Snowball

I considered calling this story “The Time I Fucked Everything Up for Everyone”, but I realized that that could apply to half of my stories, so I’m going with plain ol’ “Snowball”.

What is Snowball?  Well, it was a high-school weekend retreat.  Snowball is no more.  I was there during the final year of the event.  And if you think that’s a coincidence, then you probably don’t know me well at all.

Snowball lasted three days and took place in some bumfuck swampland campsite a couple hours outside of our high school in Chicago–which, if you’re a horny sixteen-year-old, is a BIG FUCKIN DEAL.  The fact that there weren’t parents around and only a few disgruntled teachers and one “civilian style” police officer as chaperones meant that, great, now we can pretend like we actually have a chance to get laid.  Spoiler alert: we didn’t.

We arrived at the site.  Day One went without a hitch.  For me.  A couple of my friends had to recieve a “stern reprimanding” because they walked out of the limits of the campsite, and one of the chaperones caught them and assumed they were going to do drugs or Eiffel Tower a hoe (it was two guys and a girl).  The chaperone was some young guy named Keith.  Now Keith made one small mistake: when he was reporting the incident to the higher ups, he claimed that I was there, which I wasn’t.

The next morning, I thought: “Hmm… His actions have had no consequences on my life whatsoever.  I should probably get revenge.”

And so I did.  I went into the adjoined room after everyone had left, found Keith’s bed, and completely soaked it in urine.  The two aforementioned guys knew about it, as well one or two more people who had been in earshot of the uncontrollable giggling I emit while pissing on this guys bed.

Most of that day was a blur after that.  There were activities and other peer group challenge bullshit atypical of teenage retreats.  But then around dinner time, I got pulled into the office in front of the main coordinator and a couple of other chaperones.

“Some…troubling information has come to light, Darby.”

I squirmed inside, but maintained the facade of innocence.

“We have strong reason to believe that this morning, you were involved in a scenario where one of our counsellor’s beds was soiled…”

I gave an unknowing look.

“With urine.”

I jumped out of my chair.  What!  Were they joking?  Who did they think they were!  Who would commit such a heartless, senseless act!?

They wouldn’t tell me where they heard this little rumor, but I knew someone had blabbed.  It wasn’t even bedtime; Keith wouldn’t be in bed while all of the activities were taking place.

I was removed from all further activities for that day.  There was a big dance planned that night, and for many of the other hundred students, this dance was the main draw of the entire weekend.  That’s when the adults decided to make the incident public.

“Tonight’s dance will be cancelled,” they maintained, “if we do not have the culprit in custody by 10 PM tonight.”  Fuck.  What would I do? If I admitted my guilt, I would be suspended or expelled from high school.  If I held out, everyone would hate me.  Luckily, my two brothers from another mother, Rio and Kyle, the only ones to actually witness the peeing (my back was turned to them, they didn’t see my cock), swayed me into keeping my mouth shut, and promised to maintain the secret.

The next morning, the “piss on the bed” thing became the primary focus of all things Snowball.  Individuals got up on stage in the large assembly hall in which we had all gathered, encouraging the pee’er to come forward.  Some people were hostile, some people were annoyed, but most everyone thought that it was me.

At some point, after about an hour of extreme uncomfortability, I was pulled out of the discussion and brought into a room in back, in total isolation, and with a single low-hanging lightbulb illuminating just two chairs set in the middle of the room.  Some interrogation style shit.

It figures; I was about to gets interogated by a cop.  The same cop in charge of the “D.A.R.E. to keep kids off drugs” campaign from six years earlier in my life: Officer Stinson.

As you can guess, getting interrogated by a police officer, or any adult, in these conditions, when you are GUILTY AS FUCK is never a fun thing.  But I was determined.  I was determined to take this secret to the grave.  Or to the blog, as I have.

Officer Stinson kept pressuring me to confess.  “I know how to tell when someone is lying,” he said, leaning in close enough for me to smell his breakfast on his breath.

“I’m not lying!  I want evidence connecting me to the crime.  I want you to sample that pee and find my DNA!”  Luckily, he didn’t bring his crime scene investigation toolkit and eventually, he had no choice but to let me go.

When I re-entered the assembly hall, everybody was still talking about it.  I had had enough.  I had to say something.  I stood up.  Everyone looked at me.  And then I threw my hands in the air, and said this:

“I did it.  I DID IT!  There, is everyone happy?  Now we have a guy.  Take me in.  Arrest me.  Just give everyone their dance back and move on.  Seriously.  Everyone thinks I did it anyways.  So just take me!”

“Don’t admit it if you didn’t do it,” a voice called out.

“No, what does it matter ‘who did it?’  Just take me.  This isn’t what I signed up for, anyway.”

And then, something amazing happened.  People… started defending me!  Including the guy who had originally ratted me out to the adults (that cunt)!  An uproarious debate broke out, and thankfully it ended with everyone convinced of my innocence.  Well, most everyone.

That night, the final night, everyone had a personalized envelope, adorned with their name, taped to the wall.  Kind of like that secret admirer shit you do in second grade–wait no, exactly like that secret admirer shit you do in second grade.  I looked at my envelope; WAY more full than anyone else’s mailbox.  Surely I wasn’t that popular?

No, I wasn’t.  It was 90% hate mail.  People who had known me since grade school, telling me to “grow up”, “get a life”, “stop having Tourette’s” (which I didn’t really understand).

And that was it.  The trip was over.  We were chartered home, but it looked like I had survived.

At school the next Monday, I was summoned to meet with a familiar face: the dean of discipline (see “Surviving High School” ).  He knew me all too well.  He knew that there was no other person who could possibly do such a retarded thing.  He threatened me with expulsion, phoned my parents, and did all he could to bring me down.  But there was nothing he could do.  Much like Officer Stinson, he had no evidence.

The next year, I considered doing the yearly Snowball trip (as a subtle fuck you to everyone who tried to end my High School career).  But there was no Snowball trip.  I would have no more opportunities to Snowball before I graduated high school.  And neither would anyone else.  I singlehandedly ruined the entire program.  Years of tradition, of bringing people together (or whatever the fuck the point was), all down the drain because a few drops of urine left my cock and landed on a bedsheet.

Think before you pee kids.  It could be a life or death situation.  I commit murder with my pee.  And the name of my victim was Sandy Snowball.