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As far as romance went, Lincoln, Nebraska wasn't exactly Paris, but for an Omaha teenager with a wild streak, it possessed a certain charm.
Lincoln was a college town, full of dorms and student apartments and bars with lenient ID policies. In Lincoln, there were no parents. In Lincoln, you could drink as much as you wanted, then vomit all over yourself without fear of repercussion. Vomit, and not be dropped off at curfew with a plastic bag full of soiled clothing and a lie about a carsick dog on your lips. In Lincoln, you could vomit and be free.
I would do anything I could to reach this Valhalla, and nothing was going to stop me.
Sean wasn't officially my boyfriend, but about four times a week I would drive over to the rental house he shared with a few other recent high-school graduates to drink beer and make out in his room.
Recently, Sean had begun to swing a proprietary arm over my shoulders when we were in public, so when I overheard him in the park one day discussing a kegger taking place in Lincoln that weekend, I felt justified in inviting myself along.
"We're not going to drive back for your curfew," he said, disentangling his fingers from my bra strap as he reached for his Camels. "We'd have to spend the night. I don't want to get in trouble."
"Why would you get in trouble?"
"Because your parents are crazy." With this, I could not argue. Still, I pointed out they didn't have much recourse, legally. I was sixteen, the legal age of consent in the state of Nebraska, and as we wouldn't be crossing state lines, there would be no pesky Mann Act indictments to worry about.
Eventually, he agreed, and I immediately called my friend Olivia, a loyal, malleable girl whose parents were just neglectful enough to make her an ideal cover. We concocted a fictional band we would pretend to see that night, and explained to my parents that it made sense for me to spend the night at her house. I would leave my car there in case my father was "unable to sleep" and decided to circle her home at two o'clock in the morning.
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"Start out wearing it. Then, if you puke on yourself and he has to take your clothes off, it'll be sexy."
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"It's kind of romantic," Olivia said wistfully, as I emptied my knapsack of quotidian items — the physics textbook, the filthy gym suit, the box of tampons — and replaced them with perfume, lacy underpants and a sports bottle of foul-smelling vodka pilfered from my grandparent's antediluvian liquor cabinet. "Going away with a boy to another city. Like the two of you are eloping."
"We're just going to a party," I said, secretly thrilled. "It's no big deal."
"Don't pack that underwear," she said. "Why don't you just wear it?"
"I don't want to fuck it up. What if I puke?"
"Start out wearing it. Then, if you puke on yourself and he has to take your clothes off, it'll be sexy."
I agreed.
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, featuring curious yet marvelous infusions of cucumber and rose petal.
