Seventh Grade Dance
By C.S. Scotkin
To be female, 12 years old and five foot nine is one of God’s better practical Jokes. It was the night of the seventh grade dance. All the girls I wanted to be were going. You know, those girls, five feet two, cute and bouncy. Who had cool Moms who let them wear lipstick, and…nylons… Pleated skirts with heather sweaters and charm bracelets and circle pins. Hair that pouffed and flipped up at the ends. They never had to wear corduroy jumpers, ankle socks and tie shoes; they were never made conspicuous by their lack of jewelry, lipstick, and nylons. But I did have my Sunday Mary-Jane’s.
Dad was working second shift at the mill then, Mom wouldn’t leave her waitress job till 6, she promised to take me to the dance if I went to Grandma’s to get ready. Dad dropped me off and Grandma and I talked while we had supper. I went upstairs to change. I hated that blue paisley jumper and the ruffled front white blouse. My hair was straighter than string but at least I had been liberated from braids. I promised that when I arrived at the school I would go to the girl’s lav; these hated white socks would come off!
I sighed and went down for the final Grandmother inspection, looking and feeling like a four year old in front of a carnival fun house mirror. She looked me over and told me to stand up straight, sweetie. She looked at my feet. I burst into tears. Without saying a word she left the room and returned a few minutes later…with a garter belt and real silk stockings, not nylon, pre-war silk. I received a crash course on how to wear a garter belt and how to put on silk stockings. The Mary-Jane’s had improved considerably. My mother had a fit and her mother told her she thought I was old enough. Not even my Mom would cross my Grandmother.
The dance was a horror. It soon became clear that no boy there was going to ask me to dance. I was at least 4 inches taller than any of them, and the cutie pies seemed to be afraid of catching my height; they avoided me as well. I wished it were ten p.m. and my Mom would pick me up. While I was drinking fruit punch I noticed the Boys and Girls Basketball Coach walking over to me. I liked Mr. A., Mr. A. liked kids…he had a few of his own and his wife was funny and smart. She taught music. He walked over and asked if he could dance with me. I was too much in shock to say no. He danced as badly as I, but he wanted me to try out for the Junior High Girls Basketball team. That could and would never happen, I had to take care of my sisters while my parents worked.
It was still a stellar, magical evening…silk stockings, a dance with a teacher, and the knowledge that a five foot nine, 12 year old girl might have some value.
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