Ninth Grade Class Night

With an hour to go before the ceremony was to begin the four of us dropped hits of acid. This was in early June when I was fifteen and in ninth grade and gobbling LSD upwards of three times a week. We were at that moment huddled in the woods in a pot smoking circle not far from our school. Ahead of us was Class Night, an evening that was both fanfare and rite of passage. For we had reached after three years of tutelage a point of demarcation. The following year we would be attending high school in another part of town. Giddy and giggling we left our place in the woods and headed for the night's activities.

When we entered the school and headed for the gym we needled one another mirthfully to act straight. Just inside the gym doors was an easel on which sat a mammoth white greeting card that sparkled with glitter and sequins and had a red heart in the center of it. One of the matronly chaperones guarding the door urged us to sign the card. We snickered at the idea and stood in the doorway somewhat dumbfounded. Laid out before us in the sparsely peopled gym were two dozen tables. Each one had seating for eight people. The tables were set with paper table cloths and plastic place settings. Against the back wall was a projection screen. The other three walls and ceiling of the gym were festooned with red, white and blue bunting, and silver and gold helium filled balloons. Off to our left was a rostrum and a six foot long banquet table bearing a punch bowl and cups and a monstrous vanilla cake. With a bit of effort the four of us prodded one another and ventured forth to claim a table. We chose one that was out of the way and off to the side.

Soon the gym was filling up and buzzing with voices and laughter that ebbed and peaked and receded symphonically. No one joined us at our table. We were the only ones among the gathered who were dressed in denim. Our class mates in contrast were garbed in clothes I associated with weddings and funerals and sunday mass. There were gown clad girls in high heels, and guys in suits and ties that they'd probably borrowed from their older brothers.

By then I was hallucinating vividly and had a serious case of the giggles. I felt as tho I was bathing in a warm light. But soon I had to take a leak. On unsteady legs I headed for the bathroom. The walk across the spongy floor of the gym was a challenge that put a smile on my face. Man was I tripping. When I got to the facilities I was glad to find I had the room to myself. I stepped up to the urinal and my right leg began to shake uncontrollably. After a moment or two I smacked it with my balled up right hand. As I did so the door to the bathroom opened and in walked Brad Davis, a local radio personality. He looked to me like a puppet with too many freckles and a shock of red hair. He stepped up to the urinal next to mine and looked over at me and my shaking leg. I gave him a weak smile. He said something banal about the niceness of the evening, flushed, and departed. My leg continued to shake and all I could think was that Brad Davis must have thought I was a spastic weirdo.

I returned to the gym. Soon a head master was rapping on the rostrum for attention. Once he had it he launched into a speech about our constructive time at his school and the wondrous years we were sure to have in high school. There was mention made too of college. But I paid it no attention. I cared little about furthering my education. (In fact I would the following year drop out of school and work a succession of menial jobs; it was an experience that led me to reenroll in school the very next fall.) His words of good luck were met by hearty cheers. A slide show with humorous commentary followed. Our table's laughter was full of derision.

Afterwards with the lights kept low Brad Davis manned the turn tables. He played the latest hits on his am station. It drew the popular kids out on to the make do dance floor. Suddenly Lynn Weeks a warm and friendly girl who easily straddled the various cliques in our school was standing before me. She told me that someone wanted to dance with me. Chemically stupefied I beg off. But she was insistent. Against my better judgement I acquiesced. And presto, there before me standing at Lynn's side was a studious, prim and plain looking girl who had no doubt gone out of her way that night to look her best. I laughed in her face and doubled over guffawing at the ridiculous notion of our dancing together. Such were the cruelties I sometimes inflicted.

The evening ended with me hitchhiking home. When I entered the house my mother was in the living room reading. I joined her there and turned on the television and took a seat across the room from her. A moment later our dog Toto came into the room and sat aside the television and stared at me. Instantly I was aware that she knew I was tripping. I did my best to stare her down and I sent her a message telepathically to not somehow alert my mother that I was high. Sensing tension between Toto and I my mother marked her place in her book and looked over at me and asked is everything was alright? I assured her that everything was fine and I bid her good night. I went to my bedroom, put Electric Lady Land on my turntable, turned off the lights, and slipped on my headphones. I lay down upon my bed and was mesmerized by the liquid patterns that morphed and undulated on my darkened ceiling. My only concern was that Toto might some how betray me.