It's only fair that, as I shared the intimate details of my getting slapped for poor behavior yesterday, I do the same for my sister. Not just to even the telling score, but she's had some pretty impressive times that we should all strive to live up to.
England.
Why do all the stories involving trouble start with England?
Let's call my sister Anne. She was in 8th grade, maybe 9th? We were going to school on the Air Force base and there was an AYA (American Youth Association?) across the street and a bowling alley off to the right of the gym, if I remember correctly. Both of them were regular hangouts for me, Anne, and all our friends. The AYA had dances where everyone made out, either inside or out in the dugouts at the baseball field (not that I know from personal experience).
One day Anne decides to chug a lug some 'suicide' with a bunch of friends behind the AYA at morning break. 10:30 AM. Every kind of alcoholic liquid was in there - without any kind of mixer. I was, as usual, hoovering down the 3 candy bars I ate every day in the cafeteria.
That afternoon, I heard that Anne was outside the principal's office, busted for being drunk in school. This bitch, who hated Anne because they once came to blows over a guy and she lost, went and told on her. So Anne was rehearsing "Who's on First," chewing grape bubble yum and facing a breathalyzer. I remember running to see her, but nothing about the interaction. Anne says it was when she was locked in the office, drunk, and I was talking to her through the glass? Who knows - I just know that I was worried out of my mind that she was going to get expelled.
Anne not only failed the breathalyzer, she fell off the damn chair as she was trying to blow through the tube. Like that wasn't bad enough, she then cut and ran down the hall like a madwoman to get one of her friends out of class. And finally, she tried bolting out one of the back doors, just to be caught by the principal.
My mom - the one who slapped me for smoking - told the principal to keep Anne at the school until she got there. Then, she picked her up, brought her home and made her sit upright in a chair until my dad got home - the one who poked me in the chest really hard with his big, pointy finger.
Anne was suspended from school and in big trouble with my parents. She actually thought she'd be living the high life those few days; sleeping in, watching soaps, lazing around. Hardly. My mom dragged her to her classroom and made her play some kind of bingo bonanza with the kids until she nearly went insane.
When it was time to go back to school, it was a holiday weekend, and everyone miscalculated the date. She showed up a day early, but instead of going back home or to my mom's classroom, Anne had to sit in a detention room all by herself. All day. She says I brought her lunch, and I have a faint recollection of that. By that time I must have outgrown my tattling phase and moved on to protection.
It would have been nice if the drama stopped there. After all, it was pretty crazy already. But Anne was on a wild streak. My parents agreed to let her go to softball practice one day during her grounding, but before she got there she hit the bowling alley.
Hold on, I have to take The Beast to a kitty hair salon. More later.
You're not going to believe this. Or, you might, considering my luck. I stuffed The Beast into his kitty carrier, which he was anything but happy about. I walked out the back door, lugging him along, then realized my leg was wet. Then my foot and shoe. There was a trail of liquid coming out the bottom of the kitty carrier. Not only was The Beast pissed. He pissed right out the kitty carrier and aimed it so it dribbled all down my leg.
I'm sure you can all understand that I'll finish Anne's story tomorrow. Trust me, it'll be worth the wait.
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