A Nighmare on Oak Street

by Carrie Pålsson

I can't call my mom, I can't call my mom, I can't call my mom. . . I mentally chanted the words over and over, wanting to do nothing more than grab the phone, take it into a dark closet, and beg my mom to come rescue me from my first and only slumber party.

I was in fourth grade and had never been invited to a slumber party before. I was an unpopular kid and lived with the painful knowledge that none of the girls at school would ever like me or want to be my friend. Pimples marred my face in second grade and large breast buds marked me as different in third grade. I was chunky, smart, and proudly proclaimed my love of Jesus. My best friend was a boy, which meant I was cootie infected. I could hit a baseball to the outfield on a good pitch, but I couldn't run around the bases fast enough to make a homerun. When the teacher had to leave the room she'd always depend on me to write down the name of the students who wreaked havoc. None of them ever did wreak havoc because they knew I would report them. I didn't do it out of malice. I was just uber-responsible and didn't realize I could disappoint my teacher with a less than truthful behavior report.

It was easy to see how I'd managed to make it to fourth grade without attending a single sleep-over.

When Leslie joined our class half-way through the year she decided to befriend me. She loved Jesus too, and stood by my side when my serious 10-year-old self asked people not to cuss when they were talking to me. If she would have been brainy and plump, we would have been best friends forever. Instead, she was pretty and just air-headed enough to be popular. Deep down I knew she was just being my friend out of duty or kindness rather than a real desire to be around me, but I was desperate to be "normal" during school hours and to me "normal" meant playing with the girls. It didn't help that my best friend, a male neighbor, was just as embarrassed by my girl cooties as I was by his boy cooties. He was perfectly content to limit our friendship to after school and weekends.

Thus it was that my first slumber party invitation arrived and great jubilation ensued. I believe there may have been a dance of joy and possibly a chocolate sundae of celebration.

If my mom worried about the slumber party, she didn't share her concerns. I had always been independent and had spent a week at church camp on the other side of the state the previous summer, so I was prepared for a single night away from home a mere two miles away. It never occurred to me that I might want to go home.

But then, it never occurred to me that girls are mean.

The party started out well enough, with pizza and soda pop. There was candy galore, Madonna was playing on the radio, and appropriately scary movies were waiting for us in the living room. I had fun the first few hours, but then bedtime arrived.

Leslie's mom and dad went to bed, leaving seven prepubescent girls to fend for themselves. All sense of fun and decorum disappeared the second they bid us good night and shut their door.

Though I was a neglected, annoying child I wasn't actually a complete social outcast. That honor went to Michelle. She ate glue and boogers. Her clothing was even dorkier than mine and she didn't comb her hair. She was rumored to have failed first grade three times. I know for a fact she repeated it at least once. Our second grade teacher chased her back to first grade with a high heeled shoe in her hand. Looking back, I wonder if she was mentally challenged or autistic, but at the time I didn't care or even know such a thing was possible. Like the other kids, I wanted nothing to do with her. Someone on the verge of social outcastdom knows better than to seal her fate by taking up with the likes of Michelle. Her mother was friends with Leslie's mother, which meant Michelle was invited to the party. Poor Michelle.

As soon as the adults were out of our hair, the girls turned on Michelle. We all sat in a circle around her and were ordered to tell what we liked least about her, supposedly to "help her fit in better." She was on the verge of tears, and I wasn't far behind. I've always had a tender heart and didn't want to participate in the harassment. I decided then and there that Leslie must not really love Jesus.

Maybe if I had been a stronger person I would have stood up for Michelle and put an end to her night of terror, but I did nothing. The persecution continued well into the night, playing itself out like a bad teen movie. Michelle was the first to fall asleep, probably a ploy meant to end her humiliation. The ploy didn't work. Toothpaste was smeared all over her face and whipped cream was sprayed in her hands; her clothes were stolen and stuffed in the freezer--soaked first of course. It was awful and ugly and I was ashamed to be a part of the frenzy. I just wanted to go home.

Eventually Michelle grew tired of being tormented and ran out the door in her thin little nightie, tears streaming down her face. She lived just three doors down, so her escape was easy once she'd made the decision to leave.

I, on the other hand, lived at least two miles away and had no way to get home. I knew if I called my mom I'd never live it down, so I stayed the night. The next morning I told Leslie's mom I wasn't feeling well and was able to call my mom before breakfast was served.

That single night taught me that popularity meant nothing. I had no desire to treat people the way Michelle had been treated. I had no desire to risk another party where I might be the girl the others turned on. I had no desire to be "normal." I realized that I was perfectly content reading my books and playing with my cootie-infected male friend, a boy who I could never imagine treating someone as poorly as Leslie and the others had treated Michelle.

As I grew older, I grew to understand that I was not cut out to be friends with the lowest common denominator. I like logic and alone time. I don't like shopping. I like discussing ideas, not gossip. I like random acts of kindness, not malicious acts of soul-destruction. That's why I prefer the company of nerds, usually male nerds. We generally don't care about appearance--we care about intellect and heart. I've never had one of my geek-gal pals suggest that we systematically take inventory of another's faults. I've never had my dorky doofus friends cruelly drive someone out into the cold night in a thin nightgown. We may not be popular, but at least we are decent human beings.

I'm glad I experienced that slumber party. Despite the horribleness of the evening, it took away my long-term mental anguish over my lack of friends. I discovered then and there that I only wanted real friends who shared my values. I didn't need to be accepted by people who gleefully inflicted suffering on others.