I'll Be Back

I was fourteen the first time I snuck out. As a lowly freshman, I was trying to overcome a heart-wrenching breakup with my first love. He was a senior—handsome, kind, and funny. He came from a wealthy family, though I didn't care one way or the other, even if riding in his Acura totally boosted my cool factor. He was at the top of his class both academically and in popularity. I considered him completely out of my league. It shocked me when he asked me out and further shocked me when we fell head-over-heels in love. Our relationship began at the start of the school year and ended with the first signs of spring. Convinced I'd never love again, I spent early spring evenings listening to our mix-tapes and crying myself to sleep.

Our high school mirrored the small town’s size, with graduating classes averaging 80 to 120 students. Having attended the school since the first Trapper-Keeper and Velcro-sneaker days of kindergarten , I steadily remained a decent student involved in sports and had never been drunk or stoned.

In our small, rural town, news traveled fast. So, when I learned through a friend of a friend of a friend that Michael, a junior, was interested in me, it didn’t take long before we started dating. At that age, ‘dating’ meant incredibly awkward nightly phone calls, hoping no siblings or folks eavesdropped, sweaty-palmed hand-holding between classes, and endless outfit changes for football games where we'd sit with friends, not each other.

Sneaking out opened up a whole new world to me. We lived in a house that was set upon a gentle slope. It made the front porch even with the ground. The back porch was another story. It was enormous. It stood ten to twelve feet off the ground with a tall staircase situated to the mid-left of the porch. It ran the length of the house and jutted out from it about twenty feet. Looking at the house, a pair of windows at the far left looked into my folks’ bedroom. The pair on the far right peered into mine. There were wooden railings around it and the windows were set two feet off the porch.

My best friend Andrea and I were among the few underclassmen invited to a big party that night. It was supposed to be on some random, deserted ranch, a property of some unknown Summer People. There was supposed to be booze, which probably meant one bottle of Boone’s Farm, Strawberry Hill split between thirty people. There was also a rumor that someone had scored a bag of weed. I was nervous but also excited.

The evening was warm, one of the first of the season, so I elected to wear my short, bright red Guess shorts and a matching, plaid button-up blouse. My make-up was overwhelmingly applied; my bangs were curled and heavily sprayed with the deliciously grape-scented, Aussie Scrunch. It never let me down. If gale-force winds arose, those things weren’t moving.

The back way off the property was reached via a long, straight caliche road. It was about one hundred and fifty yards to the two-lane highway— the rendezvous point. I was a novice, so I had some planning to do. My first decision was whether or not to leave through my window or out of the front or back door. Here, I ran into Issue One. My folks slept with their bedroom door wide open. Who even does that? Their bed was situated to give my stepfather, Ron, a clear view of the open Living and Dining Areas as well as the small hallway I shared with my little brother and one small bathroom. Plus, if I left through the back door, I would pass right by their door. That would be suicide!

The most logical way out was through my window. I could step out onto the porch, no problem. Then I thought about the long walk to the stairs and how there seemed to be strategically placed boards that creaked and groaned when pressure was applied. No, my best option would be to go out of my window and go away from the folks’ room and bail over the railing and onto the ground below. I realized this was quite a leap, but I was fourteen! I was an athlete! I could stick the landing, no problem!

At around 11:30 p.m., I raised the mini-blinds of one window. I couldn’t leave those open. I had to remember to close them. I raised the window and considered the screen. It wasn’t designed with sneaky teenagers in mind. Of that, I was certain. It was not a square but more of an odd rectangle. I could hold one of the tabby-things at the bottom while pushing out on the metal frame encasing the screen to deaden the pop it could make; but then, what to do with the damned thing. I could leave it outside, on the porch, propped against the house. On the off chance, somebody wandered outside in the middle of the night, would the screen be more conspicuous if it were absent or if it were propped against the side of the house? What if the wind blew and it fell over and slapped the porch? Nah, too much risk, no freaking way; I nixed that idea.

I could hide it in my closet, but that would mean turning it sideways so it would fit inside, and that would take crazy patience and seriously dexterous hand and finger work. I decided I could do it. I could totally do it. I would just be careful. I pushed the screen out, it made a small pop, and it was free. Taking my time, I walked my fingers around the edges of the screen and delicately slid it into my room. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I put the screen behind my lower hanging clothes. It was do or die time.

I had dutifully created a Sara-shaped lump in my bed with my pillows. I was ready. I bent and put one foot out of my window. It easily reached the porch, and I quickly pulled the other foot through. I was out! I reached back in and wiggled the string in every direction until it finally lowered. I pulled my window closed with just enough room for my fingers to reach back in upon my return. I looked around the porch and at the field and the dirt road ahead. The moon was bright that night. The caliche road lay pale, bleached white in the moonlight.

I took two strides toward my jumping off point when inexplicably, my foot bumped hard plastic. It lit up and I realized it was my idiot brother’s big-ass Terminator doll action figure. I silently cursed him then the damn thing said, “I’ll be back.” I froze, certain everyone, even the neighbors, had heard. When the back door wasn't yanked open, the irony of it caught up to me and I crumpled into silent fits of giggles. Pulling myself together, I side-stepped the blasted thing and, with all the grace of a baby giraffe, grabbed the railing and hiked my right leg over it to the small ledge. Next came my left leg. I was then hanging onto the railing, with one hand, looking into the dark void below.

Counting to three, I released my grip on the rail and leapt. I knew the landing would be jarring. I was prepared for that. I knew I might bust my ass. I also realized that I might even break a bone. What I was not prepared for, what I had not taken into account, not through all of my scheming, was my mother’s rosebushes. Those thorny demons she lovingly cultivated. I had completely forgotten them in my excited terror.

The landing was, in fact, jarring. It was also stabbing, scratching, poking, scraping, and though tears sprang to my eyes, I clapped my hand over my mouth to keep from crying out. Looking like a person who had just lost a fight with a very angry cat, I gingerly untangled myself from the thorny mess.

I grabbed the hem of the rear of the legs of my shorts and tried to gently but quickly dislodge the thorns, all the while doing a weird little dance to avoid further injury. The thorns were out of my ass but were still stuck in the seat of my shorts. I glanced at my watch, pushed the button to light up the face. It was ten to midnight! I tried to jog while picking at the ass of my shorts so as not to get re-attacked. I finally made my way to the highway, the glowing white caliche road giving way to the black of the highway. No one was there. I checked my watch again and looked back at the house. All was dark and quiet. A short time later, I heard the unmistakable growl of Michael's giant Bronco.

Andrea leaned out of the open window, cheeks pink with excitement. I asked her if she was "lookin’ for a good time." She laughed and I climbed in. The smell of Drakkar Noir was heavy in the air. Riding through town at midnight was surreal. I was exhilarated. I felt defiant. I felt liberated. No one was keeping an eye on me. I was my parent that night. I made my own choices.

At the ranch, we had one hell of a good time. I got drunk. I smoked pot, which was not as big of a deal as I thought it would be. We had a raging bonfire. A total tool named Jason found an old bicycle out there and rode it through the fire. It was wild. The music blared. We were brazen. We were teenagers enjoying sex, drugs, and rock and roll in the angsty 1990s.

Time blew by that night and before I was mentally prepared, I was alone again at the foot of that moonlit road. Everything remained dark and quiet. No flashlights were sweeping the area or cherries blazing in the driveway. I looked at my watch. It was 4:30 in the morning! The folks didn’t go to church. They were “Cheasters,” with a funeral or nuptials sprinkled in as needed. However, they still felt my brother and I required a weekly dose of Jesus. Instead, my mom would wake me and tell me to go lie in my brother’s room on his extra twin bed. Why? Because that spoiled brat had the second of the two televisions we owned in his bedroom. She would locate Pastor John Hagee on TBN and come by every few minutes to ensure we were paying attention.

I was cutting it close. Head spinning and full of cotton, I tried to haul ass up the long road and slowed when I neared the house to quiet my footsteps. I could do this. I just had to do almost everything I’d already done, just in reverse. In all of my elaborate planning, I had not factored in being drunk and stoned on the return trip.

By some miracle, I made it to the bottom of the wooden staircase without tripping and smacking the caliche with my face. There was no way I could climb the lattice back up onto the porch by my room and anyway I was not going near those damn rose bushes again. The stairs were my only option. I looked skyward and sent up a prayer to the saint of teenage misfits that I would be light-footed and steady in my journey. I took a deep breath in and slowly climbed each step, pausing to listen ever so often. The odds must have been in my favor because I made it to the top of the staircase and moved to the right a step or two. I hadn’t made it this far only to go tumbling head over ass down the damn things.

I tentatively took a step toward my bedroom windows. Good God, what if the window was closed and locked and I was forced to knock on the door? A few steps in a board groaned under my right foot. I froze. My breathing ceased, my eyes went wide, and my ears pricked up, listening for the smallest of sounds. Nothing moved. I waited for what felt like forever before I continued. The wood underfoot creaked twice more before I successfully made it to the still-open window.

I bent and slid my fingers under the bottom of the window and calmly pulled it open. Then, I slid my hand inside to grope for the cord to the mini-blinds. I was certain I would feel my mom’s hand close around my wrist at any second. My heart hammered so loudly that I was sure it would be the thing that rousted them from sleep. After fighting the cord to hold the blinds in position, I finally eased back into my room. At least I had missed Chad’s doll action figure this time, "Hasta la vista, baby," I thought, and nearly started all over with the silent fits of the giggles.

Glancing at the red numerals glowing from my alarm clock, I was surprised to see it was only 4:45 a.m. I walked briskly to my closet to get the hidden screen, then slowed as I kneeled down to consider its replacement. Turning the screen sideways, I slid it out of the window and then used both hands to turn it right-side up. This was the moment that would determine if I saw my next sunrise. It would suck ass to drop the thing and have not only my folks burst into my bedroom but also have Pastor Hagee’s God smite me dead.

I got it aligned correctly and set it into its slot at a bit of an angle. Using the two tabs at the bottom, I pulled it ever so carefully back into place. There was a small pop. I quickly slid the mini-blinds down, stripped off my clothes, threw on boxers and a tank top, shoved faux Sara out of the way, snapped my dim bedside lamp off, and leapt into bed. I had gotten away with it! Ha!

After being still for a few moments, the adrenaline died down. It was then that I had my first and worst case of the Munchies. I rolled over, sure that sleep would overtake me. I tried to ignore the intense cravings. I felt like my mouth should be watering as I thought about ravioli, the kind that was orangey in color that only ‘The Chef’ made, but my mouth was so dry and sticky. It felt like I had chugged Elmer's glue and not Maddog 20/20. I thought of macaroni-and-cheese, cereal, Hot Pockets, Pop-Tarts, and… pickles. Pickles would be simple to get, no noise, no mess.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I was at my open bedroom door. Now, how to get to the kitchen without being seen? Our home was one that, once you went to bed, you didn’t get up until morning, except for the call of nature. I weighed my options. An idea occurred to me then, undoubtedly fueled by a massive pickle-jones, which, at the moment, felt like the Elixir of Life. If I wasn't in his sightline, I would not be seen. I dropped to the ground and, using my elbows and knees, stomach an inch off the carpet, I crawled to the kitchen. Once there, I stood, slowly pulled and broke the seal on the ice box, and took a deep drink from the pickle jar. Then I ate five or six spears and drank tea out of the mouth of the pitcher.

Once finished, I dropped back down into position to soldier crawl back. My inner soundtrack played the opening notes of the Pink Panther. I bit back laughter. Halfway there, my body committed the ultimate betrayal. Involuntarily, I belched loudly. I flattened myself against the floor. What in the name of God would I do if one of them came out here to find me face down in the carpet, smelling of campfire, cheap wine product, and pot with my breath reeking of pickles?

Ron’s snoring ceased abruptly. I heard the bedclothes rustle. This was it. I was busted after all that! Dammit! What if he didn’t even see me and stepped on me? What if I wound up paralyzed and grounded all because of fucking pickles?

Then the bedsprings squeaked and the snoring resumed. Whew! He was just changing position. As quickly as I dared, I belly-crawled back to my bedroom, then I stood up, closed the door, and climbed into bed. I breathed an enormous sigh of relief. I stared at the dark ceiling and reflected on the night’s events. I couldn’t wait to do it again! Then I rolled over and dropped off into a deep sleep until it was time for TV church.