I was seventeen and the ugly duckling of three sisters.
I had just come out of my awkward phase.
I had been working for six months, saved enough money for contacts, and finally got rid of my Alabama frizz with a haircut and highlights.
When I finished, I stopped by my mother’s office to show her.
I asked the woman at the front to ring me in so I could speak with Mom.
She didn’t recognize me.
I had known her for eight years.
As I walked around the corner, I heard her say, “Sue, you aren’t going to believe this.”
I entered and stood in front of my mother’s desk.
She looked up.
“Yes?”
I blinked.
“Yes, what?”
She stared at me.
“You were the one who wanted me to come in and show you my hair after it was finished.”
Another blink.
“Lee Ann?”
She tried not to put a question mark at the end of my name.
I heard it anyway.
My own mother didn’t recognize me.
For the next couple of weeks, a lot of people at school didn’t recognize me either.
It took some getting used to.
Ugly ducklings don’t always become swans. I’m not saying I suddenly became a knockout. On a
grading scale, I was maybe a solid B. B-plus with extra credit.
But boys were beginning to notice me.
This was new.
I hadn’t dated much at all.
My first real date had been to a homecoming dance with a nice Christian boy who told me that if
he was interested in girls, I would be exactly the type of girl he’d want to date.
He wanted a good night kiss.
We stayed friends.
Then came a baseball player.
His real name doesn’t matter.
We’ll call him SSID-BIDDD.
That stands for Super-Sonic-Idiotic-Disconnected-Brain-Infected-Doobie-Doobie-Dumbbell.
Sid for short.
I had made a perfectly logical assumption about athletes.
Athletes got drug tested.
Therefore, athletes didn’t use drugs.
This was not the first time my literal thinking landed me on the wrong side of common sense.
The night Sid took me out, he was definitely not drug-free.
Before the night was over, I was begging God to get me out of the situation that boy had gotten me into any way He could.
I threw in a bonus chastity statement if my mother didn’t find out.
I made God about six different promises, although technically I only counted two because the other four were subcategories of the bigger two.
Let me be very clear about something before we go any farther.
Sid was not handsy.
This wasn’t that kind of story.
My mother knew I was going out with him. She had met him. She approved of the date.
He told her we were going bowling.
Honestly, I was enough of a nerd that Mom was probably just happy somebody had finally asked me out.
She would not have been happy about where he actually took me.
We didn’t go bowling.
We ended up in the woods with a group of his school friends, kids I had never hung around with before.
It was the late seventies. The University of Alabama in Huntsville was still surrounded by
stretches of undeveloped land and trees that would eventually give way to buildings for another generation of students.
Sid handed me a lit joint.
“She’s cool,” he told everybody. “It’s Colombian Gold. Go ahead.”
I watched the others taking tokes.
So, I did too.
I choked.
I remember wondering why anyone would deliberately set something on fire and then inhale it.
My throat burned. I couldn’t stop coughing.
Apparently, my drug tolerance was about what you would expect from a girl whose previous
wild streak consisted largely of a church youth group.
By round two, Sid realized I was gone.
Nearly unconscious.
He led me to the back seat of his car and, like a gentleman, left me there while he went back to his friends.
I didn’t sleep.
My body might have been stoned, but my brain had apparently taken cocaine.
Inside my head I ran through every possible disaster.
The police could show up.
One of my sister’s friends could show up.
My mother could find out.
I could end up at the police station under fluorescent lights waiting for my parents.
My mother.
Or worse, my dad.
No.
Dad would be better.
No, Mom.
No.
Dad.
I was losing an argument with myself.
Truthfully, I didn’t know how either of them would react because I was the child who never got in trouble.
Yet there I was, laid out in the back seat of a Pinto, mentally prosecuting myself for possession, participation, stupidity, and probably several crimes that hadn’t actually occurred.
So I started talking to God.
I’m sure I wasn’t the first person who ever prayed stoned.
God, I didn’t know how to get out of this. I don’t really know how to get home from here. I don’t have a car. I don’t even care if Mom finds out anymore. Just get me through tonight.
Then I started bargaining.
I’ll never date anyone who isn’t Christian.
Pause.
I was Christian.
Look at me.
Clearly, that wasn’t a reliable thermometer.
I amended the contract.
Okay. Before I ever go out with anybody again, I’ll tell him: I’m Christian. I don’t drink. I don’t do drugs. If you’re not okay with that, tell me now.
That felt much more specific.
God and I had terms.
I sat up.
Sid noticed immediately and came toward me.
“Hey, let’s not join them.”
Really, God? That fast?
“I’ve got somewhere else I need to go,” Sid said.
Relief flooded through me.
“Where?”
“Just somebody’s house. It’ll only take a minute. Then we can go bowling or putt-putt.”
God, thank You.
Bowling.
Bowling meant I wouldn’t technically have lied to my mother.
Apparently, even stoned and terrified, I was still looking for loopholes.
My relief lasted approximately five minutes.
We pulled into a residential neighborhood filled with huge four-bedroom homes.
Sid turned into a driveway.
“Who lives here?”
“It’s not that kind of house. Come on in with me. It’ll only take a minute.”
“If it’s only a minute, I can wait here.”
“No. I’m not sure it won’t be longer. Come on.”
Things got worse.
Sid went in first and held the door for me.
I stepped inside.
My eyes widened.
Then I actually turned around and looked at the front door again.
It looks like a door that belongs to a house.
Allow me to explain why that mattered.
When my parents divorced, my father took all of “his stuff” out of our house. His big San Quentin rolltop desk disappeared. File cabinets disappeared. He left the RCA color television he’d built, but so many things I associated with home simply vanished.
I knew what a house looked like after somebody removed half of what belonged in it.
This was different.
This place looked as if nobody had ever intended to live there.
There was one couch.
Three large pizza boxes sat on the divider between the kitchen and what was supposed to be the
living room.
Four grown men were there, along with two women whose ages I couldn’t begin to guess.
And guns.
A half-dozen automatic weapons were propped against walls, the couch, the refrigerator.
Every man had a sidearm.
Nobody was holding the larger weapons.
Even I understood what that meant.
They weren’t expecting trouble.
They were prepared for it.
One of the men looked at Sid.
“Sid, what the hell?”
I immediately decided he was Mr. In-Charge.
“You told me to come at nine,” Sid said. “I’m here.”
Mr. In-Charge wasn’t talking about Sid’s punctuality.
“What the hell, kid? Who is she? You brought somebody here I don’t know?”
“Oh, she’s cool,” Sid said.
He was really beginning to earn his nickname.
“No. I don’t know her. That is NOT cool. You are going to get her killed. She’s going to die, and
it’ll be your fault.”
“What?”
To Sid’s credit, his voice didn’t crack.
But he sounded far too confused for a person standing in a suburban living room full of automatic weapons.
I wasn’t worldly at all, and even I had caught up somewhere around What the hell?
“We don’t know her,” Mr. In-Charge said. “She’s not on the list of approved people. Remember what you went through to get on that list. Nobody comes here who isn’t approved. Unknown people get us killed. So, what you just did may have gotten her killed.”
Okay, God. It’s me again.
Remember when I thanked You for keeping me safe tonight? Consider that an advance payment.
Apparently I still need help.
Mr. In-Charge kept talking.
That seemed promising.
I figured if he had wanted me dead immediately, I would already be dead.
God, if You keep him not wanting to kill me, I swear everybody I meet from now on will know I’m Christian. I’ll tell them while we’re shaking hands.
Wait.
I had already promised that.
No, that promise had only applied to boys I might date.
This was broader.
God and I were apparently renegotiating.
Mr. In-Charge pulled Sid aside and whispered.
Or attempted to whisper.
I had never met a male whose voice had changed who truly understood how to whisper.
“Listen, kid. I like you. Nothing is going to happen to you. Everybody makes mistakes. This was your mistake. You’re going upstairs and getting your package. Take her with you. When you come back down, we may have to put a bullet in her head. If that happens and you freak out, you’re dead too. Understand?”
Then he rubbed Sid’s head like he was a poodle.
Jesus, help me.
A childhood lesson suddenly came to mind.
If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.
I went with that.
Sid looked at me.
“I’ve got to get something upstairs. Come on.”
“Or I could just wait in the car?”
Dang, Jesus. Sorry. It just came out.
I swear I’ll raise my children right if You let me live long enough to have them.
“You need to go upstairs.”
One of Mr. In-Charge’s men slid the strap of an automatic weapon over his shoulder.
I went upstairs.
“Sid may have gotten you killed,” Mr. In-Charge called after me.
Sid had assured everybody I was cool.
So I decided I would be cool.
Not Sid cool.
Mr. In-Charge cool.
I stopped on the stairs and turned around.
If he’d wanted to kill me already, I reasoned, he would have.
“I totally get it. Don’t even feel bad if you have to. Obviously, going out with someone this stupid is on me. Do what you have to do.”
I paused.
“But I’d rather not see it coming, please.”
Then I turned around and continued upstairs.
Sid caught up with me.
“You shouldn’t talk that way to him.”
“Shut up, Sid.”
At the top of the stairs, my eyes widened again.
The second floor was divided into two bedroom areas with an open space between them.
There were more automatic weapons casually propped here and there.
One was leaning against a sink in the open bathroom.
Very non-suburban.
Then I saw the marijuana.
Bales of Colombian Gold wrapped in plastic were stacked two deep.
They were enormous.
I’d never seen anything like it outside of movies.
It looked like a Tractor Supply warehouse if Tractor Supply had specialized in controlled substances.
Sid walked over to another man, received a package, and headed toward the stairs.
What?
God, that was too fast.
The man with the gun was still standing in the stairwell.
Hadn’t Mr. In-Charge said coming back downstairs was when they might kill me?
I wondered whether getting shot in the head hurt for very long.
You can fit an amazing amount of panic into a few seconds.
My foot hit the last stair.
Still alive.
Mr. In-Charge turned to Sid.
“Don’t ever do anything this stupid again. Do you hear me?”
For one bizarre second, he sounded like my dad after I’d gotten my foot caught in the spokes of my bicycle while riding barefoot.
“Yeah,” Sid said, “but I told you she was cool.”
To my ears, he sounded just as stupid as he had the first time.
Mr. In-Charge looked at me.
“I’m still not sure if you get to live or not. We’re waiting on a call overseas.”
“Got a corner you want me to sit in? I could use a nap.”
At this point my survival plan consisted almost entirely of acting as though imminent death were mildly inconvenient.
“No. Go ahead and get in the car. You two can leave.”
Good.
“But we may have to come kill you later.”
Less good.
Then another thought hit me.
“Dude, my sister looks just like me!”
Everybody looked at me.
“She’s three years older, but people think we’re twins. How do I know you won’t accidentally kill
her because I was stupid enough to go out with Sid?”
“We’ll get your address from Sid,” he said. “We know how to find you if we need to.”
I looked at Sid.
Then back at Mr. In-Charge.
“You’re going to trust him?”
Mr. In-Charge stared at me.
“Get a pen.”
I gave him my address.
“I don’t want somebody else getting hurt because Sid has a paramecium brain.”
Sid was already heading for the door.
I followed him, then remembered my sister again and turned back.
“Make sure whoever you send asks if it’s Lee Ann! My sister won’t lie to you. She’d never claim to be me.”
Then I left.
Jesus, thank You. It’s a miracle.
I got into Sid’s car.
Then another horrifying thought occurred to me.
Sid still thought we were going bowling.
“No, Sid. You’re taking me home.”
Jesus, please make him take me straight home.
I can’t believe the SWAT team didn’t show up.
I can’t believe my mother wasn’t called.
I owe You big time.
I won’t forget one promise.
I talked to God most of the way home, mainly to say thank you.
When we got there, I kissed Sid goodnight.
I know.
Why would I kiss him?
That particular loophole hadn’t been addressed in my contract with God.
Besides, he was big into high school sports, and at seventeen I kissed exactly two boys before him.
Give me a break.
I was seventeen.
Other than both of us later flunking Spanish, I never had anything to do with Sid again.
I walked into the house and tried to go straight to my room.
Almost made it.
“Lee Ann?” Mom. “Come in here a minute.”
I really didn’t want to.
Do I still look stoned?
Can she tell?
“Yes?”
“Did you have a good time?”
“It was okay.”
I turned toward my room.
“Wait.”
I stopped.
“What was the score?”
Score?
BOWLING.
This was the moment when the child who had spent her entire life puking honesty discovered that terror apparently came with an emergency shutoff valve.
“He was great. A hundred sixty-nine to eighty-one.”
Two prime numbers, what are the odds the score was two prime numbers?
Now I know better. I was so rattled it was a full day before I realized that they weren’t prime. They were perfect squares.
“He wasn’t anywhere near as good as you, though. You’ve got trophies in the living room.”
Mom smiled.
“I was a good bowler.”
Disaster avoided.
“Are you going out with him again?”
Dang it.
Jesus?
Never mind. I just invented an entire bowling match. I’m probably on my own now.
“I don’t think so, Mom.”
I tried to leave again.
“Why not?”
There it was.
Truth time.
“He’s sort of stupid and a bit of a jerk.”
“Good reasons, I guess.”
I knew she was disappointed.
Mom had been a majorette—baton twirling, high kicking, all of it. Now that I was finally
beginning to figure out how to be a girl, I think she hoped I might become more social.
Maybe date.
Maybe enjoy being noticed.
I was never going to be a majorette.
I didn’t want to be.
And somewhere between a joint in the woods, a Pinto, a room full of automatic weapons, several bales of Colombian Gold, and giving my home address to a man who had just threatened to kill me, I figured something out.
If changing who I was got me dates like Sid, I didn’t want to change.
I would rather be awkward.
I would rather be a nerd.
I would rather be me.
Although, from then on, I planned to mention the Christian thing before getting in the car.