We're all in the burger joint, crowded around two tables, smiling and laughing and sipping our milkshakes. It's the epitome of teenage wasteland, complete with awkwardly trying to talk to the "cool" kids and little groups of people all caught up in their euphoric little worlds. It's picturesque, like a lot of things seem to be these days. I can see an identical scene sixty years in the past, with an abundance of poodle skirts and leather jackets and hair gel, with a jukebox blasting Buddy Holly in the corner and the Fonz teaching boys to unhook a girl's bra in the restroom. It's what I always pictured the stereotypical high school weekend to be, staying out late with friends and not caring about homework or expectations or consequences.
Except that there's still that nagging little voice inside my head. You're too young. Go home to Mommy and let the cool people, the normal people, have their fun. Stop pretending. And I can't ignore it, because somewhere in the self-loathing the truth is hidden. I am too young. But it doesn't matter.
Maybe this teenager thing isn't all it's cracked up to be.