I know it’s like uh summer, but just now there was this sound out my window that was like rain. And it made me think how nice it would be to be somewhere with a fireplace, sitting inside on a stormy night.

But we are about as far from that as we can be, I think. It’s the part of summer where things get stale. By this time, Vintage Helena would be almost eager to go back to school. Ready to meet all the new boys, feel the new books, and wear the new (old) clothes she’d spent months culling from the Salvation Army.

It was about this part of the summer, between 7th and 8th grade, that I was drunk for the first time.

Through our schoolmate's older brother, Stacy had managed to hook up with a 16 year old boy. If he were our age, we would not have paid a second thought to him. He was a slovenly, greasy-haired headbanger. Even so, she pursued him. He responded initially, but lost interest rather quickly when she wouldn’t go all the way. Fortunately, he had a younger (and much cuter) brother, Bill, who promptly became enamored of Stacy and turned into our constant companion. He also had plenty of adorable friends for me to choose from. They were all in a death metal band together.

I’m so serious.

Bill lived in a house with his two older brothers—Jimmy and Joey—16 and 21 years of age. His father owned the house and supposedly lived in it as well, but I did not see him there once. He was always away on a business trip or working late. So the boys pretty much ruled themselves. There were never any groceries. But there were pizza boxes—in the kitchen, in the living room, upstairs in the room where the band practiced—stacks of empty pizza boxes, with discarded crusts rattling around inside. They were pigs. And they fought constantly. Bill’s oldest brother could be especially mean, and pulled rank all the time. Things could be going along really well, everyone hanging out after practice. Then Joey would show up, and act like a badass, and everyone had to go home. Still, even considering Joey’s relative tyranny, Bill’s place was a Mecca for the misbehaved.

The house was in a city called Friendly Hills. The whole place was comprised of three different model tract homes. So every third house was just like yours. Bill’s friend Ryan lived several blocks away, in exactly the same house, and exactly the same room as Bill did. His bed was even in the same place.

Except for this house, with its heavy metal blaring at all hours and electric guitars flying out of second story windows, the street was a quiet one.

One weekend, Joey decreed that there would be a party. That Saturday afternoon, the house was full of kids from sixteen into their early 20s. It was the house party stereotype to a tee—couples making out in dark corners, stoners having absurd conversations about the depth of the universe, girls getting drunk and taking their shirts off. Not that that’s a crime.

The only people Bill’s age there were myself and Stacy. When she and Bill disappeared somewhere, Joey essentially took me under his fucked up wing. Did I mention how hot Joey was? He had long brown hair, a goatee, and that hang-dog look. The girls agreed that he reminded us of Matt Dillon in Singles.

He had me sit next to him at the dining room table, which we shared with about eight other people. They passed a bong around, the first bong I had ever seen. They offered it to me and I politely refused. I hadn’t ever smoked pot and someone had told me that it would hurt. Bill’s brother said that if I drank the water from the bong, it would get me high. And then two other boys at the table dared me to. So, of course, I did.

Most people just grimace when I say that. You know, it’s really not that bad. It just tastes like dirt. And week-old tea.

At any rate, after I drank it, everyone applauded and I was heralded as a Little Badass. My host took me into the kitchen, where he said I could choose any drink I liked. I said Something Sweet. And I got a tumbler full of Kahlua.

I probably don’t need to tell you how hard it is to get drunk off straight Kahlua. But I managed, somehow. I found myself in the backyard, bumming a cigarette off some girl, and trying to smoke it and stand steady and hold my drink all while looking at least 16 years of age (which is how old we told everyone we were). Just when I had convinced myself I was doing a swell job, Joey and his best friend pop up out of nowhere and start messing with my head.

“How you feeling? A little dizzy? Yeah? Harhar. My little brother says that you have the nicest rack in your class.”

“What?”

Joey’s buddy stifled a laugh as he continued, “He swears, but I don’t think it’s the best I’ve ever seen. Although I could be wrong. I’d have to see to say.”

“Well, look then.”

“I don’t mean with your shirt on!”

“No way!” Even though there was another girl who had been hanging out in her bra for like forty minutes, I wasn’t going to follow suit. I went to the bathroom. They stuck right behind me. I stood in the doorway. They stood in the hall.

“Just show us, real quick.”

“No!” I started to close the door.

“See, I told you she wouldn’t. She’s just a little kid.”

My cheeks burned at those words and before I knew it my shirt was up around my neck.

“Yeah? How’s THAT for a little kid?”

And then I slammed the door in their open-mouthed faces. From the other side, Joey called, “Yeah, well…I HAVE seen better!”

Even though I wanted to feel like it, I hadn’t really proven anything. Except that I wore an underwire bra. I was mad that I’d been goaded into such a thing. But impressed at how much power it had—those assholes were speechless. If only for five seconds. For the rest of the afternoon, Joey stuck close, but I gave him the cold shoulder.

After the party, it was business as usual around the house. The pecking order was restored, and Bill’s brothers would have nothing to do with him, or us. Joey pretty much ignored me altogether, except once when I went to the kitchen for a soda and he offered me a beer.

I said, “No, thanks. It makes me act immature.”