"I thought you were spending the night at Tammy's," Mom says.  She seems bummed that I have to hang around here all night, as if she's got exciting stuff to do.  Yeah, right.  

"We're not friends anymore," I mumble as she walks out of the room.  I flip through the channels to Solid Gold.  Tammy stole my boyfriend, is what I want to say.  Tammy is a slut.     

Dad shifts in his La-Z-Boy, looking over his Sports Illustrated at the TV.  The camera zooms in on the star, a black dancer with hair like a strip of polished leather.  Her gold satin hot pants creep up to reveal a sliver of that famous bubble butt; plump and hot as a freshly-baked bundt cake.  She leers into the camera and thrusts her pelvis.  A weird heat pools between my legs.  I squirm in my seat.  Sluts sure do seem to have a lot of fun.

"She's gross," my Dad says; his upper lip curls, so I know he's not just saying that for my sake.  "You should turn that garbage off."

"But Dad, Missing Persons is coming on!  Please!  You like their songs, remember?"

He grunts and sticks his nose back in his magazine.  Wayne Gretsky is the 1982 Sportsman of the Year, the cover announces.  I look back at the TV.  The dancers bare their teeth at the camera.  Their matching gold satin sweatbands are soaked.  The women's braless breasts jiggle.  I can't help but give my own little ones a squeeze.  Mine are nowhere as big as Tammy's.  That bitch.

She let Brad go all the way.  I think of his probing finger, the way he scratched me with his fingernail.  He was the first one who ever got to third base.  Then he went around and told everyone.  He said I was a dork because I like New Wave better than Metal.  He said my braces gave me bad breath.     

I put my head in my hands and choke back tears.

"Here's your group.  Why aren't you watching?" Dad asks.

I snap my head up as the host, Rex Smith, introduces Missing Persons.  He says it with a girly toss of his head.  His perfectly feathered hair doesn't budge an inch.  I'm so sure.  Only rock stars can get away with wearing that much hairspray and lip gloss.  And someone needs to tell him that those pants give him a camel toe.   

My heartbeat speeds up as I hear the first notes of "Destination Unknown," my favorite song ever.  They don't play it on our lame top 40 station, but when I turn my radio's antenna a certain way, I can pick up stations from Detroit.  I spend hours staring out the window, my ear pressed to the speaker, wishing I was anywhere but here.

The camera zooms in on Dale Bozzio, who looks like a tiny punk Barbie.  Her white hair is streaked with hot pink and blue.  She dances like a wind-up doll in her clear spiked heels.       

"What the hell is she wearing under that blazer?" Dad asks.  He scrunches his eyes up to focus.  "Are those...fishbowls on her boobs?"

Dale looks at us and winks, like she's saying, yeah and what are you gonna do about it?  She's totally awesome!  Not like some sleazy dancer who only shakes her ass.  I bet she'd make Brad run home crying to his mommy.

"I wonder how she gets those things to stay on," Mom, who just walked in, says.  She seems as impressed as I am.  "She's not classically pretty, but she's got personality.  That goes a long way in life."  She looks at me and winks.    

Dad clears his throat and says, "I don't know why women think they need to dress like that to sell records."    

Yeah right, Dad.  Stuff your eyeballs back in your skull.  You really don't get it at all.      

As the song's last notes fade away, I get up and walk into the kitchen.  I open the cupboards and take out two clear glass teacups.

Eat your heart out, Brad.