Yesterday, I fucked my back up somehow. I bet it happened when I was with that boy from Long Island – Glen. On the fire escape stairs after the parade. Or the other boy whose name I can’t remember, but I don’t think he ever told me.

There’s three medium-sized horizontal knots kind of in a line, right above my ass. And two more along the big bone that goes up and down. It hurts when I press on them. So of course, I keep pressing.

Crawling toward the subway, my head pounds with every step. I’m late for homeroom again. I try coming up with an excuse I haven’t used already on the nuns at Grace Business Institute for Women. One they can’t fact check, like a fight on the platform or a fire. Something that might invoke sympathy as opposed to their general disdain. “You poor girl, New York is so dangerous. As long as you’re okay, dear…” Something like that would be nice.

I can hear the train coming from the last station. So I take off running up the first flight of stairs, through the turnstile and onto the next level.

“Hold the door,” I yell, hoping someone will help. But no one traveling into Manhattan this morning cares that I’m hung over as fuck. They’ve got their own problems.

I clear those last few stairs in slow motion. I envy each and every miserable face aboard that train as it pulls away. I walk the length of the platform to the front, with a growing concern that I might throw up. And I do, just beyond the tips of my shoes. Liquid barf plashes across my flesh colored pantyhose. I move back towards where the center cars open so no one will know it was me who puked. Maybe a few people do, but I can’t think of that right now. I watch from a distance as other commuters skirt around the mess I’ve made.

I don’t even like the Paddy’s Day Parade. It’s usually cold and wet and boring. The music is ugly, and everything moves so slow. I’m proud to be Irish, I suppose. It’s whatever. I just don’t want to miss out on any of the action.

We all meet up at Kenny’s on East Tremont Avenue for Bloody Marys and beer. They’re a new drink for me – a breakfast drink. How I love starting the day in a bar! I feel so at home. Being completely open to whatever stumbles drunkenly into the loose itinerary of getting wasted.

Before long, we are on the subway, singing and passing bottles of liquor around. We head into Central Park for more drinking, looking for people we know and making friends instantly.

He is weaving by the bandshell. The first boy, Glen. There is blood all over his face and across the front of his shirt.

“Your nose looks broken,” I say.

“It might be, but I’m not gonna worry about that today. I’m here to have fun.”

What a great attitude!

He and his buddies sport varsity jackets. Assuming they are athletes, I am impressed. He says he is from Commack, Long Island. That seems really far away. I wish I was better at knowing stuff like what happens in Lacrosse and where places are located. I wonder if maybe he’ll let me wear his jacket.

We pay five dollars to get into a dark, warm bar where none of us are carded and we can use the bathroom, which is nicer than peeing in the street. They give us a ton of drink tickets,, like at the carnival. I found a bunch more on top of the cigarette machine and on the floor next to one of the toilets. Why would anyone leave their tickets behind? I wear them with pride around my neck.

This supergroup of old and new companions co-opts tables and booths as if we live there. Large trays brimming with refreshments arrive and keep coming. Beers, shots and Kamikazis. I say yes to every round. I involve myself in conversations where I can only hear every third or fourth word.

Glen drains his pint and announces, “I’m off to see my nana.”

I don’t want him to leave. To leave me.

“Don’t go,” I beg, hanging from his arm.

“I won’t be long,” he shouts over the music. “She’s right up the block.”

“I’ll come with you.”

This is great. I’m meeting his family!

I don’t know where we’re going, but he grabs my hand as we stagger through the crowded, rainy streets. Dudes are fighting, girls are crying and there’s vomit everywhere, The city is filthy with garbage and bad decisions. By the time we get to Lenox Hill Hospital, I’m not sure why we are there. We make out in the lobby. I punch all the buttons on the elevator panel. The people riding with us to the tenth floor are clearly annoyed.

“Wait here,” Glen says.

I flop into a wheelchair in the hallway, closing my eyes and wanting to lay down. A while later, he passes me in the corridor.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Oh, shit,” he says smiling. “I fucking forgot you were there.”

I hate thinking this guy was stupid because I liked him, but I realize he might be.

“Do you wanna see Nana?”

“Yes.”

“C’mon.” He pulls me into a room where a frail old woman is asleep in the bed. “She has cancer,” he drunk whispers.

She does look very sick. And dead.

“Nana, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

He shook her tiny hand which was covered in tubes connected to various beeping machines.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Mary.”

I know I already told him my name.

“Nana, this is my friend, Terry.”

I try to correct his oversight, but I could tell he doesn’t care. This whole visit is a dumb idea.

Out on the sidewalk, we kiss again and start looking for a place where we could do more. Tucked into the alley between two buildings, there is sex right away. No phone calls or trips to the movies, no french fries from McDonald’s. Just it on the fire escape stairs. I do not resist. I make like I know what I’m doing.

When we return to the bar, most of the familiar faces I came with are gone. There is no one for me to share what just happened. Suddenly, getting home seemed like a lot of work, so I keep drinking. I follow what is left of the group to another watering hole where I lose sight of Glen.

There is another boy, same kind of jacket. I go outside with him, around the corner and down some steps.

“Where did Glen go?” I ask.

“He had to pick his girlfriend up from the train.”

“Are you from Commack, too? Is it near here?”

“What does it matter?” he mutters, as he covers my mouth with his. He smells of sweat and damp wool. I feel like a failure as he struggles with my bra. The bricks scrape my shoulder blades and tear up the green blouse I swiped from my sister’s closet.

“You’re heavier than you look,” he says when he tries to pick me up.

A doorman comes to the top of the stairs. He bangs his flashlight against the railing with a warning.

“Get the hell out of here, you animals. Before I call the cops.”

The second boy is angry that he didn’t get to finish. And even though I keep apologizing, he hardly speaks to me the whole way back to the bar. Except to say, “Shut up, already.”

He wouldn’t help me look for my coat, either. And it’s freezing when I finally catch the train home to the Bronx.

I’ll never understand why people love parades so much. I hate them.