On Friday night I was back at my old high school to watch my niece perform in the marching band. She’s got a little bit of the Goth thing going on, loves punk music and seems to be carving out a different path for herself. Fine by me, because 20 years ago when I started that school I was listening to Debbie Gibson and reading Sassy.
We parked nearby at my Druncle Mark’s lady friend’s house. It was after 7 on a Friday, and surprisingly he was fairly sober. Sandy on the other hand, was on another planet. I introduced myself quickly, and we headed over to the stadium.
With the Who’s “Teenage Wasteland” appropriately blaring over the loud speakers, Chadtee, Staceytee, Zachtee, and I found seats a few rows back from this guy who, in 1986, I thought was one of the hottest things on earth. He was a senior when I was a freshman, and let me tell you, he’s still gorgeous. He has a blonde wife, and five (I think that’s how many I counted) blonde kids squirmed around him. I made a mental note that if I am to take a husband, he must be a hot husband.
They had maybe two too many kids for them to handle, because we watched one girl—about five or so—eat the paper her parents had brought for her to draw on. I noticed what she was up to when she was about three-quarters of the way through a sheet. I nudged Chad.
“Yeah, that’s her second sheet,” he said, laughing.
“Maybe she’s part billy goat. Should we get involved?” I asked, because the girl’s mom seemed to be distracted by her husband’s hotness and didn’t notice her daughter sitting next to her devouring her artwork.
“No, it’s none of our business,” he said. He was right. Maybe she was on special paper diet. Thankfully, she got her mom’s attention and showed her what she was up to.
I got up to get a soda, and saw a few people I know. One guy, a local probation officer, cringed when I suggested that I wished I had more than soda to drink.
“That’s illegal,” he said, to which I replied, “Yeah, well the last time I was in (the stadium), I broke in.” It’s true, last summer after a friend’s bachelorette party, a few of us hopped the fence at about 4 a.m. and ran the field.
After we watched Kaylla play the xylophone during the half-time show, Chad said it was time to go. In the car on the way home, Zach browbeated his father. “Uh dad, why did we have to leave? Dad? Dad? Why?” His mother assured him that they’d come back again for another game—without my brother.
“Uh, because it wasn’t fun?” Chad said.
I tried to distract Zach and gave him a dollar for the two front teeth he recently lost.
“Can I call you Angela?” he asked.
“Sure, that’s technically my name. Hey, you should put that dollar in your pocket. Or don’t you have pockets?”
Just eight-years-old, Zach has inherited our family knack for sarcasm and smart-assery.
“Uh, don’t you think if I had pockets, that the dollar would be in them?”