In the main corridor of the school, wide sheets of fabric stream from the ceiling, purples and pinks and blues! The men wear masks and tuxedoes. Their smirks and height are all that set them apart. Janet Halensen, there, by the door, collecting tickets, ushering people welcome with a smile and a free raffle ticket! The stage lit professionally with all of our fundraising money: the band—Carly’s brother and his friends: a rim shot slaps, the standing bass plucks and the guitar whines something by the Beetles! If only I had a better gown; mine is alright--I suppose. But it isn’t new, and that isn’t alright.

They had given dance lessons in gym class, for the last three weeks: boys on the left, girls on the right, your partner was the person directly across from you. I didn’t know if I’d get Johnny Frey or Russell Shepard. I hoped for Russell. He was far cuter, smarter, had long hair that I wanted to touch. However, luck was never with me, and I was paired with Johnny, and the little bitch Lindsay was paired with Russell.

There, by the stage, with the other boys. He has to be over there, dancing in a circle—not like in gym. One, two, three. One, two, three. They shake their heads, thrash, jump and collide, chests out, shoulders crashing; preparing for a war or game of football. Their masks glitter. The principal goes over, breaks up the fun and calms everyone down. I think I see him now, with two other boys, walking over to the drink table. I recognize his height, proportioned evenly to mine; so that when our arms will encircle each other, my head will rest directly on his upper chest. His lips like a violet seashell on the beach, soft as a warm low tide.
On the line for the punch, I stand behind Lindsey Perkins. Behind me, two girls talk about someone I don’t know. Maybe he is younger than us. Or, older? They talk about—oh my gosh—I think one of them says penis. Then Lindsay turns around: her idle conversation is an attempt to add breath to a stale moment.

“Don’t you just love school balls?” Lindsay asks.

“Oh? Definitely! Tell me about it,” I say. “I love your dress, too.” I don’t. It doesn’t fit right. She needs to wear a bra. Her boobs look like they’ve begun to melt into her chest.

“Thanks. I love yours too,” Lindsay says.

Lindsay leads me to the bleachers where we sit and talk about going into high school. She tells me about a crush she has, but she won’t tell me his name. I know it’s Russell, and that I can never be her friend. Then the music stops and someone taps the microphone; it’s the Principal, Mr. Argentis, tiny, shining bald, the microphone at his lips. “Now, what you’ve all been waiting for—the school waltz! Find your partners!”

If I were naked in a fishtank in the middle of the room I would not have felt so embarrassed. They didn’t tell us we’d have to dance! I thought our lessons were only enforced to give us the option to dance, not require us. Lindsay’s mouth drops and her reaction makes me feel more comfortable. But of course we have to dance. Then the idea seizes me: to cut in. Wasn’t that a romantic gesture? I would find Russell first.

“I need to find Russell,” Lindsay says. There, his name, from her lips. I turn and flee into the crowd. The faces are like shadows of trees in the night, elusive and identical. I need to find him.

“Hey. Christie.” I turn and see the mask. For a small moment I imagine it is Russell, offering to take my hand, but I know this overzealous smile, like the mouth of a gargoyle about to devour a pizza. “Are you ready?” Johnny asks, far too excited.