1986

At 8 a.m. a melee of post-pubescent teens spewed into the parking lot in a roar of indistinct chitters. Random shrieks shot from the crowd, quickly muted by the growls of revving motorcycles in the background. The asphalt glowed with dew that smelled of tar and Aqua Net, and someone somewhere had fired up a boom box—the silky bends of Drop Dead Legs began to slink into the morning air while teachers dismissed the cigarettes already burning between fingers. Estancia High was a feeder school—a mash-up of cultures and cliques. Its massive doors were coated in years of gooey lead paint, trying to hide the rusted iron beneath. Just past its gaping jaw sat the front office lady—a round woman with a powerful resting bitch face. She was the gatekeeper, judge, and jury before the final ruling of the principal, and seemed determined to make the days of high school a miserable sentence. Under her watchful eye, we marched forward and spilled into the atrium, the herd parting into their respective zones of social teenage migration.

The bathrooms filled first. Girls crowded the mirrors, dragging lines of electric-blue eyeliner across their lids while clouds of smoke and hairspray floated into the hallway like chemical fog. The boys’ bathroom was a breeding ground for dirty shenanigans—by 8:20, fresh spit-wads peppered the ceiling, sinks filled with running water, and at least one shit was left in the stall for the viewing pleasure of the next tennent.

Jocks and their freshly painted fangirls gathered by the bleachers for morning make-out sessions, their letterman jackets draped over thin shoulders like trophies. Bandos and theater kids headed straight for the safety of the Black Box and music rooms where belting show tunes and squawks of trumpets already filled the hall.

While everyone flocked to their pods around the school, the last of us went to the back.

The Back.

It was chosen family and exile all at once. Though mocked by the rest of the social hierarchy, we were menacing enough to keep the hallway haters at bay. Out back was less cliques than micro-communities, divided more by taste in music than the nefarious nature of social divides.

Heshers.

New Romantics.

Barrio kids.

Skaters.

And a slurry of socially homeless posted along the walls—hiding behind invisible shields of walkmans and books.

The Heshers ran tight circles of hackey sack huddles, all adorned with waves of feathered locks perfectly mimicking their hair band heroes. The soft thud of the tiny bag against worn Vans kept time with the hum of the stereo. Babette Ackerman held court there, a Marlboro always dangling from her glossy lips. No one wore a concert tee better. Her giant tits bounced with every kick of the hackey. She carried her nicknames with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what power her tits held in the ecosystem.

The Barrio kids did a lawn takeover near the edges of the fence with impromptu picnics that would put any taco shop to shame. Foil-wrapped burritos appeared from backpacks, while cousins braided each other’s hair in the grass. But the queen of the outback reigned in their circle—Mitzy Martinez. She moved like an alleycat who owned the entire field, her jumble of silver earrings catching the sun. She controlled the flow of weed through the chainlink where her cousin sold two-dollar joints—it was her superpower. Crumpled dollar bills slid through fists while Mitzy watched with bored authority.

The skaters roamed in packs, always looking for new ways to add to their already road-rashed bodies. Their boards clacked against the pavement as they circled the outskirts of the school like a band of hyenas hell-bent on terrorizing teachers or breaking limbs.

The socially unhoused might have been the outcasts of the outcasts, but they were the most protected by our lower class. Their burdens were too heavy for a mask. They stood with their backs to the wall, trench coats in ninety-degree heat, headphones clamped tight, eyes somewhere far beyond reach. When the insiders ventured to fuck with one of them, it came with a cost.

We all have rules.

Then there was us—the New Romantics. We were teamed up with the punks who generally shared our same vibes—dyed hair, ripped clothes, piercings—weirdos allergic to blending in. Madonna wanna-be’s and Siouxsie banshees, mohawks and stiff peaked bangs. Our thrift-store lace and torn fishnets paying homage to our earliest drag icons.

We were the original lost kids who lived outside, before tracking apps and curfews. We were the reason behind Mel Epstein’s nightly plea to parents, “Do you know where your children are?”

The Back was a place where we saw ourselves in others. Broken kids, bound together by similar unspoken uglies, who helped raise each other out of it.

Who would have thought we’d become the hovering parents of the future—batting away our kids’ struggles like flies, and clearing danger before it could find them. Who could have predicted that life in the underbelly would make watchdogs of us, teeth bared around our children’s youth?

I suppose it makes sense, in hindsight. We’re just protecting our kids the way we were meant to be protected—

from the people and things that made us the kids we were never meant to be.