Every morning before school all the crew would meet by the bike track and smoke cigarettes. Bikes skewed against the fallen tree trunk and tart smoke first thing in the morning, spitting on the ground between our shoes. Holding the cigarette like it was a dart, between middle finger and thumb and listening to Farley, still chubby even though he was older at sixteen and always had stories of how his brothers had been doing stuff. Farley with the fat tongue, slobbering as he spoke his rehearsed story that was mostly pure fiction.
The third last day of school was a crowded rush of last classes and empty classrooms, with chalkboard notes Year 8 -Video in Room 22 leading whoever did turn up to a darkened room with a National Geographic wildlife documentary on replay. Evidence that even the teachers were off school a few days early. So it might have started with a whisper but by morning break it had gathered some momentum and a half dozen had agreed to skip class tomorrow.
The girls were coming too, which was a major coup - like skittish deer they were intrigued and curious but would scatter at the slightest change of plans or other offers. So to keep the tension there, I suggested my mother's house as the venue. A smallish house she had just bought with her divorce settlement. She gave us the choice of a microwave or a VCR, and my sisters outvoted me 2:1 for the VCR.
That afternoon I hunched over my sister's boyfriend's car, wrangling a deal out of him. I had a fistful of five dollar notes, and a handwritten list in girlish script - pregnant a's and doe eyed e's. We drove through a bottle shop and emerged with a two clinking bags filled with liqueurs and mixer drinks and little spirit bottles of bourbon and vodka. He took $10 for doing the favour.
On my way to the bike track the next morning, I watched my mother's car go by and, once she was out of sight, turned and rode back home. Soon after, some friends were helping empty ice bags into coolers and unfold deck chairs. And then, like a herd of cats, the girls arrived, said a cursory hello and unpacked their drinks and snacks and sat around the backyard. By ten o'clock, there were fifteen of us, drinking and smoking and getting stunned with early morning spirits.
Welcome to teenage drinking heaven, 1989.
The third last day of school was a crowded rush of last classes and empty classrooms, with chalkboard notes Year 8 -Video in Room 22 leading whoever did turn up to a darkened room with a National Geographic wildlife documentary on replay. Evidence that even the teachers were off school a few days early. So it might have started with a whisper but by morning break it had gathered some momentum and a half dozen had agreed to skip class tomorrow.
The girls were coming too, which was a major coup - like skittish deer they were intrigued and curious but would scatter at the slightest change of plans or other offers. So to keep the tension there, I suggested my mother's house as the venue. A smallish house she had just bought with her divorce settlement. She gave us the choice of a microwave or a VCR, and my sisters outvoted me 2:1 for the VCR.
That afternoon I hunched over my sister's boyfriend's car, wrangling a deal out of him. I had a fistful of five dollar notes, and a handwritten list in girlish script - pregnant a's and doe eyed e's. We drove through a bottle shop and emerged with a two clinking bags filled with liqueurs and mixer drinks and little spirit bottles of bourbon and vodka. He took $10 for doing the favour.
On my way to the bike track the next morning, I watched my mother's car go by and, once she was out of sight, turned and rode back home. Soon after, some friends were helping empty ice bags into coolers and unfold deck chairs. And then, like a herd of cats, the girls arrived, said a cursory hello and unpacked their drinks and snacks and sat around the backyard. By ten o'clock, there were fifteen of us, drinking and smoking and getting stunned with early morning spirits.
Welcome to teenage drinking heaven, 1989.
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