by Focus
© 1999 Focus, all rights reserved
"I'm ready!"
"Is everything in the car?"
"Yes, Mom! I've got my pajamas and my clothes for tomorrow rolled up in my sleeping bag, and the sleeping bag is in the back seat."
"Comb? Toothbrush and toothpaste?"
"Oh, Mother! I told you I'm ready. Those are in my purse, and it is right here in my hand."
"Then let's go!"
Mom, Lois, and Marta got in the car and headed for town. Lois was sulking a little; she did not get to go on this sleep-out, and she was feeling left out. She was only in first grade, and didn't get to do the neat things her big sister got to do. Marta had mixed feelings. A country girl, she didn't really feel as if she fit in with this group of town girls. But she did enjoy sleep-outs, so she hoped she would have a good time.
The sleep-out was at Diane's house. She lived in a very nice section of town; her folks had a lot of money. By the time Marta was dropped off, the Campfire group leader, Mrs. Brandstetter, was already there with her daughter Carol (a bit of a tomboy, the one member of the group, besides Marta, who was not always simpering about boys). Together they checked out the back yard. It had a cement patio, with a big barbecue set up on it. And there was a nice big lawn too. From the patio one could see into the family room through a big window. From the yard there was a door that opened into the garage, where there was a bathroom which would be open for use all night.
Soon all the girls had arrived, and Mrs. Brandstetter led them in a meeting. The meeting was short and sweet, because all of them were so excited about the sleep-out that attention spans were nil.
Ground rules were set: the girls had free run of the back yard, but only the back yard. They were not to invade the house. They were not to go around into the front yard. They were not to roam the neighborhood. They were not to make so much noise that they disturbed the neighborhood.
Then it was time for dinner! Marta and Cathy were put on the vegie detail, slicing cucumbers, quartering carrots for carrot sticks, and cutting celery sticks and filling them with peanut butter. Carol and Karen were in charge of the barbecue and the hot dogs. Diane and Patty were setting out the paper plates, paper cups, and napkins, while Diane's mother brought out the cherry jello and set up a jug of cherry kool-aid. Sally and Laura put the buns, chips, pickles, olives, catsup and mustard on the table.
"Ok! The hot dogs are getting done here!" Carol yelled. "Everyone grab a plate and a bun, and come and get it!" We all filed past the barbecue, and each girl got a blackened hot dog. We gathered the rest of our food, and sat down on the grass to eat.
"Ugh! My hot dog is all black!"
"Hey! Black is good! That makes it crunchy on the outside, and hot and juicy inside!"
"Yuck! I don't like the black. It looks yucky! It tastes like charcoal"
"So peal the black off if you don't like it. Winston will be glad to eat the skin!" Winston was Diane's cocker spaniel, who was bouncing merrily from girl to girl, investigating the contents of each plate, and wiggling with joy.
Sally had an olive decorating the end of each finger. She got the giggles. She began to chant: "I'm Sally Sarah Saunders! (giggle) Silly Sally Sarah Saunders! (giggle) See Silly Sally Sarah Saunders smile and sing! (giggle giggle giggle!) Sweet Silly Sally Sarah Saunders sings silly songs. (giggle giggle)" Carol bit the olive off one finger as Sally waved it in front of Carol's face, and Sally dissolved into uncontrollable giggling, shaking and gasping for breath.
Food consumed, the question arose: "What shall we do now?"
"Lets dance! I've got some Elvis records!"
"Oooo! Elvis!"
Diane ran into the house for her phonograph and 45s, while the rest of us started to clean up, throwing all the trash into the garbage, and helping Diane's mom carry the left-over food back to the kitchen. The barbecue, charcoal still glowing brightly, was moved carefully to one side of the patio.
Soon "Jailhouse Rock" was blasting into the autumn air, and seven fifth grade girls were twisting across the patio.
Now Marta could dance. She had taken one month of ballet at her mother's insistence (after the month she quit, vehemently screaming, "I hate it!"), and at school she had been taught to dance. In fourth grade she learned square dancing, and in fifth grade she learned the waltz, the foxtrot, and the jitterbug: all the dances anyone really NEEDED to know, she had been informed, despite the existence of a few other popular dances, such as the polka, which she might want to learn if the occasion presented itself. But Marta did not know- indeed, had never before seen- the twist. "What are you DOING?" she asked.
The other girls laughed at her. Cathy (an innately kind person) took pity, and told her that they were doing the twist. There were no set steps, she said. It didn't really matter what you did. "Just sorta move with the music." So Marta, hesitantly, joined in, and there were eight preteens and one cocker spaniel wiggling across the patio.
After they had danced to "Jailhouse Rock" thirty or forty times the novelty began to fade; so when Diane's mom came outside and said, "You'd better turn off the music now. It is getting late," moans and complaints were only perfunctory.
Carol suggested, "S'mores now?" and everyone shrieked "Yes!"
To cook the marshmallows, they had two barbecue forks and one sharpened stick. They gathered around the barbecue, graham crackers and Hershey bars at the ready. Carol's marshmallow technique was similar to her hot dog technique. She burnt them, blew out the flame, and ate the blackened gooey mess. Other girls took forever, trying to roast each marshmallow to a delicate golden brown without a speck of black. Marta wasn't picky. She tried for golden, but if a marshmallow got scorched instead, she'd eat that too, with sticky delight.
After s'mores, Diane's mom told announced that it was time to get ready for bed. Indeed, the sun had gone down, stars were in the sky, and there was a chill in the air. Marta took her turn in the bathroom, and came out with freshly brushed teeth and blue flannel pajamas with pictures of kittens on them. Most of the girls wore flannel pajamas, mostly with flowers. But Diane, always the perfect lady, had a long white flannel nightgown, with delicate pink ribbons. The girls ooo'd and ahhh'd over it.
Now was the time to huddle in a circle and talk. At first the talk was about TV. Marta was left out, as her family had no television as yet. She occasionally saw TV at her grandparents: Ed Sullivan, Laurence Welk, news, baseball, or boxing. Her grandparents had control of the station to be watched. She did not. And the other girls were talking about shows her grandparents did not watch.
After a while talk shifted, to school, teachers, and boys. Marta was left out, again, because she went to a different school than the others, had different teachers, and did not know the boys of whom they spoke. She was not particularly interested in boys anyway, in fifth grade. Soon she began to yawn. She didn't know what time it was, but it was well beyond her regular 8 pm bedtime. Her eyes kept closing. Eventually one of the girls caught her dozing off, and suggested, "Why don't you go to bed?" Marta wasn't certain whether the remark was meant kindly or whether the girl merely wanted to get rid of an annoyance, but either way she decided to take the advice. She found a good spot, rolled out her sleeping bag, used her clothes for the next day as a pillow, and fell into the sound sleep of exhaustion.
When she awoke, hours later, she was cold, shivering, wet, and had to pee. She sat up in the bag, and looked around. Stars were still shining, but the moon was down now. The yard was silent, filled with lumps which were bags of sleeping girls. Her bag, with her in it, had been moved, so that the other girls could have her spot. They put her to one side, under a faucet at the edge of the lawn. The faucet was dripping. Her sleeping bag, her hair, her pajamas, and her clothes for the next day were soaked. She groped for the shoes, which had been carefully stored beneath the bag at her feet. They were missing. She wiggled out of the wet bag, picked up her flashlight, and padded in her socks across the dewy grass. Eventually she found the shoes, damp with dew, tossed to one side of the bag of the girl who had stolen her place. She put wet feet inside the wet shoes, and made her way to the bathroom in the garage.
Relieving herself helped, but it did not make her feel any warmer. She shone her flashlight around the garage, hoping to find a dry blanket or an extra sleeping bag. Nothing, not even a tarp. She thought of going into the house, but remembered the firm instructions: "You are not to invade the house."
She went back out and got her sleeping bag and clothes. She wrung the clothes out as best she could, and draped them over things in the garage to let them dry. She unzipped the sleeping bag completely, huddled down against the wall, and wrapped the drier part of the bag about herself. There she shivered, cold and miserable, until morning.