Remembering My Junior High School Dances

Even while such things are best forgotten

Junior High. Sigh.

Not a topic that comes to mind very often. But when it does, I might remember being teased by my algebra teacher when I did well, which was rare. Or my best friend, Anna.

Then. Every single time, my brain shoots straight to the bane of my junior high existence — those ‘premature’ dances held periodically in the school’s gym. Every. Single. Time.

We were young.

Way too young for the angst of teenhood to be thrust on us by teachers and whoever else thought we would like to go home, gussy up, and come back to Drake Junior High.

Come back to stare across the gym at the boys in our case and the girls in theirs, while someone—the principal — spun billboard hit records, bopping their head, snapping their fingers, nodding at us all, silently cajoling us, someone, anyone, to brave the shark-infested waters of the gapping maw between the two lineups and ask someone to dance.

That someone wasn’t me.

That someone was never me.

We stood there in our line, smiling at the boys — boys we often towered over, boys who teased us on the playground, or boys who never made eye contact, trying desperately to lure one of them over to our side of the glitzed up gym and get the party started.

There were no tables, chairs, or even bleachers. Just bare walls and the lines on the floor for basketball positions. English Leather, Old Spice, and Tabu tried but failed to cover the lingering musk of the day’s sweaty pits.

When, after an eternity not smoothed out by booze — which would come later — one brave boy, maybe on the football team, walked across those tormented waters to ask a girl, maybe a cheerleader, to dance. And she’d giggle and put her hand over her mouth and let herself be led out on the floor.

They’d stand there under glaring overhead lights, and wiggle or shimmy or bop, with mainly their arms and head. Maybe shift their weight from side to side just a bit. But pick up their feet, never. They were stuck to the floor like the crazy glue that hadn’t been invented yet.

But now the ice was broken.

That half-hearted shadow of a dance was enough to get one or two more boys to cross the Rubicon and ask a girl out into the middle. And then one of two more.

With each song, the music got louder. The dancers got looser, and those of us left on the sidelines’ faces got redder. The flames of shame licked at my heels each time I was passed over.

Yet each time another song came on, my heart beat fast, and my hopes rose. Maybe this time?

No.

Maybe this time?

No.

Maybe this time?

And so the night wore on. My hope dwindled but never disappeared completely.

It soared when Robert Crandall, in his pressed dress shirt and white jeans, started across, jerking his head to flip his long, blond bangs out of his eyes. The epitome of cool, and he knew it.

Our eyes followed him as we shifted in nervous anticipation. Who would he pick? Once, he came so close I could feel his breath. I held mine, waiting to see. Would he, could he, ask me? Oh, please, please, please.

But, uh, no.

His hand shot out to Tina, the girl next to me—the girl in the tight mini-skirt.

Don’t cry, I told myself.

Don’t cry.

Do not cry.

At least not till I made it to the ladies’ room when they called a break.

Could I leave early before the bus came back to our section of the base? Could I call my parents?

And admit defeat?

Nope. I was there for the duration, to stick it out and weather the humiliation.

Each time, I vowed never to return.

Until the next one. With a new calico print dress, as short as I could get away with, my hair teased as high as I could get away with, and more Tabu, maybe this time, this would be the time I got asked. I practiced all the dances with my girlfriends. The Swim. The Monkey. The Hitchhiker.

No. It couldn’t be my dancing. No way could it have been my dancing. I’d studied ballet for six years. I got to solo at the recital for the officer’s wives They fussed over my graceful arms. So, no, it could not have been my dancing.

Besides, none of the boys had ever seen me dance. I hadn’t seen me dance.

But the music called. The Beatles. The Beach Boys and the Temptations. Especially the Temptations. As in, My Girl. The music called louder and more soulfully as the night dragged on and on and on.

And I never, once, got to answer.

I never got to dance.

No, this flower stuck to the wall, climbed the wall, hated the wall, and returned again and again, like a gambler hooked on the one-eyed bandit that robbed him blind.

Come up empty every time. Every. Single. Time.

Which explains why, years later, when I discovered salsa and how inviting Latino men were — both to look at and in their actions — I was hooked. I never had to sit when I wanted to dance. Never.

Many a time I had more than one hand extended my way as the opening strains of Devorame Otra Vez caressed my ears. Where were you guys when I was in Junior High?

Not even born yet.

But now, with the Capezio dance shoe on the other foot. I got to pick. Say yes to one, and next time to another. No matter how smelly their breath, or how many times they stepped on my toes, I gave every one of them a dance or two. Every. Single. One.

No was not in my vocabulary. Instead, I said yes, every time.

Every. Single. Time.

A big thank you to Cindy Heath, editor extraordinaire, for helping me polish this peace!

Marilyn Flower’s a sacred fool who writes every day — fiction, poetry, and blogs — inspired by a process called SoulCollage®. She’s the author of Creative Blogging and Bucket Listers: Get Your Brave On. Follow her Sacred Foolishness or SoulCollage® for Writers, and Stay in touch!