“I know, Dad, I get it. I have a plan.”
“Don’t get smart with me,” he said, his eyes narrowing.
“I’m not. I just don’t want to have the same conversation we’ve been having for five years. I can’t think about my retirement yet. I haven’t even finished high school!”
My father’s palm slammed into the table. I flinched, a jolt punching my chest.
“That’s exactly when you should be thinking about it. If I had done so at your age, I wouldn’t be forced to work like a dog my entire life.” His voice amplified with every word.
I bit my tongue. With my father’s brain clouded by the booze, his palm would be hitting me and not the table in a minute if I wasn’t careful.
I swallowed my pride. “You’re right, Dad. Sorry.” Even though I’m not, and you’re a complete asshole.
An old classic crooned from the radio and in a classic Alfonso Trapani mood swing, my father leaped to his feet, grabbed my mother’s hand and twirled her around the dining room.
Amid her light protests, I collected the dishes and headed into the kitchen to clean up, happy to escape yet another potentially ugly moment with my father.
Alcohol did strange things to him. One minute, he could be mad, the next dancing around the kitchen, but his anger on any given day simmered just under the surface. Like a tornado, sometimes the storm erupted without much warning. And what about all that nonsense concerning Pete and I becoming too serious? It didn’t bode well, that was for sure.
Junior Year
1979
24
Back to School Specials
My first day back at Skyline started with a rude awakening. After a summer of sleeping until noon, my intrusive alarm forced me out of bed at 6:15. I sleepwalked through my morning not-yet-routine and hurried to the bus stop. Dragging myself onto the smelly bus, boisterous teenagers assaulted my eardrums. For the hundredth time, I wished I could drive to school. The bus finally pulled in front of Skyline, late after a traffic accident held us up. I ran to my first class, muttering obscenities.
My teacher, the short, balding Mr. Chang, stopped speaking when I entered, ushering me over to his desk to verify my name for attendance and chiding me on my tardiness. I slid into the first open seat I found and tried to unpack a notebook and pen quietly. A quick review of the room yielded a few acquaintances, but the sight of Jake Miller instantly improved my mood, especially when he winked at me.
The bell rang and I headed to second period English. Mary and I grabbed seats next to each other, rolling our eyes at various comments by the rotund Mrs. Frockman, intent on treating us as if we were in elementary school. We sprang from our desks when the bell sounded for nut break.
I joined Pete and the rest of the gang in the designated smoking section after going to my locker. But nothing prepared me for what happened next.
Katy and Michelle stood on the adjacent side of the confined area. My heart lurched. I couldn’t stop my gaze from darting, unable to focus on them, or away from them, for long. I’d failed both of them in the friendship department over the summer. We had barely talked, let alone hung out. My preoccupation with Pete, new friends and cheerleading consumed my time. It was only now, confronted with their startling appearance, that guilt engulfed me.
They puffed on cigarettes right out in the open—that was new—but their appearance shocked me more. Katy wore super tight jeans and a halter-top, her mane of onyx hair cascading halfway down her back, eyes swathed in dark hues. One arm was slung casually over the shoulder of a boy with apricot hair wearing a black leather jacket from AC/DC’s Highway to Hell tour. If she was going for trampy, she’d succeeded. Michelle wore similar provocative clothing, full-blown makeup and high heels. Her eyelashes, layered with black mascara, squinted at Katy through the smoke rings she blew out of her o-shaped mouth.
I stood rooted to the spot, eyes flicking like a toad, scratching an imaginary itch on my arm. What the hell transpired to change my friends in such a brief time? They were aligned with a group of burnouts we never would have given the time of day to last year. Maybe they’d spent their summer cavorting with stoners. By outer appearance, they were headed for a slippery slope.
Who the hell am I to judge? I drank and got high with my friends most of the past three months, not to mention had rampant sex with Pete. But he was my true love, not some random guy I screwed for the heck of it. And I certainly didn’t dress like that.
I caught Katy’s eye and waved. Smoke billowed out of her mouth as she raised a hand in return. Michelle smirked, her only acknowledgment I existed. It stung, but I deserved it.
The bell rang, none too soon for me. Pete and I walked, hands clasped, to our natural science class—the only one we shared. Unfortunately, the teacher rearranged our seating into alphabetical order, putting us at opposite ends of different rows. Bummer and a half.
The day ticked by steadily. Art promised a more relaxed atmosphere than my other subjects. Instead of desks, we sat on stools at large, rectangular paint-stained tables. Next came lunch, which I shared with Mary and Jaime, followed by fifth period history (boring), gym (fun) and my last class of the day, psychology. I liked Mr. Downey immediately and found his outline for our semester intriguing. Who didn’t want to understand what made people tick?
I met Pete after school, and we
