Igpay Atinlay

Ancay ouya eakspay igpay atinlay?

Sometime around the seventh grade, a group of us girls all learned to speak pig latin. This incredible language was passed on to us by Nancy’s older brother, who assured us that only we and a few chosen others could understand this strange and cryptic language.

We practiced our new communication all weekend to be ready to whisper secrets to one another in study hall or flaunt openly in front of the boys.

In no time, we became so fluent that we used the language within earshot of our parents. When on the telephone discussing that cute boy in English, we left out no details about his dreamy eyes, his wavy hair or the way he looked running track during gym class. Why, we could just say anything and our parents would have no clue.

Occasionally, just to show off, we would answer back to our moms in pig latin, then condescending say, “Oh, I forgot, you only speak English.” Betty’s mom didn’t think it near as clever as we did and Betty wound up grounded for a week.

It was great fun among us girls as we told jokes, gossiped and even did our homework immersed in the switching of consonants and adding the “ay” at the end of the word.

All was going along smoothly until one day I slipped up and muttered “ammitday” under my breath when I dropped an armful of books in the living room.

Hands on hips and feet firmly planted, my mom suddenly appeared. “Iway avehay adhay enoughway. Ifway ouya asay atthya ordway againway, young lady, ouya areway roundgay orfay away onthmay! Ownay ickpay upway hosetay ooksbay andway ogay otay ourya oomray!”

Good grief! SHE knows our secret language! She knows everything we’ve been saying. Arrrrgggggh! We’re doomed.

The next day in home room, I spread the horrible news to the other girls. Within three days of diplomatically quizzing their mothers, we were devastated to learn that yes, the other mothers and most of the dads, knew our secret language.

When we confronted Nancy’s brother, he howled with laughter. “Of course Mom knows pig Latin, you goofs. Who do you think taught it to me?!”

We decided Nancy’s brother had to be punished for lying to us and then laughing at us. We almost let him off the hook, until we found out he told the guys he hung out with what fools he made of his sister and her stupid friends.

It took a little cocoa powder, sugar, flour, butter, vanilla, salt and baking powder and we whipped up the most beautiful pan of brownies to ever come out of Nancy’s kitchen. We giggled and imagined the consequences of one extra chocolatey secret ingredient recommend by Betty’s older sister.

Almost as if on clue, the brother and his friends appeared.

“Don’t touch these brownies,” we admonished the boys. “They are for a bake sale tomorrow and they have to cool.”

We went up to Nancy’s room, hands clamped over out mouths to keep the laughter from filtering downstairs, and slammed the door. Once secluded, we buried our heads in her pillows, rolling on the bed as tears streamed down our faces.

Two hours later when we emerged, the brownies had disappeared. So had her brother’s friends. At 3 a.m., reported Nancy, her brother was locked in the downstairs bathroom.

We never spoke of the incident again.

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