trying to sound bored. “Enough hanging around Merced with the Frosh Faction.”
We stumbled into the building that challenges us academically, athletically and socially, only to find that Carr was one of the evening’s chaperones. Now that’s a challenge. Carr took our tickets and glared at me. We entered our high school for the second time that day, now festooned with streamers. I could hear the bass lines of the music coming from the gym like an approach- ing army. Gabriel and Natasha bounded up, already dance- sweaty, and grabbed us. “It’s on!” Natasha shouted, and I looked at her in her tight black jeans and sequined bustier with a big fake rhinestone X in the center of it and just didn’t care anymore. We went into the gym and danced and shouted and danced. They were playing that song that goes “Tonight tonight tonight,” it’s still in my head. I love that song. Everything was great, all champagne blurry and the boys weren’t looking at the bustier but at me (dream on, little Culp girl) when I stepped out into the hallway to get a drink of water and all of a sudden I was in The Chamber Of Horrors. I can only describe them by exhibits:
EXHIBIT ONE: JENNIFER ROSE MILTON LEANING AGAINST THE WALL AND MAKING OUT WITH FRANK
WHITELAW! I don’t know if I’ve recorded here in this journal the only conversation I’ve ever really had with Frank Whitelaw–he ran into me once maybe last week, when it was raining–but he is a slow man. I mean stupid slow, not like he moves slowly. In fact, given the location of his hands on Jennifer Rose Milton’s gorgeous thin body, I would say that slow is most certainly not how Mr. Whitelaw moves. So this is who Jenn has been seeing.
EXHIBIT TWO: JIM CARR, BIOLOGY TEACHER, FLIRTING WITH SOPHOMORE CHEERLEADING CHICK, STROKING
HER HAIR EVEN. Enough said, I trust. Not only that, they were blocking the drinking fountain. I turned and went down the hallway you’re not supposed to go down during school dances because, I don’t know, something horrible might happen to you, and like I was a character in one of those religious pamphlets they give out, something horrible did happen, right then, because there was
EXHIBIT THREE: DRUNK MARK WALLACE , leaning against some lockers with his bloodshot eyes and a sweat-stained T-shirt that read: “Black By Popular Demand.” Just what I needed. Mark Wallace is perhaps the most obnoxious person at Roewer, and when drunk he’s downright belligerent. Natasha had to crack a bottle of beer over his head at a cast party once–but that’s another story. This story goes like this:
Once upon a time, in a hallway too far from supervision, the Big Bad Mark Wallace asked Flan what was up, and Flan said nothing much and the B. B. M. W. asked what
her hurry was, and Flan stuttered something and then Mark told me I had nice tits. What do you say to that, exactly? So I said nothing, and turned around and that’s when he reached over and grabbed one of them, trying to kiss me on the neck at the same time. I think that Mark hoped that my body would respond in ways that were beyond my control, and he was right: I threw up, all over his political statement. Then, while he gasped and gaped, I turned and ran. I turned the corner and ran the rest of the way down the hallway. I had almost reached the gym when I felt a tap on the shoulder. It was Carr; behind him, a cheerleader looked at me with the same smugness as the States.
“Culp,” he said, licking his lips nervously, “you’re not sup- posed to go down that hallway.” He put his arm authoritatively on my shoulder; I think that’s what did it.
“Carr,” I said, “we all do things we’re not supposed to. Now get your hand the fuck off my shoulder.”
“OK, Flan, time to go home,” Gabriel said, appearing from nowhere. He put an arm around me and I instantly broke down. I kept my head down so I couldn’t see any more Horrors. People were probably laughing at me, pointing at me,
We stumbled into the building that challenges us academically, athletically and socially, only to find that Carr was one of the evening’s chaperones. Now that’s a challenge. Carr took our tickets and glared at me. We entered our high school for the second time that day, now festooned with streamers. I could hear the bass lines of the music coming from the gym like an approach- ing army. Gabriel and Natasha bounded up, already dance- sweaty, and grabbed us. “It’s on!” Natasha shouted, and I looked at her in her tight black jeans and sequined bustier with a big fake rhinestone X in the center of it and just didn’t care anymore. We went into the gym and danced and shouted and danced. They were playing that song that goes “Tonight tonight tonight,” it’s still in my head. I love that song. Everything was great, all champagne blurry and the boys weren’t looking at the bustier but at me (dream on, little Culp girl) when I stepped out into the hallway to get a drink of water and all of a sudden I was in The Chamber Of Horrors. I can only describe them by exhibits:
EXHIBIT ONE: JENNIFER ROSE MILTON LEANING AGAINST THE WALL AND MAKING OUT WITH FRANK
WHITELAW! I don’t know if I’ve recorded here in this journal the only conversation I’ve ever really had with Frank Whitelaw–he ran into me once maybe last week, when it was raining–but he is a slow man. I mean stupid slow, not like he moves slowly. In fact, given the location of his hands on Jennifer Rose Milton’s gorgeous thin body, I would say that slow is most certainly not how Mr. Whitelaw moves. So this is who Jenn has been seeing.
EXHIBIT TWO: JIM CARR, BIOLOGY TEACHER, FLIRTING WITH SOPHOMORE CHEERLEADING CHICK, STROKING
HER HAIR EVEN. Enough said, I trust. Not only that, they were blocking the drinking fountain. I turned and went down the hallway you’re not supposed to go down during school dances because, I don’t know, something horrible might happen to you, and like I was a character in one of those religious pamphlets they give out, something horrible did happen, right then, because there was
EXHIBIT THREE: DRUNK MARK WALLACE , leaning against some lockers with his bloodshot eyes and a sweat-stained T-shirt that read: “Black By Popular Demand.” Just what I needed. Mark Wallace is perhaps the most obnoxious person at Roewer, and when drunk he’s downright belligerent. Natasha had to crack a bottle of beer over his head at a cast party once–but that’s another story. This story goes like this:
Once upon a time, in a hallway too far from supervision, the Big Bad Mark Wallace asked Flan what was up, and Flan said nothing much and the B. B. M. W. asked what
her hurry was, and Flan stuttered something and then Mark told me I had nice tits. What do you say to that, exactly? So I said nothing, and turned around and that’s when he reached over and grabbed one of them, trying to kiss me on the neck at the same time. I think that Mark hoped that my body would respond in ways that were beyond my control, and he was right: I threw up, all over his political statement. Then, while he gasped and gaped, I turned and ran. I turned the corner and ran the rest of the way down the hallway. I had almost reached the gym when I felt a tap on the shoulder. It was Carr; behind him, a cheerleader looked at me with the same smugness as the States.
“Culp,” he said, licking his lips nervously, “you’re not sup- posed to go down that hallway.” He put his arm authoritatively on my shoulder; I think that’s what did it.
“Carr,” I said, “we all do things we’re not supposed to. Now get your hand the fuck off my shoulder.”
“OK, Flan, time to go home,” Gabriel said, appearing from nowhere. He put an arm around me and I instantly broke down. I kept my head down so I couldn’t see any more Horrors. People were probably laughing at me, pointing at me,
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