FALLING FROM THE EDGE OF COOL

A short story...

One of Sarah’s favorite High School activities was going out on the trail behind the school during lunch to smoke pot with her friends. There was a hierarchy of “cool” and she weighed in about half way up. Seems like she registered about half on most scales. Pretty, but not real pretty; smart, but not real smart; easy but not too easy. Kinda plain but you could tell she tried to jazz herself up a bit. She told me later that she kept her hair permed to look like Robert Plant’s. Auburn waves and eyes that got greener the more pot she smoked. There was always something a little odd about her, a little off.
It was late June, 1977, I believe, and there was a big party on the trial to celebrate the beginning of summer vacation. The belle of the ball, so to speak, was the new guy, Patrick. He sauntered into class the week before, tall and lanky with big brown curls brushing his shoulders and big brown eyes to match. I remember the faded Foghat t-shirt that he had on, that fit just-so, tucked into his brown corduroy bell-bottoms, the ones with the hole right by his left pocket. He wore the most amazing abalone belt buckle I’d ever seen. To say all the girls acted like crazed groupies around him would be an understatement.
On the trail, on that day in June, he lazily tapped a Marlboro out of his pack and asked if anyone had a light. “I do!” said Sarah, probably a little too excitedly. She fumbled in her denim purse, the one she just made in Home Ec from a pair of old jeans, while looking at me, eyes wide. I remember she said she was going to embroider Jimminy Cricket on the front flap. Waving the lighter in his direction, she said, “Here you go!”  When he didn’t take it she waved it a little more frantically and said, “Patrick? Here...” Everyone got quiet as she turned and realized that she was waving a tampon at him, not a lighter. There was a chorus of laughter as she ran away, disappearing like the smoke from his cigarette.