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We had our first dance when we were eighteen.
Patrick and I had always been good, easy kids.Never a headache for our parents, never the type to give them a reason tocomplain to their friends about their out-of-control teenagers in love. Ialways blamed the God-loving upbringing, but then, it also could have been thatour parents just simply allowed us to be ourselves, and never gave us a reasonto rebel recklessly.
They didn’t care that I wanted to dye my hairfire engine red,as long asI did my homework. Theydidn’t care that Patrick went through a mohawk phase,as longashe took out the trash. They didn’t care that I wanted my navelpierced,as long asI came to work at the deli whenasked. They didn’t care that Patrick wanted his lip pierced,aslong ashe kept good grades.
It was a perfect compromise between parent andteen, a bit of give-and-take on both ends, and the compromises extended to ourrelationship. They didn’t care that we spent every spare moment together,as long asthey knew where we were, as long as we checkedin. They trusted us to do the right thing, they trusted us to take care of eachother, and we always did.
Until we didn’t.
Prom wasn’t ever a big deal to us, but to ourmothers, it was. They had to beg and bargain to make it happen, but in the end,they won.
“You can see the Chili Peppers this summer,”they said, “if you give us the lame obligatory prom picture for the scrapbook.”
Not an exact quote, but close enough.
So, I got the dress, and had an enjoyablebonding experience with my mom and Kate. Patrick got a tux and didn’t kill hisyounger brothers, as they teased him every step of the way. Mom made me thehair appointment, and Kate agreed to do my makeup. Patrick’s dad did us thehonor of renting a limo for the night, and for all intents and purposes,everything was set.
Hell, we were even given an hour of dancinglessons from the sing-songyMrs. Kinney to the tuneof her favorite Van Morrison album.
We were ready for our one and only schooldance, and despite my occasional eye rolls and dramatic groans, I might havebeen just a little excited to get dressed up, to get pretty, and to see him ina tuxedo.
And then, we screwed it all up.
The weekend before prom, a friend from schoolhad himself a birthday party, and as clichés would have it, we found out hisparents weren’t home the moment we arrived and noticed the bottles of liquoropen on the coffee table. It was a foreign sight for the two of us, watchingkids our age knocking back shots and doing things we hadn’t done yet on thecouch. We knew what a potentially bad situation we had walked in on, and weeyed each other with the same wide-eyed panic as when he broke the lamp in hisparents’ living room during a heated make-out session on the Magical Couch.
But, we were still kids dealing with the cruelrepercussions of peer pressure. Running out of there would have resulted inteasing and torment, a miserable way to end our last year in high school, andwith an exchanged look, we made the mutual decision to stay.
And so, we found an empty chair. Patrick sat,and I climbed onto his lap, and that was where we stayed. He didn’t get drunk,and neither did I. In fact, we didn’t drink at all, despite the beers we werehanded and held onto all night. Because despite the fire engine red hair, themohawk, and the short-lived piercings, we were good, easy kids.
But still, as clichés would have it, theneighbors called the cops. The cops showed up, and they called parents—ourparents.
After a car ride of deafening silence, we wereordered to sit down at the kitchen table in Patrick’s house, both sets ofparents looming over us like the threatening figures of authority they suddenlyappeared to be.
“I don’t get it,” Mom said. “I don’t get eitherof you right now. You’re not like this.”
“We didn’t do anything, Mrs. McKenna,” Patrickinsisted, shaking his head profusely.
“Don’tyathinkthat’s part o’ the trouble?” His father scowled down at us.
“What were we supposed to do?” I asked, as thoughI didn’t already know the answer to that stupid, stupid question.
“Kinsey,y’weresupposed to call us, so we could come and getya.That’swhaty’weresupposedto do.” It was impossiblefor Mrs. Kinney to sound mad, but her frown said otherwise. “Y’bothdid a foolish thingt’night,and frankly, I’m disappointed in the both ofya.”
Dad’s job was to singlehandedly dole out ourpunishment. “You’re both grounded.”
“Grounded?” Patrick snapped, standing up fromthe table. “Ya’vegottabekiddin’ me! For what?!”
Mr. Kinney pointed a menacing finger at the sonthat had grown to be taller than him, and Patrick threw himself back in hischair. “You’re grounded becauseya’veclearlyforgotten what the right thing to do is. Now,yabothcan think about that for the next week.”
My bottom lip quivered; Patrick’s hands roundedto the back of his head. The truth was, neither one of us had ever beengrounded before. We hardly knew the meaning of the word, and had no idea whatthe punishment entailed, what we would suffer at the command of our parents’word.
Because, really, how could you punish kids whodidn’t really do anything to begin with?
So, they hit us right where it hurt the most,and forbid us from seeing each other outside of school for a week.
“What!” I turned to stare at Patrick, as thoughhe hadsome kind of leveragein the stupid, stupidsituation we had found ourselves in.
