise on his face changed almost instantly to puzzlement then to anger as he glanced quickly around the room and sized up the situation
"What's going on here?" he bellowed back at me. But he knew.
He stuck his head out the front door to call to my mother who was sitting in the car with another couple waiting for Dad to retrieve whatever it was he'd returned for. "Joan," he yelled, "you'd better get in here!"
So Mom hurried in, took a quick look around, and immediately added to the anger and hysteria. Right away my parents sent my friends packing out the front door. And that set me off on a giant tirade. "Now look what you've done. You've humiliated me. You've ruined everything." And on and on.
In the shouting match that ensued my parents said some very harsh things. And I felt as if all the arguments of the past three years, all the times my parents had told me no, had built up and built up until there was a volcano of resentment inside me that was ready to erupt. I exploded at my parents, screaming that I hated them and threatening to run away. And as they reeled from my blast, I fled to my room. When my parents eventually went out to the car to join their curious, waiting friends, I did run away to Penny's where the guys met us. And we had a party anyway.
But my secret was finally out. I didn't have to pretend anymore. That blowup drove a wedge between me and my parents and communication wasn't the same again. When we weren't arguing about my drinking, there always seemed to be something else to fight about.
Mom would criticize my choice of clothes, or they'd demand to know where I was going, with whom, when I'd be back, and we'd all be screaming at the top of our lungs. We'd fight about how much money they had to give me to spend on a Friday night, or they'd tell me I couldn't stay over at a friend's house and I'd do it anyway. I felt they were so restrictive that I challenged every decision until home became more of a war zone than a refuge.
I thought a lot about running away. And I threatened to on numerous occasions.
The escalating conflicts at home made school seem like another hassle. Some teachers seemed to have as many demands as my parents, so I started pushing the limits just to let them know I didn't need them either. That I'd do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.
Almost every day in almost every class I'd ask for a pass to go to the bathroom. I could read the disbelief in teachers' eyes when I insisted I needed to leave. But they knew and I knew they didn't really have a choice. I always got the pass. And I'd use the opportunity to socialize in the hallways on the way to and from the bathroom before sauntering back to class in my own sweet time.
Homework was another unpleasant hassle. I'd do it if I felt like it. And when I didn't, I had one of the biggest repertoires of excuses in the history of high school. My fast talking could get me out of almost as many predicaments as it got me into. Almost.
I'd earned a reputation during junior high for being a mouthy smart aleck. And my conduct marks after the first nine weeks of my sophomore year guaranteed I wouldn't be inheriting my sister's citizenship awards. I was called down for talking in class more times than you could count on a pocket calculator. And I made numerous trips to the office for talking back when teachers seemed pushy or unfair.
My typing teacher was the biggest pain. Miss Klooney was a young, new teacher and very demanding. I didn't like her and let her know it. I'd give her dirty looks while she was talking to the class, and I'd toss my papers down on her desk instead of handing them to her. One day after the bell rang, as we were all filing out of the room, I turned and said to one of my friends, loud enough for Miss Klooney to hear, "I hate that lady."
My grades depended to a large extent on my attitude toward my teachers. If my relationship with a teacher was good, my grades were good. But when a teacher rubbed me the wrong way, I wouldn't do the work. As a result my grades dropped from a nearly straight-A average of 3.8 in junior high, to about a 3.0 for the first semester in high school.
The only reason my grades stayed as high as they did was my habitual practice of cheating. I'd copy somebody's homework in almost every class. For Spanish quizzes I'd write the verb conjugations on the palm of my hand. Before one big Spanish test I wrote an entire essay in the gutter margin of my English-Spanish dictionary which we were allowed to have on our desks.
However, the easiest course to cheat in proved to be Algebra I. The teacher, Mr. Fitzgerald, was almost retirement age and in very poor health. When he wasn't lecturing, he would just sit at his desk while we worked problems. Often he would fall asleep. So algebra tests were a cinch; students would pull out their books for easy reference or merely exchange answers or papers with friends sitting next to them. I made easy A's without having to learn a thing.
The problem came when Mr. Fitzgerald decided to retire after the first semester and was replaced by a young teacher. The new man not only expected us to know some basic algebra, but stayed awake in class and was sharp enough to spot cheating a mile away. I hated him right away and promptly decided to drop algebra and transfer to an easier math class for the second semester.
That's how I ended up with Mr. Cottel. He was the epitome of the kind of person we called a "Poindexter." Tall. Gangly. Mid-twenties. Black horn-rimmed glasses were the most fashionable thing he ever wore. You'd see him in the hallway making a beeline for his classroom, leaning forward about forty degrees and carrying a tattered briefcase. He talked in a high, scratchy voice and had a loud laugh that punctuated his conversations and lectures at strange and unexpected points. In other words, he was a real nerd and the butt of a lot of laughter.
As you'd expect, he didn't get a lot of respect in his classes. You could tell it bothered him and that made him a vulnerable, hard-to-resist target of fun. One day, not long after I had joined his class. I was turned completely around in my seat talking to the guy behind me, when Cottel said, "Please be quiet Becky."
I whirled around. "I wasn't doin' nuthin'," I responded indignantly. Some of my classmates grinned.
"You were turned around and talking."
"You must be seeing things," I said, and someone laughed.
"Don't get smart with me, young lady."
"Then stop picking on me, you jerk." With that a number of students egged me on.
"That's it!" Cottel declared. "You're going to the office." And he took my arm as if he were going to lead me to the door. I jerked away from him and snapped, "Don't you touch me."
"Then get out of here, right now," he shouted.
I told him I would go when I got good and ready, and he repeated his order. Right in the middle of our fight one of the other kids in the class walked up to Cottel, whipped out a pair of scissors, and cut six inches off the bottom of his tie. It was no great loss. Everyone in the whole school joked about Cottel's ties — they were the oldest and ugliest I'd ever seen. But that was the end of the argument right then and there. The man was so furious that I fled the room without another word and made the trek to the office along with my scissor-wielding cohort. By the time we stood in front of the principal to explain our behavior I had formulated a heartfelt defense for our actions. "That man has no business being a teacher," I argued. "How do you expect us to respect someone like that? He can't even control a class, let alone teach."
I received a Saturday suspension as a result of that little incident. But I didn't mind because half the school was talking about it for a week. I loved the attention, the way people turned to look at me in the hall, the way people who'd never spoken to me before would grin and say, "Hi, Becky."
So in effect, I had gotten away with it. I almost always knew just how far I could push things. And in doing so, I was showing everyone that I didn't have to care about teachers or grades to have what I wanted. I was a cheerleader, and was careful to keep my grades high enough and not get into any trouble serious enough to jeopardize that.
That's why I was caught completely by surprise one Thursday afternoon, just a day before the biggest basketball weekend of the season, when the cheerleading coach pulled me off to the side at the start of the practice to say, "I just got a progress report on you from the office. You're not going to be able to cheer this week."
"Progress report?" I couldn't imagine why. "What class?"
"Typing."
"No way," I said. "I made a C in there last semester."
The coach shrugged. "According to the progress report Miss Klooney sent to the office, you're not passing the course. I'm sorry, but you'll have to sit out until you get your grade back up."
"I'll see about that," I declared as I spun on my heel and stalked off for the typing room on the second floor. School had been out only a few minutes and I thought I might catch Miss Klooney still in her room.
She looked up from her desk when I stormed in demanding to know. "What are you doing to me? I don't have a problem in typing. How could you send down a progress report on me?"
Her voice remained maddeningly calm as she said, "You got a D on the test we had Monday."
"You're kidding. That was just a quiz. You give those almost every week."
"Yes," she said, "but that's the only grade you have for this new semester. So until you bring that grade up, you've got a D in typing. And I was required to send in a progress report."
"You're telling me I'm off the cheerleading squad because of one stupid little typing test?" I felt certain she was enjoying this revenge.
"I'm sorry," she said. But I didn't believe her.
I had too much pride to beg. So I turned and stormed out of the classroom, slamming the door as I went.
I was still so furious the next night that I drank an entire quart of Boone's Farm apple wine before the game. When I walked into the gymnasium and took a seat up in the stands, I was bombed. While my teammates led the crowd in cheers, I sat in the stands and made critical remarks about the opposing cheerleaders. And at halftime I made my way around the end of the floor and headed for the concessions stand on the visitors' side of the gym.
Some of the opposing cheerleaders had been rival cheerleaders in junior high school, so they knew me. And one of them rather snootily asked, "What did you do that you can't cheer tonight, Becky?"
I called her a dirty name. She said something similar to me and I clenched my fists and started for her. One of my cheerleading teammates grabbed me from behind and dragged me out of door before the whole thing exploded.
When I woke up the next morning and remembered the incident I worried about the possible disciplinary implications. Initially I also felt embarrassed, but that feeling quickly changed to deeper hatred toward my typing teacher for creating the problem in the first place. I told myself, She probably gave the quiz just to get me. And I'll never forgive her for it.
I wasn't disciplined for trying to pick a fight at the game; I was never even sure the cheerleading coach heard what happened. But the incident did create the first open conflict between me and some of the other cheerleaders who had witnessed or heard about the little scene.
The captain of the JV squad and another girl, both juniors, had been mortified by my behavior at the game. They came to me afterward to say they were concerned about the image of the squad because of the incident and also because of my reputation as a big drinker. But I made it extremely clear to them that my life was my business and none of theirs.
Partly out of spite toward those girls, I brought some beer to school one morning. I skipped first period with a couple of guys from my first hour class to go out and sit in the parking lot in a friend's van and get loaded. Then I went to class for the rest of the morning. But I didn't do it all for spite. Part of me was simply curious to see what it was like to go to school high. I got a few funny looks in some of my classes, but nobody said anything. Even though I got away with it, and doing it gave me a rush — kind of a high-risk experience — I decided I wouldn't do it again.
Before the end of the basketball season, I would, however, cache a bottle of wine in my locker before every home game. Right after the JV game I would sneak back to my locker and drink until I would get a good buzz. Then I would go back to the gym for the varsity game, sit in the stands, and cheer with the rest of the crowd. And though I never got caught doing that either, it was becoming more and more obvious to people around me that I was taking fewer and fewer precautions.
Once, almost at the end of basketball season, some of us cut last-period study hall, snuck out to my friend's van in the parking lot, and I got blasted. The final bell rang, students streamed out of the building onto the buses, my friends took off for home, and I headed back inside for cheerleading practice.
I was drunk as a skunk and almost passed out on one of the mats before practice started. I thought it was so funny I could barely contain myself.
My coach didn't see anything funny. She angrily ordered me to go home and sober up. She didn't turn me in or kick me off the team, but that incident added one more level to the growing wall of resentment between the coach, the rest of the team, and me. What really ticked me off was the way they kept trying to force me into a goody-goody mold: they just wouldn't accept me the way I was.
There was really only one time when I got angry with myself for a drinking-related problem. One weekend when I had partied hard for three straight nights. I felt too hung over to face school on Monday morning. It wasn't the first Monday I'd missed so I didn't think anything about it until I was walking to homeroom Tuesday morning.
The JV captain stopped me in the hall. "Where were you yesterday, Becky?" she asked. "You missed program pictures."
"What?"
"The cheerleading squads had group pictures taken for the game programs yesterday. Everyone was there except you." I didn't think I was imagining the smugness in her voice. "Were you sick?"
"Yeah, I was sick," I said. But I certainly hadn't been as sick as I felt right then as the crushing truth sank in. I missed pictures. When everyone gets their program at the game, my picture isn't going to be with the rest of the cheerleaders. I was hurt.
By the time the hurt festered through homeroom period, I was angry. When I spotted another one of the cheerleaders in the hall I wanted to know, "Why didn't you call me? Why didn't anyone remind me that pictures were yesterday?" I would have crawled to school if necessary for pictures; all I'd had was a hangover. But mostly I was angry at myself for messing up, for losing out on the recognition I'd worked so hard to earn. I couldn't believe I had forgotten something so important. And the most sickening thing was the realization that it was too late then to do anything about it.
But something else happened early that spring that was completely out of my control — something that made picture day pale by comparison. The phone rang one morning just before Mom left for work, while I was still getting dressed for school. Someone from my dad's office was calling to tell us Dad had just collapsed and was on hi way to the hospital in an ambulance.
A half hour later we sat in a hospital waiting room, waiting for some word. Finally a doctor came out of the emergency room and began telling Mom that it looked like Dad had suffered a massive stroke. He said it was too early to tell how he'd come out of it, or even if he would come out of it at all.
As the doctor tried to answer Mom's questions and the seriousness of it all sank in, I reached into my purse and pulled out a cigarette. I had lit it and taken a long drag before I looked up and noticed my mother's surprised disapproving glare. She had to learn I smoked sooner or later, I told myself. And she's not going to make a scene here. There's Dad to worry about.
I was right. Even after the doctor left, Mom didn't say a thing about my cigarette. Or the rest of the pack I smoked as we waited for some new word.
The waiting room scene seemed like something out of a strange foreign movie with no subtitles. New characters filed in and out talking among themselves, but everyone seemed part of a different drama. Even my mother and I seemed in separate worlds. And none of it made any sense or seemed to have any reason.
The one fact I knew was true — that my father might die — didn't make any sense either. How could he die? Why?
Oh God! I prayed. If you'll just let my dad live, I'll do anything you want. I'd had so many conflicts with my father that I considered him a "no" man, someone who always seemed to say no to everything that mattered to me. I hadn't felt particularly close to him in years, but I certainly didn't want him to die.
Despite my desperate prayer, the next word we received wasn't much better. He'd stabilized, but he wasn't responding. He couldn't talk and there was no movement in any of his limbs. It was entirely possible that even if he lived, he might be a vegetable. The only answer to any question was, "We'll have to wait and see."
Four or five days later, Dad did begin to talk again. Incredibly, in time, he began to move and then to walk. Eventually everything came back to him but some of his memory. He had occasional seizures, but after a few weeks of therapy he was ready to leave the hospital and finish recuperating at home.
When the hospital released Dad, the doctor told my mom and me that we couldn't allow him to lose his temper or get his blood pressure worked up or he might suffer another stroke. And that could be fatal.
So the atmosphere at home changed drastically. Mom and I worked out an unspoken truce. We would discontinue any fight the moment Dad walked into the room. We never screamed like we had before, at least not when Dad was home. I continued to resent her demands and restrictions, and she resented my lack of respect and failure to live up to her expectations. I suspected she held me at least partially responsible for adding to the stress that caused Dad's stroke. And sometimes I wondered about that myself. It wasn't anything we ever verbalized or anything I could change; I can't say I felt any guilt over it. So other than the volume of our fights, nothing else about our relationship really changed.
I drank just as much as ever and lied just as often to cover myself. My mom never did make an issue of my smoking except to forbid me from smoking in the house. So when I needed a cigarette I'd go in the bathroom, lock the door, open the window, and try to blow all my smoke outside. Sometimes when I'd come out my mother would confront me.
"Were you smoking in there?"
"No," I'd lie. Maybe since we both knew better, I didn't feel any guilt about that either.
With Dad's stroke and recovery, those spring weeks seemed to fly by. Suddenly it was nearly time for next year's cheerleading tryouts.
I'd heard rumors the year before that I'd had the highest scores on the JV squad — higher even than a couple of the older girls who'd made the varsity. So I didn't have any doubts that I had the athletic skill to make the team. All my friends seemed to assume I was a cinch to make the varsity squad as one of the junior members. But with my past conflicts and problems, I wasn't so sure I'd be picked — even if my scores were high enough.
The more I worried about not making it, the more I could see it happening. I didn't know if I could take that kind of humiliation. They want to make me into some kind of Suzie Straitlace, and they don't like me because they know they can't do it, I told myself. I don't need that kind of aggravation.
When I told my friends I was thinking about not trying out for cheerleading next year no one believed me. Their response sealed my decision. They acted as if I didn't have any choice, as if I needed to be a cheerleader. So I determined to show them.
I don't think anyone seriously believed I'd dump cheerleading until the first day of mandatory clinics. If you didn't go the first clinic, you couldn't try out.
I didn't go.
I did, however, hang around the building for a while after school. And I wandered down to the gym, where I stood in the shadows outside an open door and watched for a few minutes as the senior cheerleaders went through the routines which the aspiring cheerleaders were expected to do during tryouts.
They probably wonder why I'm not in there. But they're probably all secretly glad because it means one more available spot on the team.
I could make it if I wanted to, I assured myself, if I cared enough to live by their rules. They all know that. But I don't care anymore. And now they'll all know that, too. I don't need them or cheerleading anymore.
I watched a while longer before I turned and walked down the darkened hall. The bitterness didn't completely fill the emptiness inside where I'd always kept my dreams.
Getting drunk that night didn't help much either.