I stood outside my grandmother’s house surrounded by a slick black dress, “strappy” heels, and the euphoria that generally accompanies the sweet smell of high school popularity coming in the eleventh hour. He would pull up any moment in his late 80’s model Bronco full of the gods of our high school: Brent, the singer; Bari, the hippie girl; Anthony, the italian stallion who drives a Porsche; and Christy, captain of the varsity cheer squad. I finally had been spared the humiliation of graduating a nothing.
I should be. I put more work into their GPAs than I did my own.
The story continues like every teen chick-flick in modern history. The limo pulls up and my very drunk date rolls out of the limo like kitten tied in yarn. Unfortunately, his yarn was his gorgeous ex-girlfriend.
Who didn’t see that one coming?
He mumbles something about his “plans” that “changed” and continued to do some strange yelling match with Anthony through the open door. She did a half-hearted wave and burst into laughter. They dove back into their chariot that would deliver them to the ball. The driver pulled away, leaving me standing in front of my grandmother’s house in a slick black dress, “strappy” heels, and the utter devastation that accompanies your high school life and dreams crashing around you.
I hadn’t expected to go to my senior prom. My high school was already taking steps to discriminate against homosexual couples forming in our tiny country high school. If you intended to go to prom, you needed to have a date of the opposite sex. Tickets were to only be sold in pairs.
If you need me to spell it out a little more for you, boys weren’t exactly looking at girls like me unless they needed a paper written for English class.
He was in my AP English class. I know, I was one of the “smart” ones. I should have studied the forshadowing, compared the plot sequence with the plots of other stories, compared and contrasted it to the classics. More concretely, I should have known from past experience.
That group (the Gods of Pinecrest) never acknowledged my existence unless it was for academic reasons. So, why would their fearless leader, an American Eagle model made flesh and seated next to me in Ms. Aldridge’s 2nd block AP English class, choose me to be his arm candy for the most important night of your entire high school career?
I’ll tell you why. It doesn’t happen. If it does, it means you have a bucket of red paint in your future.
Instead, I went on a search for the perfect dress to begin my new, socially-improved life.
My visions of being a future trophy wife sped away in a black limousine covered with dirty girl drool and liquor. I was faced with few new challenges: convincing my grandmother that he didn’t drive away because I looked like a slut and saving what little face I did have at school on Monday.