"And then..." Part Deux

I held it in (as instructed), and then started a hacking cough. While the rest of the party continued, I went into the kitchen to get some water. While in the kitchen, I started feeling “odd”. I started feeling like something was wrong, like this couldn’t be the feeling intended. I started to feel like something bad was imminent, and that these people were somehow responsible. I locked them out of the house.

Imagine their surprise when they eventually tried the door. They sent T as an emissary, and I let her in, but motioned frantically that no one else could come in. Yes, “motioned”. Did I mention that I had lost the ability to speak? Not a peep. I tried to communicate to her my fears, but struggled to write it all down – I think when the notes were found, they read “lacednot going to be Afterschool Special”.

T tried to calm me, and suggested I eat something. For some reason, we found oyster crackers. There I was, frantically shoving tiny salt bits into my already dry mouth over the kitchen sink. T quickly realized she could not handle this situation on her own, and reassured me that no one was going to hurt us, and that she was going to let the others in.

I dove behind the kitchen counter when she opened the door, and stayed there while she explained the situation as best her own altered mind could figure. The conversation was hilarious! There was discussion as to whether we could even go to the dance, could we risk exposure? My date started to panic. T’s date, a super-cool laid back guy was like “She’s just high.” I was still mute, but I was feeling less paranoid, and came out from behind the counter.

I wanted to tell them all not to worry – hearing their conversation had nullified my paranoia, but I couldn’t speak. I tried to write it down, but T’s date grabbed the pen and paper away from me, and kept ordering me to “Just say it! Just say it!”

After several attempts, I was finally able to say the one thing, the one word that would solve all our problems – “Rrrrelaxxxx”. Somehow I turned a two-syllable word into six. And the flood gates were open. I prattled on for 5 minutes about my experience. T’s date thought it was hilarious, my date worried if they took me to the dance, he wouldn’t get into Brown.

We went to the dance, we even took a group photo, which my mother placed lovingly on her mantle with typical parental pride, ignoring our bemused grins. And I didn’t touch the stuff again until sophomore year of college.

So yes, Virginia, you do get high.