“Are you sure this is such a good idea?”
“Shhhhh.” Britney’s quiet but fierce whisper cuts through the darkness, silencing Charissa’s last pleas to be ethical. Our slender, graceful silhouettes stretch along the wall as we make our descent down the carpeted staircase, guided towards Charlotte’s front door only by the moon’s curious glance peaking through the entryway window. Finally finding the knob, we make our exit in haste, leaving the confines of a household deep in slumber for the excitement of the fresh air and the adventure that is ours to encounter.
“Wait, so whose party is this again?” Pasty inquires with interest. We make our way down the front steps, five figures clothed in almost the night itself, minus the sweeping dust of stars, fully loaded with toilet paper and ready for just about anything.
“Nikki Jones is having a small party,” Britney informs us with little enthusiasm tossing the rolls into a plastic bag, “but as we all have experienced first hand, any party in this town is an open party, so practically the whole school will be there.”
“Why aren’t we there then?” Charlotte asks running her fingers through her shoulder-hitting, sun-streaked hair.
Britney glances at her with surprise. “Because we are not that desperate for a source of Saturday night intoxication, Charlotte. Besides, it’s a Smoker party, they wouldn’t want us coming anyway.” She presses the button on her keychain, unlocking the Audi, the musical beep mixing in with the crickets surrounding the front yard.
“You smoke,” I murmur as I sit down in the back, twisting the undone side of my hair into a second plaited French braid. Charlotte and Patsy squeeze next to me as Charissa slides into the front. Finally stretching the elastic around the finished woven hair, I ask, “Why are we doing this again? It’s so much more fun to do one of the guys’ houses.”
“They’ve been done to death.” Britney replies, she twists her body around so that she can make sure that she’s not going to disturb the neat line of waste-bins before pulling out of Charlotte’s driveway. “Besides, that is what is going to be fun about it, plus the fact that I’m sure we’ve all been searching for a way to retaliate against the fact that the Smokers have to continue to manipulate our café music choices.”
“You keep calling them that.” I cut in. “I find this hilarious. What’s the difference between you and them? How can you label them something you consider to be beneath you when the exact thing you are judging them by you participate in on a regular basis?” I look at Britney with contempt.
“The difference is that Brit covers it up with a cloud of tré chic Ralf Lauren perfume and a Crest white-stripped smile.” Charlotte tosses back, her small nose mockingly in the air while stuffing dead batteries into her camera bag. Britney laughs with amusement, her smile irritating me from the reflecting rear-view mirror.
“Quick, turn on the camera.” Patsy tells her, “we need that on tape.” I realize that none of my friends are taking what I am trying to explain to them seriously, and decide to withdraw my lecturing for the rest of the evening. It isn’t long until we reach the Jones’ street, and after Britney expertly shuts off her headlights, we coast calmly to the edge of the specified property, an edifice almost equal to that of the White House. Almost letting out a squeal of delight I recognize the unmistakable image of Jeff’s navy Pathfinder, numerous cars down, already begging for an adorning of super-absorbent Quilted Northern. We sit together for a moment, able to hear the squeals and laughter of distant classmates mixed with the hum of the cicadas and far-away cars.
“Daria, say a few words.” Patsy focuses the direction of the video camera towards me.
“It is exactly 11:13 P.M.” I say in my best Ashley Banfield towards a future audience, keeping my voice mostly monotone and letting it rise and fall to create a channel twelve news effect. “It is as we have predicted, more than fifty cars have been precariously parked next to the curb of the surrounding property of a specified Nicole Jones. It appears to the innocent youths taking part in the evening’s festivities that their automobiles are safe, and will be unscathed from their position here on the street. Unfortunately, this is not to be, for we, the sisters of the dark and dangerous are about to unleash a deadly amount of bathroom tissue into the area, and how many casualties will result can not yet be determined.” I cup my hand around my ear, while all of my friends start to smirk from where they are sitting. “What’s this? Oh just in. Two individuals have been identified as definite victims of the impending event. It appears that these members are Heather R. Stone and Jeffrey H. Waters.”
I snatch a roll of freshly unwrapped toilet paper, and then jump out of the car, leaving my friends behind me, shocked and bewildered. Sprinting down the road, I reach Heather’s blue Cherokee, and without another explanation I begin to wrap my parcel around and around its surface, breathing in the aroma of risk and chance with each successful envelopment.
“Daria, what are you doing?” I hear Britney cry in somewhat of a whisper on the other side of the vehicle. “Are you crazy? This is Heather’s car, if she finds out you’re reputation is going to go down the tubes.”
“Speaking of which,” I reply ignoring her attempts to get me to TP solely by the guidance of the high school social ladder, “Can you pass it back to me?” She tosses the roll over the hood towards me after I shoot it underneath its belly. I offer no response, almost able to hear the pounding of my heart as I continue covering the antennae from top to bottom. Then run to the other side to do the rear-view mirror. The images of this girl looking down on people, speaking to hear her own voice, laughing to hear the twinkling of her giggle, and trading in her personality for popularity fill my mind, and I realize this act indicates that I have finally reached the end of my tolerance for Heather and the like.
“Car!” Charissa alerts, darting behind the safety of a nearby station wagon. I remain standing, in open view, running a strand along the side doors. Two bright lights cut through the darkness, and I realize I am caught. Deciding to not make myself look so foolishly secretive, I remain where I am as the car approaches and comes to a halt inches from my body.
“Hey.” I greet them nonchalantly, shielding my eyes from their brights, still clutching a stark roll of toilet paper in the opposite hand. I instantly recognize the two figures in the front seats. With my eyes widening it registers that Nikki Jones’ best friend Kathleen and her boyfriend Elliot are staring at me. I think about how utterly ridiculous I must look right now, clearly a deer in the headlights.
“Nice job.” Eliot smiles, his eyes glittering beneath a mop of curly dark hair
“I try.” I respond. They drive away, leaving my friends and I standing astounded in the middle of the street. We continue our efforts in the shadows of the night, crowning a whole row of automobiles in beautiful white toilet paper, a vision to treasure, a joy to behold. Twisting, stuffing, winding, weaving, we create complete works of art, capturing every slight moment on video, recorded for posterity and future dull Saturday nights. Sweating from every pore beneath the confines of my fleece, I struggle to use every thin sheet to its full potential, to use every strand to its greatest value. And then, it is finished, with the last of the Quilted Northern in place, I stand back and admire my work.
Then suddenly, I hear it, footsteps starting as a walk and then growing faster in our direction. “Someone’s coming!” Patsy hisses as we all drop what we are creating and make a run for Britney’s car down the road. Pulling the hood of my fleece over my hair, I dash past the trees, asking only that whomever is on our heels doesn’t recognize my signature purple streaked Pumas bounding across the pavement. Reaching the car I jump in with the rest of the Mod-squad, and whip around me to watch Louis Randall and his best friend Stuart Nichols start up their car, one that unfortunately had ended up neglected.
“They’re coming after us!” Charissa shrieks and we speed down the street, and with bold determination Britney darts onto another side road. Still eying their tan suburban firing towards us as if it were a rocket, I feel the warmth of adrenaline rushing through my body. With her foot still pressing firmly on the accelerator we whip past houses and then zip into a private road. Anticipating the speed bumps we are soon about to happen upon, all we can do is hope that they have given up on the chase. Stopping abruptly, all five of us search behind us for any trace of approaching lights, but there is nothing.
“Whoooo-hooo!” Britney yells, making a fist and punching the air. We sit together laughing, reveling in what we have just accomplished, on the secret we all have entered in. And as we head to spend our last half-hour indulging in the satisfying offerings of hot fudge sundaes, I cannot help but feel remorse on their behalf. Based on whose cars they chose to embellish it appears to me more than ever that my poor friends are still stuck in the glory-days of their middle school lives, placing people in labeled social compartments, and looking only on outward appearances. Don’t they realize that in a year they and everyone else in our grade are going to be in completely new worlds with new standards of social expectations and trends? Will they ever come to the understanding that who they are does not depend on those with whom they sit at lunch with, and who they go out with on the weekends? Life is too short to get caught up in this material pettiness and these established social standards, I don’t understand why they can’t see that. Jabbing my spoon once more into the pile of ice cream, by the dim shedding of light from the town’s street lights, I wonder if these prisoners are ever going to see past the shadows.
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