Griff Bangston was a 5 ‘9 curly-headed hockey player with blue eyes and a bad attitude. Always the leading scorer on the ice but never in the classroom. Although he made up for his lack of effort in school in the dating scene.
It was almost impressive. Griff turned the junior class at Two Rivers High School into a frenzy of U.S. Weekly readers, their eyes spellbound to the bold tabloid headline asking, “Who will Griff Bangston date next?”
But according to my dad, a teacher at our highschool, he was a straight-up slacker.
My dad had the joy and privilege of having Griff in his 10th-grade world history class – on the days he showed up. He saw firsthand how little Griff cared about the Mongolian empire, totalitarian governments or anything unrelated to hockey or hanging out with pretty girls.
My dad expected perseverance and fortitude from his students and his kids at home. From the time I broke my nose playing basketball in 7th grade to the two weeks I spent in the hospital after my appendix ruptured during Christmas break, he was always impressed with my pain tolerance, both physically and emotionally.
“You’re so tough, Em. I’m proud of how strong you are.”
So when I came home crying from a Halloween party in the fall of 2021 after seeing Griff Bangston stumble upstairs with one of my closest friends, I muffled my sobs into a fluffy pink pillow so my dad wouldn’t hear me from down the hall.
– – –
Six months later, I traded my long blonde hair for a short black wig after getting cast as Annette in our drama club’s spring production of Saturday Night Fever. During a Sunday matinee, singing “If I Can’t Have You” from center stage, I peered through the spotlight to see my dad and our entire family in the front row, squished together and leaned forward, gazing up at me from their seats. And if I squinted hard enough, there was Griff, tucked away in a balcony seat, hidden from all other theater attendees below.
My family met me backstage with bear hugs and enough flower bouquets to put Gertens out of business. I asked my dad why his eyes looked misty. He tried playing it off. My brothers laughed and told me he teared up during my solo.
In the dressing room, I got a text from Griff.
“That play was dog-shit not gonna lie, but you were amazing!”
Spring turned into summer. I was spending more time with Griff and less with my family. One night, after telling my parents I was going to sleep, I shoved pillows under my comforter, turned the fan on full blast and climbed out of my bedroom window to meet Griff outside. We hopped into his red convertible and sang along to a Blink-182 CD, screaming the words to “All the Small Things.”
He taught me how to hop a fence at Somerset Country Club in Mendota Heights, and we ran through the sprinklers and laughed until we fell over onto the soaked fairway. At 3 a.m. we drove to the playground in my neighborhood and talked on the swings until sunrise. After dropping me off, I tiptoed through the front door and jumped. My dad was sitting in the living room, arms crossed with a stern look on his face. He’d gone into my bedroom to say good morning, only to be greeted with pillows instead of a daughter.
“I’m disappointed in you. This isn’t who you are.”
That became a common phrase in our household.
– – –
For months, I pushed him and my mom further away until my world consisted of friends, school and Griff. And in December of 2022, that led me to the driveway of a cabin in Northern Minnesota, two hours away from home with no way to leave.
I stood frozen, my hands covering my face, eyes stretched wide and mouth swung open. Griff was drunk, down on all fours, climbing over the trunk of my grey Chevy Malibu with his fist smashed through the rear window after attempting to reach the sunroof and use my car as a surfboard. Shards of glass twinkled in the backseat, on the carpet and across the pavement, illuminated by the light of iPhone camera flashes capturing every moment.
Griff laughed, right hand covering his mouth as he assessed the damage and refused to look at me. He hopped off the trunk and stumbled back to the cabin, broken glass crunching under his Yeezy slides. My friends followed him inside, unsure of what to say, leaving me all alone to weep beneath the snowy pine trees.
I called my dad immediately. He picked up on the first ring.
An hour and 20 minutes later, he stepped out of his van wearing a hoodie, winter coat, stocking cap, gloves and hand warmers; prepared to take the Malibu and drive it 90 miles home while 20 degree winds blew through the gaping square hole above the back seat.
He wrapped me up in his arms and held me there. I sobbed into the sleeves of his jacket.
“I’m just glad you’re okay. And I’m proud that you called me.”
I followed him down I-35 in his blue minivan, the heat set at a comfortable 70º and every window of the vehicle rolled up. Seat warmers on high and my “2022 favorites” Spotify playlist on shuffle.
The intro guitar riff to “All The Small Things” by Blink-182 started pounding through the speakers. I almost swerved, lunging over the passenger seat to grab my phone and press skip.
