Crushed Diaries

A blog for Young Adults

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

My First Teenage party

I used to have a best friend called Nathalie. She lived next door with her funny family – her dad was a V.D. specialist and her mum was the biggest snob that ever walked this earth. She was originally a cleaning lady in the hospital that her hubby worked in. Mum told me 'in strictest confidence' she snared her husband by helping him clean his office after working hours.

My friend Nathalie wasn’t a snob. She was promiscuous, but I didn’t know the meaning of that difficult to pronounce word then. We were the same age but she looked much older than me. She wore French bras that made her bust stick out like a platform, and wore skinny rib polo sweaters all the time so that her bust looked even bigger than it really was. She was very proud of her breasts. 'Boys like big boobs,' she used to swank tactlessly, knowing that I was flat as a collapsed pancake. She used to stick her breasts out whenever she saw a boy she fancied, which was all the time. She was also very sly and secretive, but I didn’t know that then, even though my Mum kept telling me!

Anyway, Mum and Dad allowed me to have a party on my thirteenth birthday, and told me to invite all my friends. I went to an all girls' school, so didn’t know any boys except for the sons of my parents’ friends and they didn’t count. Mum wanted to know how many friends I was inviting, so that she would know how many people to cook for. I had no idea how many people were going to come, as Nathalie had invited loads of boys she kept meeting in the High Street – she didn’t even know them, but promised me they were all good looking. I didn't tell Mum that Nathalie had invited a load of strangers, but lied, saying that ten of my best school friends were coming with their older brothers.

Mum had just learned to cook chicken pies – not the frozen kind you buy in a supermarket, but yucky French ones she had learned to cook on her fancy Cordon Bleu cooking course, which she went to with Sally’s snobby Mum. Although I kept telling Mum I didn’t like French food - I liked baked beans and fish fingers and scrumptious stuff like that, but Mum insisted that my friends would love it. Five chicken pies later, the day of my birthday party arrived. Nathalie was so excited about all the boys she had invited, that she spent hours on the big day, doing a dress rehearsal in front of her bedroom mirror, sticking her breasts out to kingdom come. I was surprised she didn't stick tassles on them and swirl them around like bejewelled girls in the circus do.

Mum and Dad decided to go out to the cinema for the evening, so that they wouldn’t embarrass me. At first, it was really nice with all my school friends arriving, but then – all these strange boys kept ringing the doorbell. They must have all been about fourteen (most of them were covered in zits) and weren’t interested in Mum’s chicken pies at all. They were more interested in Nathalie. She was like a vivacious magnet, surrounded by all her new admirers. I didn’t mind, because the boys who couldn’t get near her, spoke to me out of politeness, I suspect.

Then, some more boys came and more and more boys, until the party was so crowded you couldn’t breathe. That's because everyone was smoking cigarettes and stubbing the fag ends out on the furniture. I tried to stop them, but they ignored me. 'You don't have any ashtrays,' they sneered, grinding their smelly butt ends on the floor. That's because my parents stopped smoking after seeing a TV programme which said that smoking gives you cancer.

Naturally, Nathalie was in her element playing Postman's Knock, and kissing all the besotted boys. All my school friends were thrilled. They hadn’t seen so many boys in their entire lives, ever! But, then the party got out control. Some of the boys helped themselves to a whisky bottle in my parents’ cupboard and glugged away like it was tap water. One girl pretended she was a whale, and gargled the booze into a fountain, then threw up chicken pie all over my parents’ priceless rug they had once brought back from Morocco.

I was so frightened at what my parents would say, that I ran away and hid in Nathalie's garage next door for the rest of the party. When my parents returned home, they were so shocked at seeing their home invaded by spotty drunken strangers of the opposite sex, they called the fire brigade! 'Everybody out!' They screamed. Then, they grounded me for a year, advising me to become a nun, because they would never allow me to speak to a boy ever again.

Everyone said it was the best party of the year, except for Nathalie. She was too busy dating all the boys to even speak to me. Mum was right about her after all. She was sly - a vixen.

Frances Lynn: copyright 2006


Post a Comment

<< Home