Dance

Four years ago I bought a dress. I went with my best friend and our moms. We giggled and laughed and modeled, until we each found the dress. We spun and twirled and talked about earrings and bracelets and shoes.

I went home and showed my dad. I spun some more, and talked seriously about how it was such a good deal. (Really, it was.)

My mom and I went shopping again. For shoes. To match the dress. I fell in love with a black satiny pair that went perfectly with my dress. They were strappy and black and pretty and I loved them.

I tried them on with the dress. My parents oohed and aahed. I attempted to describe them for my friends. We were all bubbly and filled with excitement for our first high school dance.

Before I could buy a ticket or figure out what to do with my hair, I got sick.

There wasn't a dance or a dress or black strappy shoes. There were tears and doctors and home alone, not at the dance.

This year I put on that dress; it still fits. I put on those shoes. Carefully, around the injured toes. They still fit. I bought a ticket. I figured out how to do my hair. I wore earrings, but no necklaces or bracelets. I giggled and laughed and did make-up with friends. Five of us smashed into a bathroom meant for half a person.

Our parents showed up to take pictures. They oohed and aahed at all the right places.

Someone commented that it was our last dance. Everyone made sad noises about the last year. I kept quiet. It was my first dance.

I went. I danced. I sang.

I saw the best friend with whom I bought the dress. I did not dance or sing or speak to her.

I went to my first high school dance.