Boys sit on the left, girls on the right. A 1930’s parquet dance floor separates us–demilitarized zone of the battle of the sexes (junior varsity division). We helplessly stare, slumped in existential crises. Around 25 of each sex, 60% are from Rich Town. We eye up the girls. Many faces seem familiar, but the long legs and expensive dresses do not. 80% or so of the girls are wearing what my aunt would call ‘sensible shoes.’ The others are a few inches taller than at school. We begin forming a sequence of preferred partners. The CEOs are on top, then other girls: the three brunettes (Nerdy, Skinny, and Arty), 3 girls who were considered ‘ugly’ but were always fun to talk to, a quiet small Jill (who had a VERY cool brother we’ll meet later), and Cathy the blonde. And Trisha, who had more steel in her mouth then I had ever seen, poor thing. The others have either been lost in my failing mind, or they never made it to high school. The girls we did not know had to be-gasp- from another school.
No strangers from our mortal enemies in the district beside us. Around 6 or 7 girls and boys came from the local Catholic school. . This holy group could be relied on for conservative attire. The girl on the hill above me who shot hoops with the boys was there. So the others came from schools strewn across the county. One or two of them were very pretty, and needed to be explored, results shared among us idiots. The strange boys were pretty much welcomed–after all, we had no real allegiance to the high school since we had no jr. high sports.
We’re whispering like Biblical foolish virgins. Across the room, a few girls alternately wave, then stare at their shoes. It never occurred to us that we were being sized up either–ahhhh, the vanity of the innocent.
A stranger beside me, leans over: “See that girl with the slanty eyes, blue dress?”
“Yea, nice legs”
“That’s Betty. I think she came from your school”
“Really? How do you know?”
“She thinks her shit doesn’t stink.”
I guffaw obnoxiously, never heard that before. And then:
Across the middle of our dance floor steps the old blue haired so-sigh-etteee matron. Subtlety was not her strong suit. She click clacks to a mike on the floor. Silence descends like July humidity.
“Good evening, young ladies and gentlemen. My name is Mrs. Kittselroeger”(with an umlaut, doncha know). “Welcome to the first dance of the year.”
Her dress looks 25 years old–puffy, swollen, and taffeta. Yellow teeth. Way too much jewelry (the word ‘bling’ was not invested yet, kids). I think the local concrete repair guy did her makeup. Like Lady Liberty in the harbor, her hair is stationary and frozen. As expected, she showered with her perfume bottle.
(Thanks to Samuel Taylor Coleridge)