Recalling a House Party in Cooper City

I look back on that night and laugh. Parking between an old oak and a steel-wood mailbox. Being in a fleeing black jeep that swung out too fast, taking out the mailbox ten feet from a cop. The cop's arms raised in anti-gravity disbelief.

I wasn't driving. Rather, head-spun drunk in the passenger seat. He wasn't my boyfriend, the driver. A good friend. I told him there was a keg. The party'd be broken up. The cops have nothing to do in this town of seven square rich blocks but break up wasted teenage wildness. I was afraid when he got the DUI. Back then. I had to stay with the host or face my mother, the cop said.

Adulthood crowning, I always leave this part out: Once inside, I cried. Yelled even. The few left were boys. One I loved. He didn't love me, but held back my hair as I barfed. They stung, his acts of kindness.

Instead, I always lower my eyes and smile like I just fled with cash made off a long con. I laugh a little and tell listeners I never got caught. Woke up drunk; grabbed another beer. Saying, even if I had been found out, I wouldn't take it back, being sixteen. No fucking regrets.