I remember adolescence being a generally confusing time. I was expected to act with adult mannerisms such as speaking in turn, wearing appropriate clothing, and following the rules outlined by society; yet, I was not allowed to participate in the activities that make adulthood bearable. For example, staying out past ten o’clock, having a chilled beer, and traveling outside the lackluster town that I lived in. This inconsistency made it nearly impossible not to feel the need to lie to my parents, which, as a result, made me feel terrible about myself.

I needed an outlet for fun and since games like lawn darts and setting off fireworks in your local Walmart (like our parents did) were not in the question, I had to find more attainable channels for entertainment. I always wondered if my parents knew about the stories I am going to share. Did they let them slide to avoid the agony punishment would have caused all of us; or were my duplicitous tactics masterfully carried out? Now that I am in my twenties, I am finally ready to disclose a couple of my elaborate high school schemes for the sake of future generation’s child-parent dynamics. This is my coming out story.

When I was 15-years-old, I was talking to a boy who seemed to live in opposition to the rules set in place by adults reining over high school students. He went to the alternative high school, he made obnoxious comments in class, and his lips tasted like bitter cigarettes. For a rule-following nerd like me, this was intriguing. He asked if we could watch the meteor shower together one night when the sun had settled comfortably below the horizon. I was not allowed out past 10:00pm and I was definitely not allowed in parks, after dark, with boys that I barely knew; so I constructed a plan that made my stomach want to leap out of my throat. I was going to sneak out of my house for the first time ever, in the middle of the night. My dad was out of town, thus lessening the number of detectives on the scene, which made it the perfect opportunity for my escape.

Around ten thirty I peered over the stair railing to find my exhausted mother plodding into her room for bed. My face was plastered with cheap makeup; I was wearing little shorts, a cute tank top, and I had sandals in my back pocket ready for action. I unobtrusively made my way into the basement, opened the emergency exit window that I had preemptively cracked earlier that day, and accepted the adrenaline rush with a great sense of euphoria. The boy arrived in my neighborhood with his sister in the driver’s seat and picked me up on the side of the road. We made our way to the water shed, which would be the first time I visited the park I now consider my happy place. When we finally arrived, he grabbed my hand and pulled me through pitch black trails, where intricately spun spider webs swathed around my face, neck, and legs.

This uncomfortable sensation did not phase my enthusiasm. Our destination was the marsh walk where we would sit on a piece of cement in the center of a large body of warm water and watch sparkling meteors plummet through the dim lit night sky. He told me a couple amusing stories and deliberated over our 15-year-old views about life. I never saw a meteor that night and his sister called about thirty minutes into our date to explain that she felt too sick to stay any longer and his sister called about thirty minutes into our date to explain that she felt too sick to stay any longer.

We packed up and headed back to the trail head. Despite the brief trip, I was on cloud 9, full of new stories, butterflies in my stomach, and about 150 mosquito bites up the back of my leg. I made it home without getting myself into a dangerous situation and my parents would never find out, or so I thought.

The next day I made the thoughtless decision of wearing shorts to lunch with my mother and her dear friend. My attentive mother noticed the unconcealed bug bites and nearly jumped out of her Puma sneakers due to her concern. She thought I had contracted some disease and that we needed to go to the doctor immediately. I tried to console her since we were in the middle of a meal and offered the idea that “maybe I sat in an ant pile the other day.”

Her good friend suggested, “she probably snuck out in the middle of the night and went to the watershed with that boy.” Completely baffled at her extremely accurate guess, we all laughed it off and finished our fajitas. The next day I found myself in the waiting room of my pediatrician where I was mentally practicing how I would act confused about the origin of my “rash.” The doctors said it looked like mosquito bites (no shit Sherlock) and we went on with our lives unscathed. Sorry mom.

Another instance of me committing to a false story was when I went to the Ameristar casino for lunch at 17-years-old. The boy I was dating at the time had won 100 dollars in a poker tournament the night before and wanted to take me out to a fancy dinner. His idea of fancy was the all you can eat buffet at a casino where old people spend the last of their social security funds before they dig a hole for themselves to die in. I was ecstatic about the idea despite knowing that my parents did not allow me to drive this far away from home. Nevertheless, I chose to make the venture, disregarding their rules. We arrived at the casino after and hour of driving and of course he “forgot” the money. Since it was such a far drive, I said I would pay and he could give me the money back when we got home.

After a few days my dad confronts me about 60 dollars that had been withdrawn from my account at the Ameristar casino. I instantly became an actor and started frantically worrying about a thief who used my account to gamble. I asked my dad what I should do to get my money back and protect myself from future burglary. He advised me to go to the bank and dispute the charge and get my account numbers switched. He offered to come along to help, but I told him I needed to prove my independence and handle this one on my own. I was on a mission to not get grounded. I called up the boy who claimed he would pay me back and received no answer.

Frantically, I tracked down his grandmother and explained my predicament. She offered me the necessary funds and I made my way to the bank. I stood in line for another 30 minutes when I arrived because I had to deposit a very specific sum of cash that could not be achieved using the ATM. I pronounced to the teller the amount of money I needed, to the penny, to be deposited into my account. Then I proceeded to explain that I used my card on an untrustworthy website and I would need a new debit card with all new numbers. After a few strange glares and two hours of my day consumed, they sent me home with a temporary card and a smile on my face because I would not be imprisoned in my house for the rest of the week. Sorry dad.

So why share these embarrassing stories of my youth? In the fantasy book 1Q84, Haruki Murakami writes, “…the novelist is not someone who answers questions but someone who asks them.” I am no novelist, but I find that through my creative attempt of telling these inconsequential stories from my childhood, a few questions can be considered; yet I have no clear answers. Being a teenager was very confusing and it generally made me feel like a bad person. I was constantly making unwise decisions and then lying to cover my tracks. Was I chasing after the thrill? Did I believe I was doing the right thing and everyone else was out to get me? Was I attempting to impress people with my counterfeit independence?

I wanted my freedom, so I took it, but I also had no guidance on how to safely navigate these dangerous situations because I didn’t feel comfortable enough discuss them with anyone. Should my parents have offered me more autonomy and educated me further on the consequences? Or did they do everything right and it can only be expected for teenagers to put themselves in dangerous situations with little regard for negative outcomes? Should we have had a more open line of communication to where I felt comfortable sharing my experiences with them? Or is there a certain level of secrecy necessary to get through these perplexing years of life?

How can you keep your child safe when you can only be around them a small percentage of their lives, along with the fact that they are in a risk-taking state of being? Are hazardous circumstances necessary for proper maturation? I give my parents all the praise in the world for successfully getting three rebellious children through high school. I am doubtful I could have done it any better myself.