Bad Daughter, Part Two

Start with part one here.

Brentwood CA

You’re sixteen years old, careening down Sunset, windows down, Thomas Dolby cranked. Go faster, skid around every turn. Feel the wind whip and thrash, only slightly disturbing your Dippity-Do’d hair. It’s Saturday night. There’s a party in the Palisades.

Pick up your fellow good-decision-maker friend Michelle. Then pick up beer. Get a six pack of Corona at the Korean market on Western, even though you hate going to Western because it’s a half an hour in the wrong direction and kind of scuzzy. Statistically speaking you should have been murdered down there by now, but it’s the one place you know that doesn’t give a shit about the law and will sell beer to sixteen-year-olds.

Drink it in the car, you don’t need limes. Drink it fast. Like you are the thirstiest person in the world.

When your mother asks where you’re going tonight, be vague. Say, out with Michelle. This will appear to satisfy her because she and your dad are in the middle of watching Jeopardy and in 1983 there’s no such thing as pause. Look at them, all cute. He calls your mom Kid, always has. She looks up just long enough to remind you of your curfew (12:30) and Ozzie and Harriet-ly tell you to be a good girl. Say something flippant, like OK, I’ll think about it, hahahahaha and split.

When you were young you would watch One Day at a Time and wonder why Julie was always such a fucking bitch to her own mom. The fact that they had different last names also never sat well with you, but as the mom explained a woman taking her name back after a divorce was about Women’s Lib and not meant to be seen as an indication she wants nothing to do with her kids. On the contrary, she was a great mom. Julie was rebellious and mouthy. You hated Julie. Then you met Mackenzie Phillips one time and you felt terrible because she’s actually sweet as pie.

At this point, you are dangerously close to becoming a Julie. And for what. You don’t need attention, nor is this behavior a “cry for help.” You’re doing just fine, thanks for asking, you don’t need help— or worse, tough love, where your parents act like they hate you but it’s OK because it’s for your own good. They can save that kind of thing when your liver starts to fail, which will be never, because you’re not a doctor but you’re pretty sure livers regenerate. If anything, you want to draw attention away from you. Did you hear about Katie Scott? Pregnant.

You just want to have a little fun, so go ahead. Go to parties, tons of them. Write your name on plastic cups so there’s no confusion over whose warm keg beer it is. There’s always a keg and never any parents, so drink up. Smoke cloves until you gag. Meet boys, dance, flirt, they’re so cute in their Duran Duran shirts, driving their Saabs. Maybe one of them will fall in love with you and you can quit acting like such a fucking psychopath.

Turn seventeen. Suddenly your torso is longer, your legs leggier. Work it, girl. You possess the confidence of a bank robber, not because you have accomplished a lot, but because you have gotten away with a lot. Unfortunately this particular skillset won’t be helpful on college applications, just like the fact that your grades suck. Think, whatever, it’s not like I’m going to Yale. You actually judge people who go to Yale. It seems like so much work.

Better plan: be rich. And possibly famous. You could write a bestselling novel, or do something in the arts that requires no responsibility whatsoever. Epic parties will be held at your Frank Lloyd Wright-designed, midcentury modern house in the Hollywood Hills featuring a sun-drenched turquoise pool, meandering cobblestone walkways and a lovely gazebo. Music will be piped into every room and cocktail hour will happen every evening, with various friends sipping martinis and chatting in French. Take to wearing long, Cher-worthy gold lamé slip dresses with no shoes in the middle of the day just because you can and it goes with the house. Hang art. Hang with the Stones. On weekends, people will gather in the screening room for showings of cool, retro movies, like Vally Girl. Your husband will be hot. Your four offspring and ten Rottweilers will behave. Life in general will be fantastic.

This is what you want. You still want it. Being young enough to believe you might get it is both beautiful and tragic at the same time.

Every once in a while, it occurs to you that you’re being really stupid and you should maybe care more about the future. Soon it could “too late,” according to, well, everyone. Decide to care, but only for appearances sake, then stop after like, a day because what’s the point. Go to Palm Springs with Michelle. Order Long Islands in random desert bars, they’ll serve you because apparently they don’t care either. Like a truffle hog, you know how to find things.

Start to believe you are the smartest chick on earth.

***

Anne, we need to talk to you, your dad says for the fifty-seven-thousandth time.

Immediately panic. You hate these sit-downs, mostly because it’s extremely nerve wracking not knowing if you should be admitting to anything or not. Remind yourself you can talk your way out of almost anything, a far more important skill in life than doing the right thing in the first place. The flip side of that is you can also be talked into almost anything, so in those cases at you least have someone to blame, like the time somebody convinced you to try Everclear. So gross.

We think you need to take things a little more seriously, he says. Maybe get a job.

A job? It never occurred to you, but OK.

Start working in a department store, Bullocks Westwood. It’s bright and boring. Find yourself wishing you were poolside.

Something is very wrong with you. It’s obvious. You tell everybody don’t worry about me, I’m fine, but you have a sneaking suspicion tarantulas might be crawling around your insides. It’s the only explanation for why your world is starting to feel overwhelmingly weird and dark and Black Sabbathy, no matter how much pink you wear. You’re a good girl. All you can do at this point is hope it’s a phase you’ll eventually grow out of, or get tired of, whichever comes first.

Until then, drive down Sunset. The street will unravel in front of you, like a ribbon. You will be alone this time, windows down, heading nowhere.

This is the second of four parts. Read the next one here.