I'm not some piece of teenage wildlife.

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I wake up bleary-eyed, shielding my eyes against the bright daylight beaming through my bedroom window. It's Saturday, and it feels like one of those special kind of Saturday "mornings" from my high school years. I put mornings in quotations because like just about every teenager, I never actually knew what morning looked like on the weekend; I rolled out of bed anytime between noon and one o'clock, typically.

No idea what's producing this dreamy nostalgic effect this morning, but it's kind of nice. Then l I roll over and grab my phone to check the time. It's 1:16pm. I haven't slept in this late in... well, a long time. Then the iPhone in my hand magically transforms into the receiver of an old school cord telephone, and my bedroom morphs into my old bedroom at my parents' house.

I'm facing myself in the mirror, shocked to see my teenage self standing there, slackjawed with the old phone receiver to my ear. A girlish, high pitched voice suddenly comes wailing out of it.

She: "Shelley! Are you there? Oh my god, did you just drop dead or something?"

Me:  "No, I'm here. Sorry..."

She: "So are you coming tonight or not?"

I have no idea what I'm about to agree to, but I know that voice, so I know the answer.

Me: "Uh-huh, yeah. For sure."

She: "Awesome! Come to my house around 7 and we'll go from there. Byeeeee!"

Click.  I run into the living room and pick up the newspaper sitting on the coffee table. The year is 1992, which would make me 16 years old. But this is no flashback, for I can remember everything that has happened to me since this year of my life. This is my 38-year-old brain inside my 16-year-old body.

Back in my room, I inspect myself in the mirror. I remember this face. It's mine only younger, brighter. Same with the rest of my body. Wow. I remember how gross I thought I was at this age. Can I please, please, please keep this body when this is over and I go back to my real life again? Pretty please with a cherry on top? And these button fly jeans? These were my favourite!

I decide to spend the afternoon holed up in my room, trying on my old clothes, reading letters from boys and secret classroom notes from my best friend Nicki, whose voice squawked from the telephone earlier. I think about what it is I've agreed to this evening. I was never a misbehaving kind of kid, and I never did go to many parties back then. If I am lucky enough to relive a brief moment from my teenage years, shouldn't I do something a little crazy and memorable with it? I start to get excited about the possibilities.

I plan what I'm going to wear: my button flies, of course, my Beatles t-shirt, and my patent black penny loafers. I'll top the look off with one of the many pairs of gigantic novelty earrings in my aresnal... should I wear the big white dangly smiley faces? The purple dangly peace signs? Hmm, no, I'm already wearing a Beatles shirt, that's too much retro. I know, I'll wear the massive dangling yellow skeletons with rhinestone eyes. I love the way the skeleton's limbs jangle around, like they're dancing above my shoulders.

If only I could do something about my bangs. If I'm to keep the illusion that I'm still the same little me, I'll have to tease and spray them up high and hard. Hope I remember how to do this. Now where's my curling iron?

Fast forward to the part where Nicki and I are arriving at the house party. I'm not even sure whose house this is, but it's huge - it must be the biggest house in town. Do we seriously know the person who lives here?

The house is already packed with kids from our school, and many we've never seen before. We weave through the hordes of teenagers through the hallways and try to find our clique. Everyone I squeeze past seems to be looking at me strangely and suddenly I wonder if they can see the real me, if I've morphed back into my 38-year-old self. Catching a glimpse of myself in the reflective surface of a marbled wall, I relax seeing I still look 16. I smile nervously and look away from the peering eyes of boys and girls I've never met. I may look like them, but I'm acutely aware that I'm different. If they knew what I was, they'd abhor me like some kind of monster.

I 've lost Nicki - she's probably found someone she knows from her "other life" as a dancer. I'm not in with that crowd, so I keep searching for my own kind, which happens to be a bizarre yet cohesive mix of hockey players, headbangers, euchre champions, and musical theatre geeks. I like to think I somehow assembled this motley crew myself.

Unfortunately, I can't seem to find my people anywhere. Instead, I find myself getting called over to a group of kids who sort of hang out on the fringe of my clique. They're the band kids. Sometimes I think they're spies, infiltrating us for information to take back to the music room, but usually they just seem like sweeter, quieter versions of us, trying to be like us, or part of us. We're okay but they're kind of so-so, if you know what I mean.

It seems that they've adopted the Japanese exchange student, Kiyomi, into their clan. Apparently Aaron spent a year in Japan and he's trying to impress her with his limited knowledge of the language. She goes on a wild Japanese tangent to the awe of everyone present. Because let's face it: Japanese girls are hot and their voices are like delicious ear-candy. If only that drunk guy would stop wailing so offkey to the song that's playing so I can hear her sweet, luscious words.

Suddenly, our school's resident deliquent, Tommy, comes stumbling over. I guess he just got out of juvey. He spills his beer all over Kiyomi, and she berates him with gorgeous, shiny Japanese sounds. She's probably calling him a mother fucker and telling him he can go to hell, but it sounds like unicorns and rainbows. Tommy informs us all that can hook us up with any pill, powder, or herb of our choosing. The so-so kids all turn their noses up at him and move away. 

I think about it for a minute. What's the worst that could happen? I'm a grown-up in disguise. And it's not like I even live permanently in this timeline, this world, this universe that I woke up in this morning. If I get caught or if I have a bad trip, I'll just eventually come to in my normal life anyway, won't I?

I decide that waking up in my 16-year-old body in 1992 is trippy enough, and decline Tommy's offer. Poor Tom. Everyone knows he's a junkie. He'll be 18 soon, and he'll snort, trip, and inhale his way into grown-up prison if he's not careful, and he won't be.

Tom sloshes off, inadvertently dousing various teenaged revelers with waves of golden lager from his enormous glass, which seems to somehow never decrease in volume. I follow in his wake through the trail he has cut through the teenage masses, hoping to find Nicki or someone, anyone from my crew. Instead, I come face-to-face with the child of the parents who own this mansion-turned-playground. He asks me if I'm having a good time at his house. Looking into his eyes I see an ugly teenage millionaire who never wanted for anything in his life, except something to smile about. He says he likes my earrings and asks me if I wanna make out. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I consider it. Oh come on, imagine you've been thrust back into your teenage world. Tell me you wouldn't try to get away with something naughty and a little depraved while you're there?

But I don't do it. I tell him I'm looking for my friend and he's away from me like a bullet from a gun. I move through the crowd into another room, and I see a group of people tucked away in a corner. With them is Sam, a kid from our school who went a little nuts and then went to live in the local mental hospital for a year. It's good to see he's out, but I can tell he's still in a fragile state. He looks like he's about to cry. I always liked Sam. Back when I was really 16, I always felt bad for him, but I was sort of afraid of him, and never knew what to say, so I kept my distance.  Now I know better, and I scurry over to his corner and ask him if he'd like to go outside for some air. He comes with me and tells me about his time in the hospital.

Sam smokes his cigarette and offers me a drag. I'm not a smoker but I take a quick puff. The nicotine gives me a crazy head buzz and I hand him back his cancer stick. I tell him I've had just about enough of the party and I'm ready to go home. Then Sam comes up with this bonkers idea that's just too good to pass up.

He lives next door, he says, and he's got some hockey gear in the garage - wouldn't it be fun to dress up in goalie masks and scare people through the windows? Let me think about that OMG YES LET'S DO THAT. Finally a shenanigan that's up my alley!

Creeping through the shadows from his garage with hockey masks on our faces, we make our way back to the mansion and each find a window looking in on a sea of drunken teenagers. On the count of three, we appear in front of the window and watch with hope for the screaming and freaking out to begin. We are not disappointed. After a quick flash of our masks, we  move briskly to the side of the house. The ripples of our first appearance are already making their way through the house, judging from the commotion. We appear again in another window, but only for a second, and then hide behind the massive hedge. Wailing, flailing teenagers come flying out of the house. Some run crying and screaming home, and others come to the yard to investigate.

What we don't know is that we started a deadly fire. Upon our first appearance at the window, someone freaked out and knocked over a candle, which set the living room carpet aflame, sending kids running and screaming all over the place. Tommy, not the brightest bulb in the pack, poured a 40 of vodka onto the fire to try and put it out and caught fire himself. Now he bursts through the door into the yard, staggering toward Sam and me, howling in pain and fear, leaving a trail of fire everywhere he goes. Still masked, Sam suddenly gets the presence of mind to turn on the garden hose and blasts Tommy with water. I watch in horror as Tommy falls to the ground, charred and smoking.

Through the windows, I can see the orange blaze of the fire crashing the party like the most unwanted guest in history.  I take off my mask and stumble out to the street, calling Nicki's name, but there's no way she'll be able to hear me over the police and ambulance sirens as they come nearer and nearer. I start to cry, my body heaving with grief and responsibility.

*****

I'm back in my living room, present day. It's dark outside and in the room, and I'm the only one here, or the only one awake, it would seem. My heart is burning with sadness and my cheeks are wet from tears. I wonder if what just happened is in any way real, or if it was just some kind of lucid dream. I hope for the latter.

Before shuffling off to bed, I decide to take a quick glance at Facebook. Nicki has posted a memoriam for the 22nd anniversary of the passing of her friend Tom, who died from burns sustained at a house party in 1992...and for her friend Sam, who committed suicide that same night, over the grief of having indirectly caused the fire that killed his friend.

If I've learned anything from this, it's that timeline jumping is no game, and as innocent as I may look, I am a scary monster.

*****

Yeah so this went to a weird place! Don't worry - none of this is based on any kind of true experience, this was just sort of an exercise in letting my brain go free-range and just writing what came out. Listening to Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) the past couple of weeks, I knew immediately that the setting was going to be a teenage house party. I didn't have a specific story in mind though, and I decided to just let this one flow out of my mind as my fingers did the typing. I'm a little surprised that this is where it ended up, to be honest, because this album is a lot of fun to listen to. Even the album's title track resides on the lighter side of scary.

I could psycho-analyze myself through this piece, but I'll refrain from stating the obvious.

I will say that I'm a little bit obsessed with Ashes to Ashes. The nursery rhyme inspired lyrics and melody telling the uber-sad story of junkie Major Tom not being able to "come down" from space is kind of haunting me. My heart aches for him. He's a character in a song. I'm clearly a sucker for suffering of a certain kind. Let's not psycho-analyze that either.

Oh... and I didn't get to keep my 16-year-old body. Bummer.