Homecoming Pukefest 88

“How much did you drink?” my mom said, with annoyance in her voice.  I had seen the hall light come on mid-puke and knew that I was going to have to deal with her somehow.  I was 17; I just wanted to puke alone.

            I looked up from my spot on the floor next to the porcelain throne. “I didn’t drink any alcohol at all!” I really hadn’t.  Grant, my new boyfriend, told me I was not allowed to drink.  I think he was afraid I would get involved in some accidental drunken sex scenario and become a bigger whore than he already thought I was.  His mom wouldn’t let him go with me to homecoming.  Instead, I went with my two besties, but even though he wasn’t there, I obeyed like the lovesick teen girl I was and walked away from the bathtub full of booze I encountered at a stop after the dance.  There was a dessert bar at the dance, and since no one was asking me to dance, I ate my awkwardness away with eclairs and napoleons.

            “Then, why are you puking? You went to homecoming, came home late, and now you’re sick!” Mom shook her head and rolled her eyes while reaching for a wash rag from the towel bar.

            “It’s FOOD POISONING!” I yelled through the acidic spoiled cream taste in my mouth and pointed to the vomit in the bowl.  “See the chocolate! I ate bad pastries!”

            My mom wet the washcloth and handed it to me as I flushed the toilet and closed the lid. I wiped off my face and brushed my teeth.  I think by this time my mom noticed my sobriety and the fact that the bathroom smelled like chocolate, not Mad Dog, and started to believe me.  “Ok.  I’ll get you some water.  Why don’t you go back to bed.” 

            I took the three steps necessary to get back to my room and mom came in to put a glass of water on my nightstand.  “Do you need some Bentyl?” My mom always had pills for everything. Bentyl was an antispasmodic for all things gastrointestinal.  It still is actually. I have my very own prescription now.

            The thought of swallowing a pill made me want to hurl again.  “No!” I said, scrunching my face and eyes and shaking my head. “I don’t want to take anything.”  Mom put her hand on my forehead and let me lie down.  She turned off my light on the way out. 

            When I was well enough to go back to school a couple of days later, I found out I wasn’t alone.  A few of my friends had a similar after-homecoming pukefest.  I couldn’t wait to get home to tell my mom that I was right.