Naughty

Friday night, actually the early hours of Saturday, I did something I haven’t done in years. I was naughty. I stayed up in my bedroom and listened to music until well after two. Long ago when I had been a rebellious teen I would take my radio, hide under my blankets in darkness, except for the slight glow from the dial, and listen to music for the better part of a night. (Unless I had snuck out to smoke cigarettes under the moonlight.) (See previous post Fearless)

When I had been a teen, I thought I had been great at being naughty. My best friend, Jan, would go everywhere with me. When my parents would drag us to the big woods of northern Michigan to our cabin there hadn’t been much for two fifteen-year-olds to do. That is, unless, we packed a mini-party in our suitcase. We knew older kids who could buy alcohol and so a small bottle of Schnapps and a stale pack of cigarettes had been all we needed. An hour or two walking through the woods gave us plenty of naughty.

The Catholic Church had a four-thirty Saturday service. I’m sure it never occurred to my parents when a boatload of my friends showed up in a station wagon that we were going to skip mass and get the party started early.

“Bring me your copy of the bulletin.” My dad would yell from his chair as I ran out the door with a ginormous gym bag that clanged with the three warm bottles of beer from last weekend that never got drank.

“You bet, and don’t forget I’m spending the night at Susan’s house.”

“Susan? I thought she was Methodist?” My mom would remark.

It had been too late. My naughty self had tossed the booze bag into the car and we were peeling out the driveway.

It took less than five minutes to drive to Saint Mary’s. One of us would sneak in to the vestibule and grab a handful of bulletins.

Sometimes, being naughty came with danger and excitement. In my circle of friends, I had been the only one within walking distance to the school whose parents both worked. Our school had a door at the end of one hall which opened up to the woods behind our school. We would skip out at lunch and hide among the trees as we made our way to the road.

One time as we raided the refrigerator, my dad pulled in the drive. We could hear the garage opening and, in a flash, we scooped up our food and ran to my bedroom. I had just shut the door when we heard my dad walking around in the house. Not one of us moved. We all stood like posed mannequins at the department store. Instead of holding handbags or beach gear, we held half eaten meatloaf, wedges of cheese and freshly stumped out cigarettes.

After about twenty minutes we could hear the door shut and the garage door close. After another five minutes of absolute stillness, we exhaled. When we walked out to the kitchen, imagine our horror when sitting right in the middle of the counter was the bowl of ice cream Missy forgot to grab in our haste.

Perhaps I had not been as great at being naughty as I had thought. It didn’t matter to me because being naughty could be exhilarating, just like the other night. So, if you see me making a fresh pot of coffee at seven in the evening, don’t ask. I’m just being naughty.