Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club, The by Notaro Laurie

Author:Notaro, Laurie [Notaro, Laurie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General Fiction
ISBN: 0375760911
Google: 84HBe1S3JQUC
Amazon: B000FC1IPE
Publisher: Villard
Published: 2000-01-02T06:00:00+00:00

How I Can Relive

the Horror of High

School for $103

I remember that it was a hot June night; the lights on the football field were searing and white, making it seem a hundred degrees hotter than it really was. You could see the silhouettes of the moths and the bugs zipping around in bright circles, as well as the floating dust in the air as a result of a couple thousand people walking around. I was sitting on a metal folding chair, one of 547 that had been set up in the gravel in front of the field.

I was seventeen and an hour away from starting My Life. It was the early eighties; I was wearing white pumps. I was fanning myself with the ceremony program, trying to keep my face from melting into my lap. Someone called my name, I walked across the stage, grabbed my high school diploma without falling down (I didn’t drink then), and went back to fanning myself until the ceremony was over.

I walked off the field a high school graduate, met my mother and father in the swarm of Killer Parents that had descended on the field afterward, and lit up a cigarette in front of the principal who had tried to suspend me for smoking on school grounds a couple months before.

I had forgotten about that night for a long time. There was no reason to think about it, anyway. I had forgotten all about it until I got a letter in the mail with the return address listed as “First Class Reunions.”

Sweet Jesus, I thought when I found it in the mailbox that I hadn’t checked in a month, I’m going back to high school.

Well, I’ve changed a bit since I was in high school. Back then, I said no to using and selling drugs, I washed on a regular basis, and I still had good credit. Since then, my inner thighs have grown together, my lungs have filled with enough tar to pave the highways of the continental United States, I cannot have a phone installed without my father cosigning for it, and I have entirely forgotten what sex is like with another person and am convinced that I’d have to use WD-40 on my private parts should the opportunity present itself.

There was only one place that I could read this letter, and that was on the toilet, with a lit cigarette in my hand.

I opened it. “It’s time for your high school reunion!” the letter shrieked, and then went on to inform me that 546 of the people that I hated most in the world were coming together at some lah-de-dah resort for the entire weekend to talk about the good old days. It was going to cost me sixty dollars to sit across from someone like Jim Kroener (who bounced a basketball off my head when I was a junior), eat a bad Cornish hen dinner, and try to make polite adult conversation on Saturday. Then there was the option

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