In 8th grade I was awesome. I had a light blue fleece tech vest and I wore ribbons in my hair. I played the flute in band and I tried to trick my parents into letting me stay up until 10:00 pm so I could watch Dawson’s Creek. I made pretty good grades but I would cuss sometimes so I could keep my street cred. Ok, I never had street cred, but my friends and I did affectionately call my neighborhood the mid-to-upper-class-white-suburban-ghetto. All in all, I was your typical lame teenager.

My best friend MeLissa (yes, with a capital “L”) and I heard rumors about this place called The Dream Center. It was like a club for christian kids in little ole’ Lake City. Clearly we had to be part of that. We dressed in our coolest outfits and I wore grey eye shadow because my magazines told me that color was for night. My mom dropped us off in her early 90’s blue minivan.

The Dream Center was a magical place. We walked into a teenage heaven equipped with black lights, splatter paint walls, virgin daiquiris, and a tiny stage in the corner. A  band from the next town over called Unforsaken was playing. All I can remember about them was that I thought they were weird and the lead singer (who is my current small group leader?) was wearing a hot green jumpsuit. MeLissa and I secretly called him Luigi. I didn’t even notice the dreamboat bass player because I was too preoccupied playing foosball with a 7th grader.