“You volunteered for this,” I mocked myself, standing awkwardly in a corner. “You wanted to do this. You are downright certifiable.”
That was nine months ago at our program’s opening festivities.
“You are one step from buying a minivan,” I mocked myself, taking pictures of everyone picking up their awards. “With rims. The hood’s first soccer mom. You are downright certifiable.”
That was last night at our program’s closing festivities.
So I guess a lot has changed, except for regular self-deprecation and admissions of insanity. But these have been lifelong personality traits, so I’m not particularly worried.
That was it, though. I completed the program. Survived the school year. Saw everyone advance a grade. Well, as far as I know. I think in DC they’re just happy you show up, so they probably advance everyone.
We had a joint party for the closing of regular programming and for Co-Workerette’s last day. She won’t be around for summer camp. I think Upstairs Woman had a bit of extra money left over from X-Treme Teens, so all the proverbial stops were pulled for this party. More food than we knew what to do with, decorations, awards, and a Finding Nemo pinata that took Dimples about 3 hours to attach to the ceiling. Only to have it fall down. Repeatedly.
In typical Teen Center fashion, the party didn’t actually start until more than an hour after the posted time. And because we were having the party Upstairs, one of us had to sit in the decorated room to keep out all the little, little kids running around the place. And because we invited parents, the only one who actually showed up, got there on time. Which meant the person babysitting the room also had to babysit the parent. Guess who!
Let’s continue the exciting juxtapositioning of first day vs. last day.
Nine months ago, I was sitting in the back of the room wondering if I was ever going to understand a single sentence any of these people said.
Last night, I was sitting next to a very mentally-altered woman as she rambled in hoodspeak about my fate as a Capricorn. And also that she’d been to Ohio. And then I got to hear it all over again. And again.
So to answer my question from the first day, yes, nine months later, I understood every word she said. Not that I understood anything she said.
It was The Professor and Bitsy’s mom. She’s been a crazy, crazy force in our lives all year. Have I mentioned crazy? This isn’t crazy like my earlier self-assessment. This is straight from the psych textbook loopy. Bitsy didn’t start coming around til late in the year, so mostly we’ve dealt with her about The Professor. Like how he’s never allowed to go on field trips or have his picture taken or… well. Now that I type that out, it just makes her seem like a somewhat typical overprotective parent. But I promise she’s off her rocker like my dad at Cracker Barrel when they call our name to be seated.
I just can’t think of any good examples. Oh well, take my word for it.
Suffice to say I was never happier to see things get started. The Professor looked thoroughly mortified after walking in.
Upstairs Woman had some words for the group, as did Co-Workerette, because I guess she’s the speech-giving type. I didn’t, because I’m not. Then the floor was opened up to anyone else who had things to say. A few kids wanted to wish Co-Workerette a public goodbye, while others just mentioned things they enjoyed about the year. Most of them passed the microphone on with not so much as an annoyed grunt.
The best part was when Diva talked about what she enjoyed most about the year.
“I hadda good time this year, I liked, um, cookin’ with [Co-Workerette] and testin’ with [me].”
It was so hard for me not to crack up. Testing? She was referring to the reading post-assessment test I made her do the day before, and I assume the cooking with Co-Workerette was from about 20 minutes ago. Some kids just think in the absolute present, and that amuses me to no end. I have a childhood friend who used to do that every year in her yearbook entries to me. It was never, “Great year, wasn’t it fun when we…”; but instead “Hey, want to go play basketball this weekend?” In a yearbook!
So of all the things Diva did this year, she’ll always remember that useless ten minutes at the computer while I hovered over her shoulder muttering encouragement. SO FUN. I haven’t talked about her much on this thing, but she’s going to be impossible to forget. If I could tell you her real name, you’d know it’s absolutely fitting. Nevermind. She’s great.
So anyway.
The kids had all voted on awards to give each other. Things like “most creative,” “best dressed,” “friendliest,” and more of your typical yearbook superlative type things. But everyone got an award, so that was pretty cool. I guess it didn’t occur to me until now how Upstairs Woman worked that out — attendance was never completely regular, so I have no idea how everyone ended up getting one. Maybe they had to RSVP to the party? No matter.
It was interesting to see which awards different people received, though, it’s only 12 hours later and I can’t remember who got what. But I do recall the “Regulars’” reactions to walking up and getting their certificates as running the entire gamut: stubbornly non-participatory (Dimples), deceivingly nonchalant (Cupcake), thrilled and excited (Red), audaciously cheeky (Tyson), modestly embarrassed (Pixel), customarily puffed-up (Tapas), and a very poor “who, ME?” performance from Bug. He could do much better.
I didn’t catch The Professor’s (or Bitsy’s) reaction because most of the attention was drawn to their mother yelling a rapidfire “I KNEW IT I KNEW IT THAT’S MY BOY THAT’S MY BOY SO SMART SO SMART.” I can only assume she had no idea that his “best with computers” award was based solely on the fact that he evaded homework in favor of some generic PC version of Zelda every day. Well, whatever makes mom happy.
The rest of the evening was as laid-back and food-stuffing as any other of our large gatherings. It didn’t really feel like an “ending,” because the Regulars, at least, will be sticking around for the upcoming camp. Several of those who are old enough to work won’t be back, though. Inspector Gadget, Diva and Popeye will all be working with the little kids in Upstairs’ camp. Tyson’s mom is making him get a “real job.” And then there are some who will seemingly vanish for the summer. Marcus Vick will have sports camps. And I’m sure the long-lost Klingon and Myra Fleener won’t be allowed out of the house for fear of errant bullets. Not that I blame them.
I knew it was probably the last time I’d ever see some of them, and it wasn’t exactly a concept I could wrap my mind around. Mostly I sat back and people-watched rather than interacted, probably because I was content to just do more of that beginnings and endings comparing in my head.
It was then I noticed that Red’s hair was… Red. Again.
It was exactly the way she wore it back when I initially named her in my head during the first week. All twisty braid things, with red yarn woven through the ones in the topmost layer. Interestingly, she’d gotten rid of the ‘do a day or two after I named her, and hasn’t brought back that look since — until now.
“Don’t be such a nervous git,” I chided myself nine months ago, noticing the goofy, harmless-looking girl with strange red hair. “You can do this.”
“You were a bit of a nervous git,” I chided myself last night, noticing the goofy, harmless-looking girl with strange red hair. “But you did it.”