Spin The Bottle

The Cheerwine bottle spun on the checkers board in the middle of the shag carpet in Michael’s basement as a dozen shiny-faced twelve and thirteen-year-olds sat Indian-style in a circle around it looking on with a palpable blend of hope and dread.

  It was my first boy-girl party and I know the only reason mom let me go was because it was at the Keefe’s house and Mrs. Keefe was a regular at St. Michael’s Catholic Church. Mom figured nothing untoward would happen in a good Catholic home. Mom, however had not set foot in the den of iniquity that was the Keefe’s dimly lit basement. She’d only been in Mrs. Keefe’s cozy living room with the crocheted doilies on the tables and the hand-knit Afghan draped over Mr. Keefe’s Barcalounger to hide the oil stain from his Brylcreem. Mom and the other church ladies would gather in each other’s living rooms every Wednesday morning to discuss the catechism over cups of tea and delicate Moravian cookies and, in hushed voices, the goings-on in the homes of our Baptist neighbors. “Bless her heart”, they’d say, preceding each unkind comment.

  Mrs. Richman, a Methodist, came over to my hair in our kitchen. I’d grown out my flat attempt at the Dorothy Hamill wedge and wanted more of a modern Kristy McNichol shag. Mom spread the Raleigh Times over the linoleum floor and got out her professional shears. As clumps of my mousy hair fell atop Margaret Thatcher’s face, I prayed that my new haircut would make me pretty and I’d be propelled from dull anonymity to someone boys might actually notice.

  But when I looked into the downstairs bathroom mirror, I was not pretty. I looked like Rod Stewart had cut his own hair and couldn’t reach the back. I was early to the coming mullet fad.

  I had no time to request a new look. The party was starting in half-an-hour. I raced upstairs and put on my bell-bottom jeans. Now, my legs were growing far faster than the rest of me, so Mom tried to extend the life of my jeans by letting out the hem, which at first looked kind of cool with the gradations of blue and the fraying edges along the bottom. That is until a few weeks later when my mother decided to make them “cooler” while showing off her newly-acquired needlepoint skills. She embroidered a swirling vine of lumpy roses and sunflowers around the bottom of the legs, ostensibly to mask the obvious lines where the hem had been let out. In the 60’s this might have been groovy, and maybe it still was in 1979. Until mom decided to add words. She stitched along the bottom of each leg, “Man O Man Suzanne.”

  She was so proud of her handiwork and didn’t want to leave my brother out of her couture design. To the back of his favorite jeans jacket she replicated the swirling flower pattern and added “Billy the Kidd” in bright red stitching. He never wore that jacket again.

  I pulled on a red sweater, but realized you can’t go to a boy-girl party without a bra and I didn’t have one yet, so I put on my navy-blue bikini top, dotted with white ship wheels and anchors that was more of a cropped tank, but at least there were bra-like lines under my sweater.  Surely the basement would be too dark for anyone to notice the nautical symbols through the red knit.

  My palms were sweating as I knocked on the Keefe’s door, hoping Mrs. Keefe would recognize my maturity immediately. I was no longer the tom-girl who played football and Army with her sons. I’d graduated way beyond making clover necklaces in the outfield in West Raleigh Little League. This right here was the big leagues. This was where you decided if you were going to be a Sandy or a Rizzo.

  Of course, if my mother had her way, that thought would never have entered my mind. She forbade me from seeing “Grease” when it came out the previous summer. It was an inappropriate story about a good girl gone bad and she didn’t want me to get any ideas. But our neighbor, Mrs. Lucas, invited me over for a slumber party and then took us to the theatre.

  “But my mom will be mad,” I weakly protested as Lynn and I jumped into the back seat with our Ziplock baggies filled with Jiffy Pop. “Oh, your mother is being silly. This is one of those times where you don’t ask for permission and just ask for forgiveness later.”

  If that was a Baptist mantra, I liked it.

Catholics live with too much fear.

  At the top of the steps leading to Michael’s basement, there was a cross and the same “Head of Christ” painting that greeted me each morning when I opened my bedroom door to see Jesus bathed in soft light and looking toward the heavens. Rumor was, we’d be playing 7 Minutes in Heaven and I had a decision to make. Was I Sandra Dee or a Pink Lady? I descended the steps.

  The basement was nothing like the rest of the house. The dark wood-paneled walls were covered in Doors and Pink Floyd posters and adorned with multi-colored Christmas lights.

  Kids were sitting on the shag carpet or draped over the arms of the couch. Michael was by the turntable trying to decide between Double Vision or Frampton Comes Alive. I casually made my way to the snack table and grabbed a handful of Cheese Puffs while I sized up the room. There were a couple girls I remembered from first communion classes and a few other neighborhood kids, but no one mattered to me as much as Michael. I was plotting my path to the turntable when Michelle took charge.

  She directed us to sit boy-girl-boy-girl in a circle and put the checkers board in the middle, bulls-eyed by the bottle. As she explained the rules, my stomach did back-flips. This could be my chance at a first kiss. This could be my chance to prove my love to Michael.

  Michelle spun first. The bottle landed on Beth. Of course, Michelle spun again. Girls didn’t kiss girls. This time it landed on a boy in an NC State sweatshirt. The two went to the closet with the louvered doors. Everyone ooooed as the door slid closed and the light went out. A few minutes later they came out without looking at each other. When the boy sat next to me, his face was as red as his sweatshirt.

  Another boy spun the bottle and I crossed my fingers, hoping it wouldn’t land on me. The rules prohibited going into the closet a second time until everyone had a turn. It stopped on a girl in a purple velour tracksuit. Everyone giggled as they ducked into the closet. They stayed even longer. I think her jacket might have been zipped a little lower when she came out.  She was clearly a Rizzo.

  Then it was my turn. I took a deep breath and prayed like I never prayed before. I prayed more deeply than I’d prayed that my sister would be born a sister. I prayed more deeply than I’d prayed that we wouldn’t be bombed by Russia. I prayed more deeply than I had that Giselle wouldn’t get her period before I did.

  The bottle turned twice and my prayers were answered. Gentleman that he was, Michael opened the accordion door and let me walk in first. I could feel his eyes on me in the dark. I could hear my heart beating against my bikini top, but I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and plant a big kiss on his lips. But I stood there as a cold sweat crept through my sweater. I didn’t move. Michael didn’t move. Someone said, “I wonder what’s going on in there?!” and everyone laughed. Michael finally broke the impasse and kissed me lightly on the cheek, then opened the door and we assumed our seats in the circle as the game moved on.

  In the end I guess Sandy went into the closet and Sandra Dee emerged, still hopelessly devoted and longing for love’s first kiss.

As told at Story Salon on August 14, 2024.