The East Heights Blackout of 1999: Evie

I'm still not exactly sure how everything came together for us. I mean, I knew both of them since we started at Saint Stephen's just like I knew Katie before she moved away, even though Zeke and Greg both really never knew Katie, and I guess I never really knew them until seventh grade. Maybe Katie moving was the reason I stopped trying to impress people. Add on top of that the fact that Zeke and Greg never had high expectations of anyone, including themselves, and I suppose it just makes sense that we officially stated hanging out as a trio that Friday.
I remember it was the same day that Aimee Shields got busted for stealing gulps of communal wine and hiding them in her black and gold thermos. We barely knew her then, and yet all three of our minds were running wild with the idea of sinful exploits after school, as we rode the same creaky bus home. Zeke and Greg would usually hang out at one or the other's house on most Friday afternoons, playing video games and raiding the junk food cabinets. I was invited that cold day for reasons I'm still not in the least bit sure of. I had sat down at their small round lunch table roughly two weeks earlier after getting my thirty-third period and realizing that all the girls I was surrounded by were ugly and vicious people. We then all quickly grew accustomed to each other, and what all three of us could bring to the table.
I must admit, though, despite the warm and confusing feelings of friendship with the opposite sex, walking into Zeke's cluttered house that afternoon and waiting for some creative pull towards inspiration was a task in and of itself. There wasn't much for three bored seventh grade catholics to do on a snowy Friday other than occasionally look out the window and see if much of anything was systematically piling up.
Zeke and Greg were both reasonably horrible at entertaining a girl, even one with little to no faith left, like me. They set themselves up in front of the television set, almost immediately and let their thumbs take out the majority of their pent-up aggression; an offshoot of Jesus and etiquette. I watched the different colors change in shade for awhile before Zeke's dad got home with dinner in bucket form. Already I was thinking about some kind of an exit strategy, not to be rude, but rather just to watch the flakes delicately fall by themselves in the comfort of my own bedroom.
Yet, after dinner, at the last minute, I decided to call my mom and tell her I would be staying for a little while longer. Mr. Morgan was then gone by eight, dressed in a light gray suit, and anxious to schmooze over cocktails with some of the other third-rate journalists from The East Heights Times. Abruptly all six of our hands became idle at the second his car was heard backing out of the garage. Without hesitation, Greg decided to vibrate towards the liquor cabinet; Zeke's restrictions soon dissolving as all our stomachs became warm and full with the choice syrup of our mothers and fathers.
The mixture of rum and root beer threw all of us into an uninhibited spin where suddenly there were no limitations. We said and talked about all the awkward and transparent forward motions, wetting our separate whistles when necessary. We laughed like it was Paris, France and the war was a mere afterthought. I felt like a missing memento, unexpectedly discovered in the dirt amongst shells and completely uncertain what was coming next in line.
At around ten-thirty, all three of us threw-up; Greg in the basement garbage can, Zeke in the upstairs bathroom and me outside on the steps by the sliding door. The power then shit the bed at eleven; our nauseated bodies bundled up on the dark blue sectional, drinking lukewarm cocoa with miniature marshmallows and hoping that our lives could willfully survive the next few years of similar moronic activities.
Soon we all passed out on our separate pieces and were awoken with McDonald's breakfast burritos the next morning. All I remember thinking was if Mr. Morgan ever cooked, before getting picked up and resetting all of my alarm clocks back home. That night had been the light that eventually led us three unwise children towards punk rock, once our stomachs settled on the notion of loud and unruly rumbles.