The summer of 1983

Of course, it was hot and muggy like every summer in Missouri. I was working at my first job (Kmart) with girls from an entirely different social circle. Before that summer, I was a fundamentalist Christian goody-two-shoes who read the Bible every night before bed and told strangers about Jesus.

Oh, I'd made out with a few "nice Christian boys" in sweaty cars at the drive-in movies, and gone home with my white cotton bra and panties disarranged and moist. But, I'd never tasted a drop of alcohol, and I'd never stayed out past curfew. And, of course, though I'd laid hands on a couple of penises and dry-humped my boyfriend into misery, I was saving my virginity for my future husband.

During the summer of 1983, I broke curfew three times with friends from my new job, and got drunk once. This was wild rebellion for a girl like me. One night, I went out with girlfriends, and after a few wine coolers, I let two boys I'd never met borrow the keys to my car while my friends and I rode in a different car. That evening ended at 3 a.m. with my dad driving to meet me at a girlfriend's house, after which I followed him home, and then endured a silent stormy weekend with the folks.

Summer, 1983 was when the thin veneer of goody good girl broke, revealing what was about to follow when I headed off to college. My parents were ready to throw up their hands in despair, I'd always been such a biddable and accomodating kid, and suddenly, I was "acting like a hellion." Finally, they made me quit my job and I was grounded for most of August.

I have a snapshot in my memory of driving home from my last curfew-breaking: half-drunk, screaming Photograph at the top of my lungs while the dark wind blew in through the open car windows at 2 a.m., knowing I was in for a hellalot of pain and trouble when I got home.

The summer's soundtrack was Def Leppard's Pyromania, the first rock album I ever owned. Standing in line to buy it at Kmart with my employee discount, I trembled with adrenaline and fear. Every previous summer, I'd listened while an evangelist played rock albums backwards at church camp so we could hear the very voice of Satan encoded into the vinyl.

These days, every time I listen to Pyromania, I'm 16 again, getting ready to head off to my senior year of high school, and freedom is just around the corner. And yeah, I'm a little bit of a bad girl.