Right now I’m working on a script that requires me to delve into my teen self and hence the previous entry.  As a teenager I was a crazy feminist.  I was so mad about every injustice against women, I basically made everyone around me terrified of speaking.  I think everyone will be really happy when I can go back to being my post-grad school self – laid back, drunk and willing to laugh at the foibles of youth without doing the Black Panther salute to Britney Spears or whoever else is caught up in some scandal and then vilified in the press.  But it’s going to be a while, this script is important to me in a lot of unexpected ways.  I feel compelled to tell our story.  It’s pretty rare for me to feel this way about something I’m writing for the screen.  I hope after I get through some of the more difficult parts I can emerge and have a drink without wondering if I’m going to need to chase it with a shot of teen angst.

Because I’ve been immersed in 1994 and all it’s glory, I’ve been reaching out to people from my past.  Last night I got a call from the guy who probably came the closest to breaking through my bullshit during that period of time without losing an appendage.  He and I have a sordid history.  I fell in love with him in 8th grade even though he was three inches shorter than me and I was hideous with glasses and braces.  He, of course, dated Kristy Schafer.  Then in 9th grade I met his older brother and boy did I forget about him.  His older brother and I finally got together in 11th grade and again in college, but only after I had made out with Brain* and tried to get him to give up being a Catholic (read: have sex with me) which he declined.  My sister dated his oldest brother for about a second (or maybe it was Cassie, or maybe it was both of them.)  He was the guy that never failed to make me laugh, got me through Mrs. Hudson’s geometry class (purely through letting me cheat off him) and all the while trusted that I was going to be ok, no matter what kind of trouble I was getting into.  I know in a lot of ways he put up with me because when I was around him I was funny, I was smart, I was the best version of me.  I didn’t know a lot of people back then who brought that out in me.

Brain comes close to being a long lost brother now, in that Flowers in the Attic way.  Camp Verde was our attic, we were trapped and slowly being poisoned so there was nothing we could do but make out every once in a while.  He was a smaller part of my senior year than he should have been, but I was on drugs, drinking and totally in love with Bob – all things he totally didn’t get.

When it all comes rushing back to me for a scene or a moment, I get crystal clear glimpses of his driveway, the carpeted steps leading up to the second floor, the single bed in his room, the breakfast nook where we ate cookies and drank milk with his dog Snickers growling at me from under the table.  He called me Touchdown Tommy, Tommy Baby, and he called.

*Obviously “Brain” isn’t his name, or even his nickname.  I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want his clients googling him and finding an entry about him refusing to have sex with me.  The same probably goes for his wife.