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Xandra 2
Xandra 3
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| Xandra's Exam |
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| "The day you get a school physical is a good day to wear underwear and bad day to get stoned. How I learned this and other valuable life lessons, early spring 1988, somewhere in Pennsylvania..." Back in high school I was one of those crazy punk rock chicks into mustard and ketchup hair colors, heavy mascara, and I wore lots of black. Tights. Biker jackets. Doc Martens. Very into Poe. Very "Goth". I had transferred to this school when Mom moved from another state after the divorce. I was doing my best to add to her misery by being obnoxious and endlessly sarcastic. In class I was a sullen presence and worked diligently at radiating contempt towards all whom I considered beneath me (everyone). I had a model's build, and while I was rather flat-chested, several guys were hot on me. I think my rotten attitude attracted a certain type (masochists). Or maybe they just wanted to nail Cyndi Lauper. Who knows with guys? They're idiots. I was in a first-period study hall during my senior year, enjoying a buzz from the joint I had smoked earlier that morning. It was kicking in and I would be cruising big time by the time I'd be in calc class, next period. A few minutes before the bell was to ring, an announcement came over the intercom. "Would the following students please report to the clinic with their health questionnaires and physical exam forms." A list of girl's names was read off- all either juniors, who were required to take a physical, or jocks getting sports exams. All but one. The last name on the list was mine. Mispronounced as usual. I nearly shat... As a proper bohemian babe, I had never gone out for sports and so I never had to undergo a school physical. The state I moved from apparently didn't require one for sophomores. Stoned as I was, I knew I was in deep shit. Yes, I was toasted all right, and if you got close you could probably smell pot on me, which was particularly grim because I was sort of "post-probationary" from a pot bust two years prior. And no, I didn't want to dwell on how that might play out in court. Another more immediate concern flashed through my weed-jumbled brain: I had no bra on beneath my bulky cable-knit tobacco brown sweater, which I knew would have to come off, nor did I wear panties beneath my black tights (I chose some inconvenient and invisible ways to assert my individuality, i.e. nipple ring). I started to panic as the minute hand climbed to the top of the hour. My heart began to race- itself a suspicious symptom unlikely to escape detection during a physical; I realized that would incriminate me further if the doctor caught a whiff of reefer while looking down my throat. My own body conspiring to betray my wicked ways: the tell-tale heart...What if there's a pee test? Can they do that? I thought of my nipple ring- it suddenly seemed acutely embarrassing. I had to talk my way out of the exam. That seemed my only option. But I was so stoned that I wasn't sure if I was thinking or talking, even as I plotted. I was having an anxiety attack, and I couldn't hold a thought in my head long enough to develop it into anything beyond another source of terror. I started wondering what was in that joint I smoked. Maybe the adrenaline was acting as a catalyst. I was seriously fucked up and getting worse. I prayed to God to get me out of this (which is something for an atheist). Maybe there was a mix-up, I thought. After all, I wasn't a sophomore, nor was I going out for a sport. I just hoped that was the case... but I suspected it was a plot to bust me. Perhaps my past had surfaced- probation officer meddling? That made sense. The bell seemed to explode between my ears and made me jump. It was time to go. An awful lot of things were going to have to go right for the next fifteen minutes, or I was in some serious fucking trouble. NEXT PAGE: http://www.maxpages.com/xandra/Xandra_2 |
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