I know this happens all the time but it still makes me sick to read about it. A 15-year-old girl goes to a party and dies of alcohol poisoning, after spending the evening drinking shots.
She’s at the party with three friends, two 15-year-olds and a 16-year-old. The townhouse where the party takes place is rented by a couple of 20-year-olds from the rural boondocks who have just moved into town. (Charleston–“town”–is the home of Eastern Illinois University. The article doesn’t mention whether these two were students there or not.) The girl herself is from an even dinkier rural boondock than they are.
There’s only one person at the party over 21, and he just had his 21st birthday the previous day. So, okay, it’s a whole roomful of teenagers, drinking.
Where are the parents of these kids? I have teenage kids, and when they go to a party, I know where, and with whom, and what’s likely to happen. And yes, we have actually nixed The Cat Who Walks Alone’s party plans on occasion, once when she was 14, because when the Better Half got home from work late and found out whose house she had gone to, he recognized it as belonging to, shall we say, a less-than-savory Post Office co-worker with a frankly promiscuous wife, and he remembered hearing all the coarse workplace stories from this guy about the step-daughter, who was now evidently hosting The Cat at a party, and so Daddy drove over there just in time to interrupt a hot game of Spin-The-Bottle in the backyard, with no grownups anywhere on the premises, either inside or outside. And he hauled The Cat’s furious little ass home, toot sweet.
So I’m trying to visualize her saying, “I’m going to drive 30 miles to a party” and then myself NOT asking, “Where? And, who else is going to be there? And, what are you going to do? And, what time will you be home?”
I notice this girl didn’t even arrive at the party until 10:30 p.m. Where are her parents? She’s out cruising around all night and nobody’s paying any attention to her, and now she’s dead. I feel sick.