Every summer, Phillip’s dad sets up a tent in their backyard. But it’s so hot already in May that the boys talked him into setting it up this weekend, so they can camp out. I’ve spent many a night in that tent with the boys, but my parents have decided that, this year, I’m too old to camp with them.
It’s stupid really.
It’s not like I like them.
I mean, we’re together a lot, and let’s face it; if I really wanted to do anything with them, I could just do it any old time.
But, since we are only friends, nothing happens.
I have tried explaining this to Mom and Dad, but they got all freaked out when I told them that, if I wanted to do something with one of the boys, I could do it any old time, and I nearly got grounded.
Fortunately, I haven’t been banned from the tent entirely. I still get to go over there, but I have to come home to sleep, which really makes no sense either because a lot can happen before I come home. But whatever. I mean, all we usually do is eat, play cards, and talk.
I know that I’m growing up, but I don’t really feel all that different. I’m a lot taller than I used to be. I’m five-ten, which seems a bit excessive to me, and it really sucks because there are only two boys in my grade taller than me. So, if I want to go out with a boy who is taller than me, my choices are very limited.
My mom is five-nine, and she says she loves being tall and not to worry; the boys will catch up in a few years. She is also constantly telling me to stand up straight.
It drives me nuts.
The talks the boys and I have in the tent are much different from the ones I have with my friends Lisa and Katie. I swear, growing up is all they have talked about for the last three years.
Who got their boobs first?
Not me.
Who got their period first?
Again, not me.
Who got kissed on the lips first?
Well, that would have been me, but now that we are older, a silly playground kiss doesn’t count.
So, that one is also not me.
They are totally obsessed with boys and are so excited about going to high school next year because they think the place is just full of boys dying to date them.
Lisa has been counting down the days until we are fifteen and old enough to go out on real dates—131 days for Lisa, 215 for Katie, and 321 for me, at last count. The countdown is kind of silly to me. I mean, do they think they will turn fifteen, and all of a sudden, boys will be standing in line to ask them out?
What if no one does?
I haven’t pointed that out to them and probably won’t.
They would get all huffy at me.
As if I don’t have enough to worry about, eighth-grade graduation is coming up. It’s a big deal around here. We have a graduation ceremony and parties and everything. Normally, this is something I would be very excited about—I love parties—but my mom has been trying to ruin my life.
I swear!
She said I have to wear a dress. I know I’m kind of a tomboy, and I love sports, but I don’t mind wearing dresses. It’s just that I find they’re not usually very comfortable. Then, there’s the whole worrying about your underwear showing issue. So, anyway, the problem isn’t really that I have to wear a dress; it’s the type of dress she wants me to wear. Everything she picks is so pink! And she keeps dragging me to the store and making me try these things on.
I think Lisa and I were switched at birth. She might very well be my mother’s real daughter. They both love to shop and to go, “Ooh! Isn’t that just dar-ling?” to anything with rhinestones, fringe, sequins, or leopard print.
Last time we went shopping, they made me try on a dress that was a combination of hot pink and leopard.
I’m pretty positive I saw that once in the Fashion Don’ts that Katie is always reading.
I swear, they want me to look like a hooker.
I told Mom that.
And, evidently, that’s when she decided that she is very frustrated with me.
Dad told me this, and when I was like, “I know the feeling,” even he got testy with me.
After our last shopping trip, she told him she has given up. And that’s saying a lot because this woman loves to shop.
Dad tried to intervene and asked me at dinner a couple of nights ago, “JJ, have you seen any dresses you’ve liked anywhere?”
“Not really.” I shrugged and took a bite of my chicken.
“Why don’t I take you shopping tomorrow night? And, if we find a dress, I’ll take you to Johnny’s for pizza.”
I was really amazed by this development because Dad has told me for years that he is allergic to shopping. Advil must help his shopping allergies because he took three before we left the house.
Surprisingly, Dad and I did find something for me to wear to graduation. First, we went to the juniors section at a department store Katie recommended. I tried on a bunch of dresses, but Dad vetoed them all as too sexy, so we continued our search. I kinda liked the black one he thought was way too sexy, but I was hungry, so I didn’t argue. Katie also told me to try the Gap, so we did, and I really need to thank that girl because that was very helpful advice. I found a pretty eyelet skirt and a really cute top.
During our whole shopping trip, Dad only held his head in his hands and muttered things to himself twice, so it was a good experience for him, too, I think.
And, now, I am actually excited for graduation.
Right now, I’m getting some snacks together to take out to the tent.
“Phillip, come help me!” I yell across the street as I struggle to carry everything.
Phillip runs over and grabs two grocery sacks full of candy and snacks from my arms. I’m left with just the big bowl of warm, buttered popcorn. As I’m following Phillip across the street, Danny comes out of his garage, carrying a cooler.
“Why do you look so sneaky?” I ask him as we meet in the street.
Danny looks just like he did the night we decorated the Mackenzies’ trees with Ashley’s underwear. At first, Ashley, who was sixteen at the time, laughed like she didn’t care, but that was before she realized Phillip had sent a heads-up email to everyone in her address book. She was completely horrified when all her friends, boys included, started driving by her house and honking at her lacy bras and panties.
Danny’s got something up his sleeve, I can tell.
“I’ll tell you later. Just act normal in case my parents are watching.”
Later, after we’ve eaten most of the snacks and we are playing cards, Danny opens the cooler and says, “How ’bout we have some fun tonight?” He pulls three cans of beer out from underneath the pop.
Phillip, who I figure will tell us exactly what a bad idea this is because he tends to be the most conservative of the three of us, says, to my surprise, “Heck yeah.”
So, of course, I say, “Sounds awesome.”
We open our beers, and Danny cheers, “Here’s to the good life.”
I’m pretty sure he heard that on a commercial.
We drink up. A few hours and few beers later, we’re basically drunk. Good thing our parents are already in bed.
See? I told you things could happen out here before bedtime.
The boys and I talk about who likes who and who doesn’t like who—all the gossip. We don’t know the answers to these questions, but we talk and laugh anyway. We share the last beer.
Actually, I am smart and only pretend to drink from it.
We are laughing and laughing when the boys start telling me about how they wake up in the morning with hard you-know-whats.
So, I say, “Well, that’s nothing,” and proceed to tell them in gory detail all about a period.
I ask them why they are so obsessed with girls who have big boobs, and they want to know why girls only like guys taller than them.
Later that night, Danny and Phillip puke their guts out.
I earn honors because I don’t.
Of course, I feel terrible the next day, but I will never admit it.
