We all had never
really drank before, so when we entered our first high school dance, feeling a
little sauced, and dangerous as hell, buzzed in our tube tops and low jeans,
none of us knew just how badly we had screwed ourselves. Within twenty minutes,
the Much Music Video dance screens began to blur and shake. Then we were swaying.
I remember hearing Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop,” but it sounded far away, and
there was a low whistling sound.
Mel was the
first to make a dash for the bathroom, and, being the good girlfriends that we
were, plus adhering to the age-old rule that girls always go together, we
followed her. Zigzagging all the way, we giggled and apologized for stepping on
freshly painted toes and focused on looking sober enough to emerge into the
bright hallway where our teachers had congregated, sipping Tim Horton’s under
the florescent hallway lighting, and made our way undetected.
We all clustered
in the largest stall, and parked there for the rest of the night, taking turns
puking and crying, puking, crying, and helping Rachel pee at one point. It took
both Mel and I to hold her on the toilet, and I remember wedging myself between
the toilet and the wall of the stall to keep myself up as well as her. There
were many tears, a solemn swear to never drink again, and lot’s of “I love you
so much…no, I love YOU…no, you…” What felt worse than the hangover the next
morning was wondering if Nell, a girl in a wheelchair in our grade, had had to
pee that night.
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