A Fiction Story by Dr. Margaret Aranda
It was Mindy Abrahm's fault.
We were getting dressed at her house. We were all going to go to the Saturday night "50's Dance" at High School. Mindy said, "Hey, you need to drink some vodka before we go to the dance." I had never even tasted vodka before. Mindy mixed it with orange juice, and I had no idea this was called a Screwdriver. She handed me the glass. I looked at it.
I was weak. I didn't want her to think that I was weak. Slowly, I drank it. It smelled slightly, but the vodka was drowned out by the orange juice. The drink was cold, fruity, and wala! Down it went almost like it was nothing but orange juice.
By the time I finished the glass, she poured me another. I lost my mind. I didn't know what I was doing nor did I know what was happening around me. And by the time I finished the second glass, she poured me another. Again. Over and over this ritual continued, until I finished a whole quart of vodka. I don't remember the last drink. In fact, I don't remember anything past the first drink.
I don't remember getting in the car. I don't remember driving to the High School. I don't remember anything except this, which I do remember quite clearly:
The next thing I remember, I was sitting with Mindy and my other three friends. We were sitting up on the gym seats in this huge wooden-paneled auditorium, looking down below and to our left, where the band was. I remember a man playing a guitar. There were two of him. Come to think of it, there were two of everybody."
"There's two of everybody."
This news apparently spread by wildfire to my friends sitting next to me, then to my friend's friends, then to who knows who.
Flash Forward and the next thing I remember, I was walking down a plain beige school corridor outside in the dark. One of the Nuns was yelling at me. I thought maybe she was yelling at me because I wasn't walking straight, but honestly, I was sleepy. I just wanted to sleep.
Another Flash Forward, and the next thing I remember was in the Emergency Room. I was a Patient. I only remember talking to my Father on the phone. Somehow, I was talking to my Father and he was asking me what I had, what I took, what I drank, anything. He was mad at me, so I lied. I told him I didn't take anything and that I was perfectly fine.
They drew my blood. They took me home. I didn't throw up. I slept.
I didn't have a hangover when I woke up, but the white cotton ball and tape were still hanging onto my left arm. My Father called and said, "You had a lot of alcohol in your blood. Where did you get it?" I told him the truth, and I was starting to feel like I shouldn't have let Mindy give me all those glasses of vodka. I was grounded.
I never drank a bunch of vodka again. I stopped drinking for a long time.
The next thing I remember, I got kicked out of High School.
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