Vomit Hair and Failure

I hear my answering machine beep as I walk in through my front door. It’s late and I’m exhausted. I contemplate ignoring the message so I can take a nice, hot bath and remove the smell of dog vomit from my hair; a perk of not getting into veterinary school. I stiffen as I get a second round of vomit smell as I remove my ponytail, letting my hair fall to my face. I stare at the machine. It’s only one message, so I play it.

“Hey, we’ve done something terribly wrong and need your help. We can’t talk about it over the phone. Please meet us at the spot where we made our pact back in high school. You know the place.” Beep.

“I wish I hadn’t played that,” I say out loud. Nervously, I grab my coat, again, and car keys and walk out the door.

Ladmer had made herself scarce the past two weeks, and was that Benson in the background? It’s raining so I drive slowly. They got themselves into trouble; they could wait another five minutes. Besides, my parent’s house was a few blocks away; they could have walked here all on their own…like adults.

I pull into my driveway. My car now smells faintly of Chester, the worlds dumbest-overweight-chocolate-eating golden retriever. Awesome.

I step out of the car and take a long drag of cold air; it burns. I shuffle to my old front door and ring the bell; I’m not as agile as I was back in high school so I’m not going to scale my own damn fence. And if Ladmer and Benson think I’m going to climb that cicada infested death trap then they’re sadly mistaken. It’s nearly eleven and I just worked a 12 hour shift. They can-

My mother answers the door, “Oh hi honey!”

“Hi mom,” I said while being hugged, and suffocated by my mother’s curls.

“What are you doing here?”

I don’t say anything.

“Oh, one of those days huh?” She says, raising an eyebrow. “They’re out back aren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get a pot of coffee up. And tell those girls not to track mud into the house. They’re not sixteen anymore and I ain’t funny,” she says as her words trail into the kitchen.

I walk to the sliding glass doors, twist open the lock and pull on the door. It won’t budge. I nearly lose my head before I see a two foot stick on the track – that’s world class home security, Long Island style.

I step outside and click the patio light. Nothing, not even a flicker. I wish I was taking my bath. If this turns out to be anything like the “emergency” where Benson got silly putty stuck in her hair or the time when Ladmer decided to become a gymnast and jump out of my window onto a makeshift trampoline, then I’m out of here. What is wrong with this damn light?!

I punch the switch in last effort and then BAM! There is screaming, so much screaming and big movie-set lights shining directly on me. I can’t see who is in front of me and can’t tell who is touching my ass but he’s about to lose a finger.

“Ouch!” someone yells. No more overzealous toucher, but I still can’t see.

More lights shine over the backyard and I can see all my old friends and some family members (who know better) jumping over my mother’s makeshift vegetable garden. My mom is behind me, hold a cake shaped like a dog with a bandage around its legs.

“HAPPY NOT GETTING INTO VET SCHOOL!” was shouted, then strobe lights began…doing what strobe lights do. Music was blasting and Ladmer ran over to give me a beer.

She looks at me as I take a swig and says, “And you said we couldn’t celebrate failure.”