Unbound
How a teen friendship unmoored, then tethered me
She strides into the classroom, hair swinging, dispersing its light into the dimness of the long, narrow room. I assess her from her black lace-up work boots (which I later find out she calls “shit-kickers”) to the tip of her pointy nose. She wears army pants, topped with a men’s white tank undershirt and a knotted leather bracelet around her tanned wrist, her hazel eyes set in a permanent dare.
It’s 1975. I am 13, a student in my parents’ alternative school, in a Southern Oregon mountain town. They rent a church’s upstairs on weekdays, converting the Sunday school classroom into their ideal educational environment for my siblings, me, and the other students whose parents want an alternative to the local public schools.
Tall bookshelves, round tables, and pillows on area rugs divide the room into areas for small classes, reading, and the weekly meetings.
Today, the first meeting of the year, we sit on the floor on giant pillows, twelve students ages 10-16, my parents, and two assistant teachers from the local college.
“I’m here; you can start the meeting now,” the new student announces, as she approaches us, her voice ricocheting off the walls. Then she chuckles at her cleverness. The teachers sitting cross-legged on the pillows say nothing for a beat, a bit stunned.
They glance at each other, trying to figure out who will intervene in this disruption to our introductions. Linda, one of the student-teachers from the college, pats the floor next to her and says in a sweetened voice, “Well, hello. You must be Tamara; why don’t you have a seat next to me?”
“That’s Tammy,” the miniature Amazon answers as she plops beside Linda.
“Perfect timing, my dear,” Linda responds, tucking her blonde, wavy hair behind her ear. “We were just doing introductions. Please tell us your name, what school you came from, one of your hobbies, and what you hope for this year in school.”
“You know my name, I just told you, Tammy. I was in a school in LA. I don’t remember the name. Something like The Sucky School.” At that, the kids in the room laugh.
Linda says, “Haha. Quite the funny one, you! And what are your hobbies and hopes for the year?”
“I ride horses. My mare’s name is Spirit. I hope not to get any ‘Fs’ this year.” The kids in the room laugh again, this time louder.
“That’s what you don’t want. What do you want from school?” Linda asks in a light tone.
“Half-days every day,” Tammy snorts.
Linda quickly says, “Thank you. Next person,” motioning to the boy on Tammy’s left.
Later, introductions over, the students and I file down the stairs outside to the church lawn, where Jacque, the other assistant, stands waiting. “We’re going to play New Games!” he says, his voice enthusiastic.
“What’s new about them?” asks Tammy.
“They’re games that don’t have a winner. You win through cooperation. Play hard, play fair, nobody hurt,” he answers, then says, “Follow me.”
We trail behind him as he strides toward the grassy field at the elementary school across the street. A giant orange-and-white nylon parachute lies deflated on the grass.
“Everyone, grab a corner. Now, on the count of three, lift it over your head, run under it, and pull your edge back to the ground. The round ends when everyone is under the parachute.”
“How do you know who wins?” Tammy asks.
“We all win,” he answers, smiling.
“You can’t all win. That’s dumb,” Tammy says, “there has to be a winner and a loser.”
“Let’s get started!” yells Jaques. “Everyone spread out around the edge of the parachute. Now, grab the edge. Okay, one, two, three. Bring it up over your head. Run in!”
We fling our sections of the chute overhead and run toward the center, the fabric mushrooming overhead. We spin around and squat, pinning the edges to the ground with our hands. We are encapsulated in a glowing orange dome. Someone says, “Spoo-ooky!” in a quivery voice, and laughter fills the nylon bubble. My chest expands like the giant parachute overhead, and I am filled with elation.
We crawl out into the daylight. Then someone shouts, “Freeze Tag!” Scattering on the lawn, we chase and evade each other.
Then Tammy is “it.” She runs towards me, and thrilled, I turn and sprint away. It takes her a long time to catch me. With her footfalls close behind, my heart races, and blood thrums in my veins. I feel like the goddess Iris, as fast as the west wind. I want her to catch me, but my desire to show off overrides that. She finally lunges at me, taps my shoulder, and freezes me. Then we all flop down on the hillside, panting with bits of dirt and weeds stuck to our sweaty bodies. An earthy, grassy scent blankets us.
To my amazement, Tammy throws herself down next to me. I can smell her sweat, a potpourri of warm teenage girl and honeysuckle oil.
“You run fast,” she says, looking at me with approval. My whole body heats up. I know I want more of that!
I say, “I played football with the boys across the street when we lived in California, and I played Smear the Queer in Junior High School.” At 13, I have no idea what “queer” means, that it is derogatory, or that it might have anything to do with me.
I continue to brag to Tammy, “I could outrun the boys and almost never got tackled. That is, until they started calling me Nipples, and I quit.”
“Why did they call you Nipples?” she asks. I look down at my shirt. “Because,” I say.
“No biggie,” she says, looking down at her braless chest. “Who cares what they think? Boys don’t have to wear bras, so why should we? Joke ‘em if they can’t take a fuck.”
I have always picked friends who embody the qualities that I want to possess. Tammy attracts me with her brazenness and my perception that she gives zero shits what people think about her. She is the complete opposite of me; I’m a bookworm, quiet, and eager to please. We become best buddies during the first few weeks of school.
She is obsessed with remedying how naive and concerned with being good I am. She chastises me the first time she notices that when morning break ends and a teacher yells, “Come back in, people!” I rush back inside.
“You hurried in like a dog when Linda called. Make them wait. Don’t let people boss you around,” She advises me as we settle into our respective chairs around the table for Creative Writing taught by my mom. I nod, disappointed in myself for not acting up to Tammy’s standards.
So, the next day after the break, Linda yells, “Come on in, everyone! Break is over!” I wait until she hollers for the third time and go in when Tammy does.
A few weeks later, I stay overnight at her house for the first time. She lives with her mom, brother, and roommate.
Their flimsy house is on the east side of the tracks. That section of town is crisscrossed by dirt roads that become mud pits in the winter.
Our house is west, on the hillside above the park. Most of my parents’ friends live in the Victorians and bungalows on our side of the valley.
Tammy lives in Quiet Village, a suburb populated by blue-collar workers and single mothers, like hers. In the tradition of suburbs, its name, “Quiet Village,” is an oxymoron. The houses are adjacent to the freeway and bombarded by the constant roar of semi-trucks pulling trailers up I-5.
Since her house has three bedrooms, all occupied, Tammy sleeps in the garage. That first overnight, we spend the evening after school in the main house, watching Laverne and Shirley on TV, laughing until we are hoarse.
We don’t have a TV, not since I was nine and ours flickered and died. My parents think it’s bad for kids. Mom says it stifles creativity.
Sitting with Tammy on her cracked Naugahyde sofa, I gorge on BBQ chips and root beer, both banned substances in our family due to the sugar and the artificial flavors and colors. Tammy’s dachshund, Lucy, wriggles between her and me on the couch to make for a perfect evening of forbidden pleasures – TV, junk food, and a dog. As much as I want a cat or dog, we’ve never had pets. My dad, who was raised on a farm in Nebraska, believes that dogs and cats belong outside with the livestock.
Later, we head outside to the garage. It’s eleven o’clock, way past my regular bedtime of nine. I shuffle through the semi-finished room where she sleeps on a mattress sinking in a sea of tangled clothes, empty snack wrappers, and a hairbrush or two.
Unsure of the bedtime protocol, I wait until Tammy steps out of her army pants and crawls into bed in her t-shirt and underwear. Then I remove my jeans and join her in the bed, which reeks of dog funk and unwashed sheets. This doesn’t bother my preadolescent sensibilities. I find it comforting. But I’m anxious about my proximity to Tammy. I lie still and barely breathe. When she starts snoring softly, I finally relax and fall asleep. I wake to the sound of her mother knocking on the garage door.
“Girls, it’s time to get up and go to school.”
I pull up my jeans and follow Tammy into the house. She opens the refrigerator, revealing a wilted head of lettuce, a quart of soured milk, and various crusty condiments.
Cammie says, “No food here. Can we get milkshakes downtown?”
Her mom grabs her keys and says, “Sure, I’ll drop you off at school afterward.”
I glance at the clock over the kitchen sink. Eight-fifteen. We are going to be late for school. My parents will be furious. But no way will I pass up the opportunity for a milkshake for breakfast.
We rattle downtown in her mom’s VW van. With everyone at work or school, we find parking right in front of the Steakhouse, our local 24-hour diner where the wait staff, all women, wear short black dresses with white aprons.
As the waitress arrives, I say (a tad too quickly due to my excitement), “A chocolate shake, please!”
Tammy rolls her eyes at me, “You act like you are starving!”
“Starving for a milkshake,” I answer with a fake laugh, “ha-ha!” Hoping that she will forgive my lack of coolness. The waitress arrives bearing two chocolate milkshakes. I grab mine, scoop the whipped cream into my mouth, then suck in a mouthful of chocolate heaven.
Temporarily distracted, I forget my fear of the parents’ wrath, that is, until I swallow the last drop. Then, along with brain freeze, the reality of arriving at school, my parents’ school, at least an hour late, hits me.
“I think we better go,” I say, pointing at the clock above the cash register, which shows 9:15. School started at 8:30.
Tammy’s mom drops us off in front of the church where our school is housed. As her Volkswagen bus pulls away, my fear coalesces into a front of defiance which propels me forward and up the steps. When we enter the classroom, my parents look at us, then at each other, and, in that moment, they don’t say a word.
The other kids get quiet, eyes wide. Later, during the morning break outside on the lawn, they cluster around us. I feel like Janis Joplin surrounded by her fans.
“Did you get in trouble?” someone asks.
“Not yet,” I answer, snorting a nervous laugh.
“Probably because your parents run the school,” someone says with a hint of jealousy.
“I’ll get in trouble after school at home,” I say, hoping to quash the idea that I get special treatment. I have a reputation to uphold.
Arriving home from school, I pour myself a glass of milk. My parents sit at the kitchen table, reviewing the day.
I wait for the lecture. But no words from them. That often happens - silence - them acting as if nothing is out of the ordinary. I feel guilty and jittery throughout dinner, glancing up at them between bites. But the conversation is about a school outing, a hike to Table Rock. The silence about my transgression unnerves me.
I go to bed unsettled, confused. I feel like a helium balloon with its string cut, drifting terrified up into the atmosphere, nothing tethering me.
That’s when I commit myself to Tammy and her certainty. At least I know where I stand with her.