“Ladies, I’m seeing many of you don’t feel the need to talk to your partner. It is your responsibility to initiate conversations with the gentleman who has chosen you as a partner. And gentlemen, this does not leave you off the hook. Talk about school, teachers, the weather, your friends. And you know, it wouldn’t kill you to complement your partner about her dress or her hair.”
Damn. this woman wants everything just so. Maybe she’ll ask us to juggle oranges or do somersaults.
During a breaks in the second session, I glance at girls and see a blonde with short hair opposite me, trying to discreetly slip off her heels and rub her feet. She was cute, with short hair in a yellow mini-dress. Must come from a different school, ‘she’s not one of ours.’ Heaven forbid you had to dance with a stranger.
Aha! I had an opening line! Music Starts……..
I nonchalantly stroll over and smile, suave for 5 seconds. “Do your feet hurt as much as mine?”
Huge smile, great teeth. “No, Cause I am going to cut the damn things off and soak them. Do you think you could step on my foot so I can go the hospital?”
“With heels like that, I’m more afraid you’ll cripple me. C’mon, we better dance.”
This was Mary–she lived in a village north of the city and couldn’t figure out how in the hell she got invited. Her mother was a realtor, who took her out and blew money for brand new stiff dresses, heels, shiny purses. She was very easy to talk to, with a smart-ass streak. As I’d expected, she had already had enough of the rich girls.
I pointed out the CEO’s (J and the C Twins), assuring her that they were nice. We compared notes, who was the biggest PITA–her mom, my dad. It was interesting to hear about her small town and all the farms. A lifestyle I was clueless about.
We became friends, the first of what became many female friends, who I found to be more open and uplifting than boys. Kinda like……….”We could feel alone when we were together, alone against the others. But we were never lonely and never afraid when we were together.” We had a defiant way of initiating dance; no ‘may I have’: one stood in front of the other, said ‘hey’, and inclined their head to the dancefloor. A few more chill rich girls like J got a smile out of it.
Dan (Champion Horndog), of course, notices this emerging ‘thing’. “Hey man, she likes you, get her phone number.” “For what?” I say. “So we can talk to each other and try to explain to a parent that we need a 45 minute drive so she and I can go to a deli and yak for a half hour? Driving is 4 years [edit: and many tears] away.” He shrugs, “You never know, maybe she really wants you.” I try forming a picture of Mary unbuttoning her blouse behind an old red barn; it just seems wrong at all levels.
Come March, the second to last dance. She won’t meet my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“This is my last cotillion. I’m not coming in April. I’ve had enough of these bitches.” Then she went into a tirade (I’ve forgotten specifics) about girls making snide comments at her clothes, Pushing her out of the way of the mirror, teasing her flat chest.
What do you say to that? Nothing, just ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I’ll miss you’. Last dance, she’s choked up. “Geez, c’mon Mary………This isn’t worth crying over……….I’m not worth crying over.”
She told me what a nice guy I was, not like the snotty rich boys. “I’ll never see you again” Nope, I agree. We’re off to different paths in the woods. The night ends. I’m getting my coat, exchanging the usual quotient of smart-assed obscene bantering. For some inane reason, I turned to look back. She was gone.
Fare thee well, Mary. Let your life proceed by its own design.