No One Stubs Their Toes on Toilet Paper

Knocking about in Jenna’s room, I’m simply tired. In anguish, I hope that Jenna’s family consumes normal food. And soon. I am starving.

I’d never been to her house before so I didn’t know what I was in for at lunchtime. One of my friends had this mom who would “humph” and “hmmm” when you didn’t gorge on her weird brownies with absolutely no sugar in them. I remember her picking up my plate with all her whimpering noises and taking her sweet time dumping the abandoned not-anything-like-brownie blobs into the garbage. It was such a mixed bag at that house. They have the zipline and four-wheeler, but they also have the dieting mom.

Rubbing the stray water droplets off my shoulder, I wonder if I was supposed to use sunscreen. What time of day did the sun give you cancer? Too late now.

My internal whining is becoming a nagging refrain. I stick my  head out of Jenna’s room cautiously.

Is she out of the dang bathroom yet?

Door’s closed. I’m stuck. Guess I’ll faint. We swam for a whole hour. I need like four slices of pizza. And, what will probably be, bathwater warm Cool Blue Gatorade that I passed in the garage.

Jenna’s parents are nice enough but they aren’t here. Not that I’d ask them for food directly, I’m not some kind of heathen. Momma raised me with just the right amount of shame. I would have lurked around the kitchen keeping as clean as possible and maybe even avoiding the carpet or something. I did have that one friend who’s mom ran me out of the house one time because I forgot to take my shoes off. Whew. That lady was scary. You wouldn’t catch me over there again.  I like living.

Sitting down  with a groan, I start thumping Jenna’s books on her clearly sagging bookshelf. Thump, thump, thunk, ha that was a clunker.

Jen has all the usual goods. Adventures in Odyssey coloring books, what is probably her first bible, Babysitter’s Club, and , wait ... .is that a SEVENTEEN?? I pull the corner of a worn magazine out from under a neatly lined stack of G-rated literature.

Starvation forgotten I’m immersed in a flowchart quiz that will inform me of which hot-hottie-hunk I am a match. I speed read making my way down the page. Landing at the bottom with rolling eyes, the sweaty face of Leo Dicaprio squints up at me from the Titanic poster. “Wrong, this is garbage,” I say aloud as Jenna pushes through  the door with her foot.

Her arms are full with our wet swim towels. She spots me and her eyes look like they're leaving her face for her forehead.

“ NO, NO PUT THAT BACK !”

I drop the magazine with a soft plop and hold up my hands in confusion, “ why are you hiding this Jen!?”

Jen flushes red and rushes over to me. When she scoops up the magazine she spins in a little circle trying to locate a new hiding spot for the goods. I giggle at her when she attempts to lift her mattress high enough to get the magazine under.

“Really Jenna, under your bed? What's the big deal, I have like 12 of my sister’s.” 

She looks embarrassed and flustered when she admits, “It’s sinful.”

Breathing in deeply,  I try really really hard not to roll my eyes.

I take a smug pride in my superior face control when I ask, “ok ....like how?”

“ Oh come on, you know. Boys, periods, sex stuff. It's really bad and I know I shouldn't have it but I just wanted to read that one quiz about romantic movies.”

It's not that my Southern Baptist family isn’t attending the same church as Jenna’s and it’s not that I don't speak the language. There’s a part of me that just felt like some of it didn’t matter. I had always been secretly selective about what rules I followed and what ones I  waved off. Anything that was really really fun and interesting, well that’s what forgiveness is for, right? I mean Christ already died and there are plenty of other sins to feel guilty about. Less fun ones.

“ Ah man , I know it does feel bad sometimes , you know…reading it.”

I wince with the little lie . But I didn’t want Jenna to feel, I don't know…like she was bad? I didn’t want to make it worse anyway. It was weird too because Jenna was like the sweetest kid at church. After snaking her way under her mattress, she stretches to push the magazine into the middle. No way is anyone finding it now. She straightens her bedspread and pauses a moment facing away from me.  I push off the floor and pray I didn’t leave a wet spot in the carpet below me.

Welp, there is one. Thankfully , it's not huge and I push my bookbag over it. I’ll deal with that later.

My stomach gurgles .

Jenna swivels abruptly on one heel and offers a clandestine whisper, “ you wanna see something?”

My eyes widen with eager complicity. Her eyes dart back and forth while she gives me a mischievous smile.

Jenna suddenly rushes out of her bedroom yelling “come on” and I jump to follow.

I hear her shuffling and the bounce of too- quickly opened cabinets against her bathroom wall.

I swooped my head into the bathroom and tiptoed like an overly enthused Scooby Doo character over to Jenna.

I see that every inch of her bathroom storage is crammed full with boxes and cans. All completely white, without labels or packaging. Everything is covered in solid white butcher paper.

“Look, we have so much stuff ready, we are trying to prepare for it you know?”

I wait for her to say more, I am not someone who knows what the heck ‘it’ is.

She moves things around, with an amused, prideful look on her face. I feel a twinge of nerves in my stomach. Oh no…Jenna’s family, they, like, really really believe in Revelations.

OK, so her family and my family…eh, we are not the same. Jenna turns and looks at me, clearly waiting for me to share her excitement.

“Jen, what is this stuff? I reach for a box and shake it. The lid pops open to reveal at least 4 dozen packets of TANG.

“Why do you have so much TANG  and …what is this?”

I tilt a box towards my face.

“Beans!? Why do you have so many cans of beans in your bathroom!? Jenna, what the heck is happening at your house?”

Jenna looks perplexed when she clips out the letters like she were counting, “Y.2.K. My parents spent, like, all their money to get ready.”

For the first time in my life I am stunned into silence.

I am well over my limit of weird stuff to think about. This is a diversity of opinion I don’t know if I can appreciate. I’m sweating thinking about making eye contact with her parents ever again.

That’s enough , that’s all. Going home. Cancel the sleepover.

Jenna without a word takes the box out of my hand, neatly places it back in the cabinet and strolls out of the bathroom.

“There’s more in my room!,” she yells back at me.

I plod after her, head down , practicing lines in my head.

That’s cool, Jenna. You guys are going to be so ready, Jenna. Wow, yall thought of everything. This definitely isn’t crazy.

Jenna is standing next to her bed waiting for me and I let my curiosity get the best of me.

“ So… why is it a secret?”

“So nobody knows and can come take it all. It’s so smart.”

Jenna looks at me solemnly.

Silly me, thinking they just didn’t want to be embarrassed when they were ultimately wrong.

Jenna bends to lift her bed skirt and I see toilet paper peeking out from under her bed. Well, that solves the mystery for me. She can’t hide her teen mags under the bed because that particular hidey spot is taken.

“ Oh, that’s smart to put toilet paper there,” I blurted out .

I am grasping for anything positive to say. I can’t be mean and judgy and Jenna wants me to be impressed.

“ Why,” she says quizzically, almost skepticallly.

Dang, she’s caught me. She knows I think this is crazy.

“ Because no one stubs their toe on toilet paper. I mean, the beans couldn’t go there, ya know?”

Jenna crosses her arms over her chest and gives me a smiling nod as if I have signed up for Team Apocalypse now too.

“ Yea , yes that's true. It’s where we could fit the most but that’s a good point.”

I hear a car door slam and muffled voices from across Jenna’s house. Parents home. Food time. This conversation is over.

Jenna looks slightly nervous when she says, “ OK , remember don’t tell anyone.”

She strides across the room and leaves.

I make to follow her and internally slam a door on further Y2k thoughts.

One nagging question slips through.

“There’s really not a better place for that toilet paper?”