Late August marks the return of students to college campuses across the country. And this time of year always reminds me of when I got caught hosting a keg party while my mother and my future stepfather Bill took my sister Lisa back to Hartwick College in Oneonta, New York, for the start of her sophomore year in 1986.

I had never done anything that rash, but I deluded myself into thinking I had earned the right to have some fun. And I wanted to kick off my senior year of high school with something that would make me stand out and boost my social clout. My risky behavior was also inspired by a scene in the teenage movie Weird Science (written and directed by the great John Hughes), in which Lisa (Kelly LeBrock) tells Gary’s parents, “This guy deserves a party.” I was that guy, the nerd trying to fit in by hosting an end-of-summer kegger.

I asked my friend Todd to buy the beer. He bought a huge keg, and he and some friends dropped it off on the cement patio of my Grandma Josephine DeCosty’s old home—where Mom and I now lived—the same patio where my relatives gathered for cookouts in the summer.

It was a humid Saturday night with mosquitoes buzzing and crickets chirping. But with music blaring, kids chattering, and cars driving up and down our street (with drivers struggling to find parking), the noise of the party overtook the sounds of nature.

My friends and students I had never met congregated on the patio, pumping the keg and drinking beer from red plastic cups. Inside the house, people were spread out in every room—some guys stationed in the living room, watching a college football game pitting the University of Miami against South Carolina, while another group occupied a table in the basement, playing cards and smoking cigars. (The Hurricanes defeated the Gamecocks 34-14).

Nothing about my personality suggested I would host a party of this magnitude. But people weren’t coming to the party because I was the host. They came because the word spread about free beer.

I didn’t drink because I was too busy making sure everyone behaved. Even so, the party got out of control.

It ended because of my ineptitude. My friend Rob asked me to follow him home so he could drop off his car and then crash somewhere in my house. He didn’t want to drink and drive, and he didn’t want to leave his car on the street. Trying to be a responsible host, I followed him home, and we drove back together.

But in the meantime, my mother called. Julie, the younger sister of one of my friends, answered the phone, and my mother heard the background noise and asked the girl what was going on. I think Julie hung up without answering my mother’s question. When I arrived home, she said, “Fran, your mom called while you were gone. And I answered the phone.”

“No,” I said, tugging at my hair. “You didn’t.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know whether I should answer it or not.”

“It’s OK. Don’t worry about it.”

“She sounded upset.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

A short time later, the phone rang, and Lisa was on the other end. “Hey, what’s going on there?” Lisa asked.

“I’m having a party.”

“Well, you better get those people out of there quick. Mom and Bill are coming home now.”

“What? No.”

“Yes. Mom’s pissed. You better hurry. You have about two hours. Make sure everyone is gone and the house is clean.”

I hung up the phone, still holding the tan receiver. I remained standing in place, and the blood must have drained from my face because my friends asked me what was wrong. I could barely open my mouth, but then I whispered that my mom was on her way home.

I couldn’t raise my voice to tell everyone they had to leave, but my friend Donna stepped in and helped me. She must have recognized my desperation and announced the end of the party. Donna rushed from room to room, went outside to the patio and the driveway, and told everyone they had to leave and to help clean up on the way out.

Todd or some other friends took the keg, and I grabbed garbage bags and started picking up the cups. My friend Billy and another friend, Matt, planned to spend the night at my house. We removed all evidence of the party and wiped down every surface, and soon the house was immaculate.

My mom, Carmella DeCosty Ruane.

We were seated on the couch in the living room, watching television, when Carm came inside. Carrying her suitcase, she walked up to the second level of the house and addressed me. “I hope you’re happy. We trusted you, and you spoiled the weekend for us. You’re grounded. No car, nothing.” She then stormed up the stairs to her bedroom and slammed the door. Billy and Matt burst out laughing. “Shh. You guys are gonna get me in even more trouble,” I said.

In the morning, Matt woke me up and said he needed a ride to his job at a grocery store, located miles away on Turin Road. I told him I couldn’t drive but offered him my old bike. And Billy and I laughed after he left the house, as we imagined John pedaling uphill along Turin Road, riding my rusty, battered bike with a rattling chain.

A day later, I remained grounded, but I begged my mother for forgiveness and wormed my way back into her good graces. I told her I had wanted to do something fun, something to start our senior year on a good note. She said our next-door neighbor had complained about the noise, and she made me aware of the dangers of hosting a party at her house. “You have to understand,” she explained, “God forbid someone would have gotten into an accident after drinking, I would have been responsible.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t ever do it again.”

“I won’t,” I said, and we hugged.

And the story would later become a humorous anecdote I would share at family gatherings, recalling the time Mom and Bill raced home from Oneonta, only to find the place quiet and spotless.