The Covert Sleepover

A photo of the Night Before My Wedding with my Bridesmaids/Besties in our failed attempt to stack ourselves into a pyramid because that's what you do with your bridesmaids on the night before your wedding, right? Or is it?

HAPPY JOLEBRATION DAY EVERYBODY!

Today marks the birthday of one of my BFFs—the late, great Johannah Cantrell—and this is my annual post where I share some kooky story in her memory. Let's go back to high school for this one.

When I was a teenaged lass I lived in a small shire called Lashmeet. Meanwhile my two BFFs—Sheila Allen and Johannah Cantrell—lived three miles away in the nearby metropolis of Matoaka, West Virginia (although I may be using that word "metropolis" wrong). Sheila's house sat beside the first bridge as you entered the town and Jo's house sat next to the fifth bridge as you exited the town. I know that makes Matoaka sound a lot like it was Venice but really it was just an old coal-mining town with houses lining both sides of the wiggly Widemouth Creek, much like the teeth of crooked zipper. Jo and Sheila's homes bookended Matoaka and they could ambulate to each other's abodes in a leisurely ten minute stroll (or a five minute sprint whenever something exciting occurred).

The three mile distance between Sheila, Jo and I was hard on me, for many reasons. Firstly, Matoaka was where it was at back in those days... Not only was Matoaka the home of our local high school, but it also had a drugstore with an old-fashioned ice cream counter and a place called Shuck's where all the cool high schoolers ate their lunch in un-cushioned wooden booths while bathing in a soundscape of Seventies tunes blasting from the jukebox. Matoaka even had a traffic light! In comparison, Lashmeet had a couple of gas stations. And no traffic light. Which meant that my house was at the bottom of the list for sleepovers. If it hadn't been for the possible sightings of a handful of cute Lashmeetian boys who resided nearby and the stockpile of Chef Boyardee Pizzas that I insisted my mother keep on hand, Sheila and Jo likely would have never deigned to spend the night in my boring neck of the woods.

(FUN BFF FACT: Sheila ONLY stayed if I could offer pizza.)

Suffice it to say, I spent the night as often as I freakin' could with Jo or Sheila. Fortunately, almost every high school activity on my calendar provided a good excuse for a Matoaka sleepover:

Basketball games—because Sheila & I were cheerleaders and she lived right beside the high school.

Church—because Jo lived next door to my church.

School tests—because I needed study buddies.

Cheerleading practice (or any meetings of the other clubs of which I was a member, which is to say ALL of them) because spending the night near our high school meant my mom didn't have to drive to Matoaka to pick me up.

I think my frequent Matoaka sleepovers suited my mom well, but I'm not so sure about Sheila & Jo's moms. I never asked.

Now I don't want to give the impression that Jo and Sheila never stayed with me. I eventually found a loophole (which became a literal hole—in my living room carpet) by offering up my rather large living room as a dance rehearsal space for our infamous Minnelli Girls troupe. And also for our Rolling Stone impersonations. And since we rehearsed A LOT, Sheila and Jo did become frequent overnight guests. Usually both of them at the same time. So it all balanced out. I'd stay with Sheila a couple of nights a week and then with Jo a couple of nights and then they'd stay with me a night. Or two. After a couple of years it kinda became a blur so for some reason I decided to count how many nights we spent with each other. I stopped counting on Day 11. At that point we had spent eight out of eleven nights at each other's house because how else are you going to rule your high school?

A common scene in my living room . . . times three.

It was around the time that our sleepovers had reached the 72.73% threshold of occupation that our moms collectively began putting on the brakes. And so it was one fateful morning when I asked my Mom if Jo could spend the night just before I left to catch the school bus. It didn't take any real planning and my mom always said "Yes". But on that Twilight Zone-ish Day Mom gave me an exhausted look and said "No." I responded with a litany of reasons why her answer was unacceptable to which she reiterated "No."

I wandered to the bus stop in shock, completely deflated. I shared the news with Jo as I plopped down onto the bleachers beside her, waiting for the bell to ring. She was equally deflated. We couldn't quite wrap our heads around it.

WHAT ON EARTH would we do that evening if we couldn't spend the night together?

It was unimaginable!

Inconceivable!

So we began to joke that we should have a sleepover at my house anyway—and just keep it secret from my mom and grandmother—who also happened to reside in our miniscule six room house.

And suddenly our joking began to feel like a James Bond-ish spy adventure unfolding . . .

COULD WE PULL IT OFF?

The odds were against us. My house only had one bathroom and the only way to reach it from my bedroom was to walk through the living room, the den/dining/TV room, and the kitchen. It could only be done in secret if Mom and Grammie were in their bedrooms. It would also seem suspicious if I stayed in my room all night—especially since it was about the size of a walk-in closet with just enough room to open the door without hitting my twin-sized bed. And where would Jo sleep? We usually slept in sleeping bags in the living room since my room was the size of a pup tent.

But where there's a will—and two conniving teenagers—there's a way. We began to plot.

Jo: Well, I'll just hold my pee until everyone goes to bed. Then I'll sneak out to use the bathroom. And in the morning I'll get up before everyone to sneak in and out of the bathroom.

Me: That'll work. But you'll have to sleep under my bed in case Mom walks in my room.

Jo: Crap! Well, okay. I can do that. I'll pretend I'm in a bottom bunk on a submarine.

Me: And I'll distract Mom in the kitchen in the morning so you can exit through the front door and run across the road to the bus stop. You might have to hide behind a tree so she doesn't see you.

Jo: (while snort-laughing) This'll be FUN! My name is Bond! Johannah Bond!

And there you have it: all the details of our well-thought-out plan (although I might be using that phrase "well-thought-out" wrong).

For reference, I thought I'd include a photo of what a typical sleepover at my house might entail when there were no Minnelli Girl or Rolling Stone rehearsals involved. There would still be some kind of costuming going on. This is Sheila and I in a practice-run as gypsy fortune tellers for a booth we were planning on hosting at our school's Fall Festival to raise money for one of our many clubs. I mean, clearly it was gonna be a moneymaker! Do we look like we know what the future holds, or what? Nailed it!

At the end of the school day, Jo and I climbed aboard the bus to Lashmeet, all a-giggled about our clandestine camp-in. Our first obstacle was my grandma. She usually sat in her wheelchair in the kitchen in the afternoons and evenings. Unfortunately, everyone entered my house through the kitchen door so we didn't even keep the front door unlocked (which we also did to protect my wheelchair-bound grandma during the day because we all know how rampant grandma-kidnapping was back in the day).

Now I assumed that I would just enter the house through the kitchen, say hello to grandma, and proceed to the living room and unlock the front door to let Jo in. But Jo had to go potty once we got off the bus so there was no getting around a kitchen crossing.

This is where my inner-flamboyant-performer came into play. I burst into the kitchen, all chatty-like, and walked up super-close to my somewhat-nearsighted grandma (who was facing the kitchen door that Jo had to come through) and launched right into some crazy story, accompanied by wild, large circling arm movements and stay-in-place zig-zagging sidestepping while swaying my torso wildly. Grandma stared at me politely, quite bewildered. But she was definitely focused solely on me, probably trying to examine my pupils to see if I was doing drugs. My Jim Carrey-like distraction allowed Jo to roll quietly through the door and onto the floor to scurry Gollem-like into the bathroom without Grammie noticing.

To allow Jo to escape the bathroom I made up some excuse to roll Grammie into the den/dining/TV room for a moment and once I was sure Jo was back outside I rolled her back to the kitchen and went to the bathroom myself so I could flush for Jo. (Even hard-of-hearing Grandma would have heard Jo flush because our house was anything but soundproof.)

After that, it was easy-breezy. I simply told Grammie that I'd be practicing my Mick Jagger impersonations to Rolling Stone music in the living room. I knew she'd stay as far away from that as she could possibly get. I went into the living room and let Jo in through the front door and we rocked out to the Stones until my Mom's car pulled into the driveway.

Here is my quick architectural rendering of my house. (Can you deduce why I didn't become an architect?) As you can see, there was no getting around a kitchen-cross-through whenever it came to access to the bathroom. And yes, I grew up poor where there was no such thing as a master bedroom/bathroom. Or even a second bathroom. And my bedroom didn't even have a closet so—technically speaking—it wasn't even a bedroom. To store clothes I had a large wardrobe which took up most of the real estate. The door missed hitting the bed by about an inch so there was no good place to hide Johannah except for under the bed. With all my shoes.

When Mom got home Jo hid quietly in my bedroom until dinner was ready. I announced that I would be watching TV while I dined and then I took a blanket and casually tossed it over the round card table in the den/dining/TV room, thereby creating a small tent for Jo to hide inside. Once Mom shouted "Dinner's ready!" I entered the kitchen and talked very loudly while Jo made a beeline from my bedroom to dive underneath my makeshift table fort. I hadn't really considered how I was going to bring Jo any food without raising suspicions, but fortunately Mom had prepared the perfect meal: Hamburger Helper! For those of you who have never feasted on this fine cuisine; here is the recipe.

(A.) Brown some hamburger meat in a skillet.

(B.) Dump the box of dried macaroni packed in reddish-yellow powder consisting of questionable ingredients into the skillet and stir.

(C.) Feast away. Somehow it is addictive as all boxed macaroni dishes are.

I managed to procure dinnerware for Jo in a manner that went undetected by spooning two plates and forks together (spooning forks sounds like an oxymoron) and then I heaped a steaming pile of Hamburger Helper on top. I piled it as high as it would go without avalanching off the plate. My mom's eyes bugged out.

"Connie! Are you THAT hungry?"

"Mom! I'm starving. It will all be devoured, I promise."

I sauntered slowly into the den/dining/TV room, careful to keep the slippery mountain of macaroni from sliding off the spooned plates. Once I got to the card table I scraped half the food onto the bottom plate. Meanwhile Jo was slowly suffocating from lack of air. I lifted and secured a corner of the blanket to create a small opening so that Jo could covertly watch the TV and also obtain oxygen. Then I shoved the plateful of Hamburger Helper into her hands and we silently snort-laughed at our collective genius-ness. Halfway through our TV show I went back for seconds. My mom and Grammie looked at me in utter disbelief.

"Connie, how on earth are you putting that much food away? You're gonna get sick!" Mom brayed.

"I'm just really hungry. Really, really hungry."

Their eyes grew even wider twenty minutes later . . . When I carried my empty plate(s) and fork(s) back into the kitchen.

"You ATE all of that?"

"Yup. I ate everything on my plate." (Note the phrasing I used when being interrogated. Everything I said was true. Never lie to your mama!) "I'll do the dishes real fast while the commercials are on." I chimed, as I plunged both plates into the soapy dishwater to hide the evidence. "Then I'm gonna go watch my shows."

Mom was content to sit and relax at the kitchen table while I hurried through my dishwashing. Afterwards I ran back to join Jo at (under) the table.

And so the evening went pretty smoothly with no mishaps or missteps on our part. Until bedtime.

I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, when Jo suddenly started sneezing. Just as I stepped back out into the kitchen Mom said, "I thought I just heard something in the other end of the house."

"Oh, I'll check. I don't hear anything. I'm sure it's nothing . . ." I said in haste, as I darted back towards my bedroom.

Jo was hiding behind my door, squeezing her nostrils together, tears pooling in her eyes.

"Jo!" I whispered, "Stop sneezing! Mom kinda heard you."

"I'm trying! But . . . ah . . . ahhhhhhhh . . . CHEW!"

"Jo! C'mon!"

"I can't help it weirdooooo AHHHHH CHEW! AH CHEW! AH CHEW!"

"Connie? What's going on in there?" Mom shouted.

"Nothing! I just got dust in my AH CHEW! nose . . ." I shouted back, fake sneezing.

For awhile it seemed we had derailed further investigation. But then, just as we were about to go to bed, Mom called me back to the kitchen for some reason or the other. And that's when Jo began sneezing AND COUGHING.

"Okay, there is something going on in your bedroom Connie . . ." Mom insisted as she rose to go take a look. I hurried alongside her and managed to cut her off at my doorway before she entered my room.

"Mom, nothing is going on!"

"Connie, I heard something!"

"I have a tape recorder going . . . and there's talking and stuff on it. (Yes dear reader, I broke the one rule you never break. I lied to mama!!! Something I never, ever did, but I was caught off guard and just blurted out the only thing I could think of to survive. And it actually worked. Mom stopped short of barging into my room and seemed to accept my statement as truth. (Forgive me Jesus.)

Meanwhile Jo had flattened herself like a cartoon character against the wall behind my bedroom door, one hand clamped over her mouth and the other pinching her nostrils closed to prevent another cough/sneeze attack. But it was to no avail. Just as Mom pivoted to walk away a muffled sneeze escaped which led to muffled coughing. All I could do was watch in horror as my Mom spun around and said, "CONNIE! WHAT'S BEHIND THAT DOOR!"

As I slowly pulled the door away from the wall Mom stepped into my room to peer behind it. And there stood the red-faced, teary-eyed Jo in her pajamas.

"Heeeeyyyyy there!" Jo chirped cheerily, with a little wave.

I remained frozen, awaiting my death sentence. Mom just stared, mouth wide open.

Then (and this is why I loved my Mom so much) she burst into laughter.

"Johannah Cantrell! What are you doing here! I KNEW I heard something!"

"Yeah, sor-rrrryyyyy," Jo said breathlessly. "I know you said I couldn't stay over but we thought that it would be okay if you didn't really notice that I was here cuz then it would be like I didn't spend the night here at all, right? Ha ha ha . . . . uh . . . yeah."

Mom looked at Jo, then me. I didn't dare move or breathe. She seemed to be calculating the best parental response but she just wasn't able to come up with anything. Discovering a covert sleepover inside your own house while you are actually AT home was not covered by the Parenting Handbook back in the day.

So with a sigh (and perhaps another chuckle) Mom turned to leave with the quick admonishment, "You girls go to sleep RIGHT NOW!"

And we didn't.

The only fallout from our secret pajama party came in the form of a mild scolding from my Mom a day later. Afterwards we never attempted another unsanctioned sleepover for two reasons:

(A.) We sucked at spycraft.

(B.) Our moms gave up after that and let us sleep over whenever we felt like it because they preferred to know upfront if one of us was actually lurking inside their home.

Miraculously, all three moms survived.

Happy Jolebration Day! Now go have yourself a covert sleepover!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JO!