Lilly

We call it Fall Ball. Without a football team to cheer for, there’s not much point in officially calling it “homecoming.” We all file into the ancient gym, girls teetering on their high heels before being asked to take them off to “preserve the floors,” like they’re worth trying to save at this point. Some sneak in on stilettos anyway; the rest of us kick off our extra three inches off with relief and wander out onto the gym floor.

Our school’s dances are nothing to write home about. Maybe a hundred kids cram themselves into a third of the gym to avoid anyone actually seeing them individually before anyone starts to actually dance. Whether the music is good or not, we always dance.

But this weekend I didn’t feel much like dancing. My friends embraced boys for slow songs while I leaned against the wall and picked at the hem of my dress. The music failed to spur me to my feet like it has in the past.

With less than an hour left, one of my friends yanked me off the wall. “Come on,” she said, and when I began to resist she grabbed my arm and pulled me onto the gym floor. “Come on!” she shouted over the swells of “Dancing Queen.”

Mid-twirl, I worried for a split second about all the eyes that could be on me, dancing in the middle of the empty floor with my friends. I wondered if my dress was too short, if I wasn’t sucking in my stomach, if my makeup was smudged. Then it hit me: Why should I care?

I laughed, unable to hold it in. Let them stare. ♦