I was banned by Becky’s mom. It’s a real lady-and-the-tramp story, only instead of the tramp being a ratty stray dog, the tramp was an actual tramp, and that tramp was me.
Becky and I were best friends in the eighth grade. The kind of best friends that were attached at the hip, the kind who spent every waking moment together. We were so like-minded, it was as if we actually shared a brain. The only differences between us were that Becky came from the right side of the tracks, had well-employed parents who were actually married, and a college fund. She also typically wore clothes that didn’t come from the “Li’l Whore” section at Kmart. Becky’s mom used to look at me when I walked into her house like I was a sore-encrusted pit bull with hepatitis. She was not a fan.
Becky and I would stroll through the mall every weekend, identical from the neck up with blonde hair and matching purple Oakley Frogskins sunglasses, but from the neck down with her decked out in reasonably fitted acidwashed jeans and a tucked-in t-shirt with the sleeves rolled, and me wearing a Motley Crue half-shirt paired with a spandex miniskirt the size of a postage stamp, an armload of silver bracelets, and, always, big white Nike hightop sneakers, and a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.
(Although I had never even kissed a boy at that point in my life, I was trying to create the illusion that I was one of those dangerous, fast women. The kind of woman who would get it on with you in a stolen car speeding down the highway when, in truth, my first boyfriend had broken up with me that year because I had been too frightened to French kiss him. That made for one awkward bar mitzvah for that guy.)
The summer before ninth grade, my sister and her boyfriend-of-the-month invited us to go a water park in Fort Lauderdale. Becky’s mom asked me if my mom was going to be there to supervise, and I felt so bad for Becky that her mom was so lame. Supervision?! Jesus, we were 13, what the hell did we need supervision for in Fort Lauderdale in the 80s?
I told Becky’s mom that, yes, of course my mom would be there! Duh! It’s certainly not like I was raised mostly feral if that’s what you’re thinking, Becky’s mom! I was raised mostly feral, btw.
When we pulled up into Becky’s driveway to pick her up, her mom spied out the window and saw that my mom was nowhere to be seen in the car. She didn’t say anything at the time, and Becky and I had an amazingly awesome day at the water park, but when Becky got home, her mom banned me from their house for lying to her, and told Becky that I was a bad influence and that she wasn’t allowed to be friends with me anymore. Becky delivered the news to me from the phone in her kitchen, and told me that her mom was standing in front of her to make sure that Becky had told me, in no uncertain terms, that our friendship was finished. Her mom had finally found a definitive charge with which to throw me out of Becky’s life: A lie about the water park.
Far from devastated, a rebel, I laughed and said, “Whatever, it’s not like she can follow us around school to make sure we’re not talking!” Little did I know, once we entered high school the following month, it wouldn’t be Becky’s mom that ended our friendship.
Becky started spending time with a super gross crowd in ninth grade. You know, all the Jennifers and Kellys and Lisas, with their perfect tans and rich daddies. The popular girls. The mean girls. The kind of girls we used to make fun of for being so shitty and plastic.
Becky had become particularly close to the worst of the bunch, a girl I named “Bitchface”, and started pretending that she didn’t see me when she and Bitchface would walk past me in the hallway at school. Becky’s mom adored Bitchface, and encouraged their friendship, thankful that I seemed to be out of the picture for good.
Bitchface was the kind of popular mean girl who wasn’t satisfied with just dominating girls, she would make them change who they were in order for her to even consider being friends with them. She told Becky that “Becky” was a stupid name, and that from now on, her name would be “Becca”. She told Becca that she had to run for something in the way of class officer, because anyone who was anyone had a title. It didn’t take long before Becca sat me down in the cafeteria courtyard to tell me that it was “too hard” for her to be friends with both me and Bitchface, so obviously, I was the one who had to go. Besides, she reminded me that her mom didn’t want her hanging around with me anyway.
A month later, scorned from being so mercilessly dumped by my BFF, on the day Becca walked up to the podium in the gym to give her campaign speech for class secretary, and before she could even speak, I yelled from the bleachers, “You SUCK!”. She shot a look at me, I shot her one back, and then she started her speech. It was the last interaction we ever had.
High school went on, Becca and Bitchface best-friending it up and being shitty assholes like Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie, and I became best friends with a quality human being named Anne, who is still my best friend 27 years later. Despite my slutty clothes and wrong side of the tracks address, I did not become a criminal. Not even a speeding ticket!
A couple months ago, I was bored and had some time to kill, so I decided to do some digging online to see what Bitchface was up to these days. As it turns out, Bitchface has a rap sheet a mile long, and was most recently arrested for both prostitution and possession of crack cocaine.
That’s right. Let me string those items together for you, just in case you missed it: Bitchface grew up to be a crack whore.
It’s a good thing Becky stopped hanging around with me, seeing as I was such a bad influence and all.
This is all really just a very long and convoluted way for me to say fuck you, Becky’s mom.