Storytime

It is 2014.

From miles below, the glow of a bonfire flickering subtly beckons the kids. The drive up the mountain to the parking lot isn’t long, but it proves difficult for some of the smaller cars. A silver Honda creeps up the slope, slides a little to the right, corrects itself, and almost loses its fight at the last bump. Crawling only inches at a time, the car rounds the final hump and purrs, relieved, onto the flat pavement.

It’s an odd assortment of vehicles parked sporadically in somewhat of a bunch at the far end: a large white pickup splattered with mud; a green beater full of extra clothes and empty Mountain Dew bottles; a newer, shiny black car packed with girls, some on laps, laughing as girls do. No one knows whose tires left hundreds of circles in the snow, but no one cares either. Several more trickle in, teens piling out in threes and fours and fives. Girls squeal to see their friends; boys nod or give a what’s up. A jokingly snarky greeting may be offered every once in a while, yielding an equally attitude-filled response, but it seems no hard feelings are harbored.

The fire grows bigger with each added pallet, each of which releases a cloud of sparks which billows up, lasting only a second in the frosty December air. Around the bonfire are under-dressed kids, shifting their feet and rotating their bodies like rotisserie chickens in an effort to keep warm.

To an outsider, the scene would look off. Dozens of teens gather in a parentless environment, late at night, and yet there is no alcohol, no drugs; just a bunch of happy kids ignoring cliques and coming together to freeze their butts off by a burning pile of scrap wood.

The simplest and seemingly most boring times will last long in their memories.

After the last pallet disappears, the coals have died, and no one remains with feeling in their fingers, the kids trickle out the same way they trickled in.

One car remains.

The silver car sits cold, a giant pink comforter in the back seat. A blonde girl swings into the driver’s seat. A few stragglers clamber into the remaining seats of the half-clean Honda: one buddy boy, two bestie girls. But they don’t want to go home yet. Oh, no. The night is young.

We no longer live with our parents.

10:00 is much too early on a weekend to go home.

Let’s go do something crazy.

Let’s do something stupid.

Absolutely stupid.

Let’s go jump in the lake.

One better believe they meant it.

Thirty minutes of driving too fast in the dark. No one watches for deer or icy patches as well as they should. Four hearts beat faster at the prospect of willingly freezing their entire bodies in water. Hair whips in the wind of the open windows, cameras flash, and voices rise over the wind and over other voices, occasionally penetrated by the shriek of one of 3 excited teenage girls.

Exit 47 arrives faster than it safely should on any given day in the winter. The silver Honda bumps along Shell Creek Road and creeps down the slippery concrete boat ramp.

Deep breaths.

Last minute second thoughts.

The adrenaline in the car is palpable.

Ladies first.

Turn off the headlights. We don’t want you to see us.

We don’t have swimsuits and we’re not jumping in our clothes.

They strip down to their underwear, inside out skinny jeans and flannel shirts tossed haphazardly in a pile on the backseat. The headlights flash; the girls wail and the boy laughs, but the girls know he won’t do it when they’re in front of the car.

A trio of shivering bodies tip toe down the ramp. They’re screaming before they even hit the water.

Wind turns ponytails into half-up hairstyles. Bangs cover eyes. Arms float horizontally for balance.

I’m going! I’m just going!

One girl drops.

No!

One more.

No one wants to be left behind. Three girls dunk in ice. Skin is instantly bumpy and clammy. The lake bottom is gooey. It’s impossible to get footing to come back up. Arms thrash, feet grope for a spot to stand. Three girls wallow and finally emerge again. Numb legs groggily slog up to shore. The wind persists. Ears ring, plugged, and the screams are now muffled. For a few moments, they are paralyzed. But they have to move. They have to get dry. They have to get warm.

I have no towels.

What do we do?

Use the blanket.

The sandy summer comforter emerges from the silver Honda. One girl tries to wipe the water from her legs. The others complain.

Hurry up!

We’re going to die!

It’s useless. The comforter works more like a raincoat than a towel.

The boy ditches the car: My turn.

His clothes fly in through the open door onto the front seat. The girls hardly process him leaving as they panic, frantically trying to dry themselves.

The last girl grabs the comforter. It drags in the pebbles on the ground as she does her best to soak up the drips of water in her hair, down her neck, all over her legs. Her tank top rolls up in the back as she pulls it down, sticking at her armpits. Help me! Unroll my tank top. I can’t pull it down. It’s wet. She’s still trying to reef her tight jeans up the rest of the way when the boy comes running, quivering, teeth chattering, hair winging water like a recently bathed dog, to grab the blanket. The girl finally buttons her pants and jumps into the driver’s seat, making sure the heater blasts at 10. The boy dries off much quicker than the girls had and jumps into the passenger seat.

The silver Honda wastes no time backing up and racing back to the highway. At some point, sunglasses are put on flushed faces, despite the dark of night. Group selfies are taken. Teeth glint in the flash of the camera. Stringy, unbrushed, sopping wet hair hangs and leaves dark blotches on shirts.

Teenagers laugh at themselves. They enjoy each other immensely during the drive home. They grin when they think of what they’ve done, how they’ve somehow weirdly bonded over something so stupid that none of their other friends have done.

They can’t wait to tell their story.

 

 

Thanks for reading my first story time here on the blog!

I will neither confirm nor deny that this is a true story.

…I also will neither confirm nor deny that I drove a silver Honda for several years, including during the year 2014.

Until next time,

CHARA