Even as summer was winding down into the crisp days of autumn, Kristi wore sleeveless sweaters that were too short to tuck in.  Now, when you saw her in the hall or in the cafeteria line, that wasn't any big deal.   When her arms were by her sides and she was standing up, the hem of the sweater just touched the top of her jeans...it didn't even show her midriff.   However, when she dropped her pen in our English class and leaned over to pick it up, that beautiful (god bless Sears!) white or red or green lightweight knit would ride halfway up her back, revealing a flawless expanse of lightly tanned skin.   I always sat behind her and to the right one desk, which was good for what halting attempts at conversation I could make, so I had a front-row seat for that stripe of spinal goodness.  That's probably the first thing that attracted me to her.

Now I know that sounds terribly shallow and not a little bit creepy -- I can guess that right now you have a picture of me leering at this helpless young lady's exposed back and drooling with one hand in my lap, giggling like Beavis and Butthead.  But it wasn't like that at all.  There was something -- geez, I don't know, something transcendent about that quick glimpse of flesh that one usually doesn't see during the school year, something wonderful and secret.   It was a whisper of summer gone by, and I found her utterly irresistible for it.

But that wasn't the only thing that attracted me to her.  There was her laugh -- the toss of her curly, brown, impossibly thick hair as she giggled like a little girl, eyes sparkling -- her voice, her walk, the way she looked at me and spoke to me as if I were a human being with something to contribute to society -- I admit it, I fell and fell hard.

Which was unfortunate, because at that point I was still trying to shake off the awkwardness that had plagued me throughout my adolescence.  I had finally mastered the fine art of walking; that is, keeping my arms swinging and my shoulders squared (if I don't pay attention, I walk bent forward, my shoulders rounded, arms stiff at my sides with the knuckles facing forward.  To this day I envy those who seem naturally made for walking, god knows I'm not);  But constant nervousness about how my hair looked and whether or not my shirt was tucked in and whether or not everyone I encountered hated me ensured that my palms and forehead were always sweaty, and I could barely talk without stammering.

I mean, it sure as hell wasn't vanity that made me check mirrors compulsively and worry incessantly about what I looked like...it was just that junior high had taught me that the only thing that could save me from social exile was always looking and acting about three times cooler than I actually was.

So there I was, just beginning to claw my way up the ranks of popularity, finally avoiding the dreaded lonely lunch table,  and there *she* was, and she might has well have been in a glass bubble in a locked room in a vault on the moon for all the chance I thought I had with her.  So, of course, she became all the more attractive in her utter inaccessibility, and was the topic of many a lunchroom conversation.

"I don't know, she's just...she's amazing.  Did you see what she's wearing today?  I swear she does it just to make me sweat."  It was Thursday, mid-October, and I was attempting to choke down the world's greasiest quesadillas (made with real cheez) and rhapsodizing to my disinterested friends.

"Jeezus, Josh, why the devil don't you just ask for her phone number?"  Zack asked, accompanying the question with his trademark exaggerated shrug.   He was a year older than I, and a great deal more self-assured.   He didn't move in the most popular social circles, and appeared to have no desire to.  I envied the hell out of him -- he seemed determined to make people like him on his own terms.

"It's not that easy, dammit."  I replied, imitating his gesticulations.  "Look at me, I'm a wreck just *thinking* about talking to her.  You can imagine how well I do when she's actually in the room.  It's a hopeless case."

"I certainly don't believe that that's the truth."  Zack responded, holding an open hand in front of his chest and shaking it at me in an inimitable gesture that was his alone.

"It's not going to happen, Zack.   I'm not her type."

"C'mon.  You're a good looking guy...you need to have more self-confidence."  That was Allison, the only young lady at our table.  She was attractive, I suppose, in her own special way, but the development of hips and breasts was still a few years away.  I liked her, of course, but the in the same way as I liked my other two luncheon companions.

"I just don't know..."

"You're right, you don't have a chance in hell."  That was Justin, on my right.   "Might as well become a monk."  He serenely dabbed at a dot of salsa on his Marvin the Martian T-Shirt, threw his wadded napkin in the trash, and attacked a Fruit Roll-up, delicately peeling the cut-out shapes from the cellophane.

"I've been thinking about asking her to the Homecoming dance, actually."  Justin had a maddening habit of getting me to do things I ordinarily wouldn't by insisting that I couldn't do them.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Al flinch, for no perceptible reason.   "Of course, I've also been thinking about developing a perpetual motion machine."

"Hark!  The bell!" Zack responded, and I threw my pack over my shoulder and was off to English, heart pounding in anticipation.  I've been thinking about asking her to Homecoming?  Jesus H.!  I thought as I walked down the hall (armsswingingshouldersstraightheadup).  But why the hell not?   She did, after all, speak to me, which was more than others would do.   After all, all she could say was no.  Which would destroy me self-esteem and cause me to retreat back into my shell.  Which would mean I wouldn't ever speak to her again.  Which would mean I'd just sit behind her in English and look at her spine and dream.  Which was what I was doing anyway.  How can you argue with logic like that?   Armed with the nerve, the brain, and the heart, I walked in to English and sat down.

And two school days and a weekend later, with only four days to go until the Homecoming Dance, I finally got around to popping the question.  It went something like this -- you can insert your own awkward pauses:

 Josh: Hi, Kristi...uh...how ya doing?
 
 Kristi: Pretty good... (smiles a brain-killing grin, starts to turn around)

 Josh: (thinks ‘what would Zack do?') Will you be attending our prestigious Homecoming   Dance this weekend?

 Kristi: I don't know.
 
 Josh: Well, ummm, can I be the seventy-fourth loser to ask you to be my date?

 Kristi: (laughs, kills several more of my brain cells) Actually, you're the first.  And I'd love   to.

 Josh: (silent for several stunned seconds) Okay, great.  Great!  I'll, I guess, um, give you a   call and we'll set everything up.

 At which point the teacher finally began his daily drone.  Kristi scribbled her number on a scrap of paper, dotting her ‘I's with hearts (in green ink, no less!), and handed it back.  I'm surprised I didn't fall down dead.

I won't bore you with the details of the painfully awkward phone conversation that ensued, suffice to say that it started very, very, verrrryy slow.  By the end, however, we seemed to be making some connections.  We planned the evening (dinner at an Italian place at 6, dance at 7) and discovered we both thought Batman was a great movie, both enjoyed the music of They Might Be Giants, and both read Stephen King.  When I hung up the phone, my heart had stopped pounding and started humming the theme from "Star Wars."

The night of the dance, I thought my parents were going to explode with pride and anxiety.  My mom and I tore through my father's closet to find a suit that would fit me, and came up with a pinstriped, grey number that made me look quite natty despite the overly long sleeves.  I had picked up the corsage that morning, washed mom's car, and showered at least twice.   I spent fifteen minutes on my teeth, an hour on my hair (with continual check-ups), and a half an hour sitting in front of the air conditioner trying like the devil not to sweat until it was time to pick her up.

She lived in an unassuming ranch-style house that opened in the back onto a field with a horse corral.  I pulled into the driveway, checked my hair again, grabbed the corsage, and walked (armsswingingshouldersstraightheadupforgodssakedontsweat!) To the front door.  Her mother answered before I could ring the bell.

"Kristi's still getting ready, Josh.  Do you mind waiting?"

"Not at all, Mrs. H."  I replied, and sat down on the couch, crossing my legs and looking as suave as I possibly could.   She offered me a glass of water, but I turned it down and concentrated on looking like I wasn't concentrating on what I looked like.   All was quiet for at least five minutes, the only sound in the house the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen as Mrs. H. prepared dinner for the rest of the family.  Then Kristi came in...

Sweet merciful mother of god my mind said, and I stood up and extended a hand, hiding the corsage behind my back.  I had thought Kristi was gorgeous in English class...and now she had gone beyond beautiful to some sort of ethereal plane.   Her eyes, which usually sparkled, seemed to almost glow, and her hair was pinned up in a miracle of cascading curls.  The strapless, midnight blue velvet gown she wore let me trace an unbroken line from the top of her neck to her shoulders, creating an indescribably pleasant aesthetic result.  Her breasts swelled beneath the soft fabric and were hinted at in the cleavage above.   I bit through the peppermint I had been sucking on, just missing my tongue, and damn near forgot to breathe for a good five seconds before she smiled and said "Good evening."
 

 "G-good evening to you, fair lady."  I stammered, and presented her the corsage.  "You look marvelous!" I said, doing my best Billy Crystal.  She giggled, and slid the white rose bouquet around her wrist (there wasn't a chance in hell I was going to try to pin something on her).  I offered her my arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook (blue velvet gloves, for the love of god, she's wearing blue velvet gloves!), but stopped as we started to walk out the door.

 "Wait, Mom wants pictures."  So Mrs. H. took pictures, cooing over the both of us, then we had to drive over to my house, where the scene was repeated, before we were finally allowed to go to dinner.
 

 The conversation over dinner was absolutely amazing.  I say that because for the first time ever in talking with her, I stopped channeling Zack or Justin or Robin Williams or Billy Crystal and played no one but myself.  And found, much to my surprise, that I was actually somewhat funny and even a little bit charming.  As for Kristi, she was captivating as always.  Whether we were laughing about Jim Carrey's first movie or delving briefly into philosophy or psychology, her opinions were intelligent, her manner pleasing, and her gaze magical.   I didn't even notice the food was gone until the waiter brought the check, which I dispatched with one of Dad's twenties.
 

 As we left the restaurant side by side, she slipped her hand in mine -- and then, and anyone who ever went to high school knows how important this is -- our fingers intertwined, my slightly damp palm against hers (the gloves forgotten, we discovered later, in the restaurant), thumbs rubbing comfortably together.  When we reached mom's car I unlocked and held the door for her before sliding into place and driving over to the dance proper.
 

 Ah, the phenomenon known as the high school dance!  What is a more important rite of passage in youth?  I don't think even losing my virginity can compare to the time spent in dimly lit gymnasiums, my arms draped around a girl while soft 80's pop plays from P.A. system speakers.  What man has truly experienced high school if he hasn't fetched punch in a paper cup for his date, danced spastically to bad rap music, and had a girl put on his suit coat at the end of the evening? Of every social event high school had to offer, it's the dances I miss the most.  More than football games, choir concerts, and field trips on big yellow buses, I long to dance on a basketball court one more time.
 

 The gym had been dressed up a bit, but not enough to hide the fact that it was a place, above all, that men went to sweat.   The bleachers had been folded up, the wrestling mats put away, and Christmas lights had been hung from the dome (along with an effigy of the opposing team's mascot), but there was still a faint odor of testosterone that seeped from the floor and the very bricks of the building.
 

 Not that I took any notice.  I offered Kristi my arm as we walked through the door, she took it, and we entered to astonished glances from some of the more popular folks congregated near the punch table.  I escorted her onto the dance floor,  and as if on cue the Coolio stopped playing and Don Henley's "End of the Innocence" came on.  I placed my hands on her hips, and she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me close, not leaving any space at all for the Holy Ghost.   She rested her head on my shoulder, and I closed my eyes and swayed to the beat.  The cumulative effect was dizzying.  Her perfume in my nostrils, her body, soft and warm, in my arms, the music swelling around us...I could have sworn we were alone on the dance floor.  When the song was over, she gave me a little hug, whispered "I'll be right back" and disappeared.
 That's the last time I saw her for about two hours.  I sat at our table for a good half an hour, growing more and more disillusioned, but ended up wandering the fringes of the dance floor in a daze.
 

 "Josh!" I heard Allison's voice, turned around, and nearly had an attack.  She had been transformed.  Her normally limp mouse-brown hair was pulled back in a french twist, her features accented with a touch of makeup, her slim body flattered and accentuated by a long, simple black dress.  She was beautiful.
 

 "Good goddamn, Al," I said, rushing to stand by her, "you're gorgeous!"   The DJ started playing "YMCA," and we  discoed with mad abandon.   YMCA was followed closely by "Brick House," then "Superfreak,"  and we got hot and sweaty, our moves more and more outrageous.  We even danced to the Cypress Hill that came on afterwards.  Finally a slow song came on and I offered her my hand, like the gentleman I imagine myself to me.
 

 I had never been that close to Al before, and I was aware of burgeoning feelings that weren't at all like those I had for Zack or Justin.  As we assumed the slow dance position my parents called "the drunken sailor," Whitney Houston began to sang "I will always love you," a song I actively despise.  But then Al started to sing, and suddenly the song wasn't so bad.  "Geez, Al, I didn't know you could sing," I whispered, and she stopped and blushed.
 

 The song ended, as such songs must, but the next song was a slow song as well, and the DJ announced the final dance.   It was then that Kristi finally reappeared, parting the crowd of swaying couples.  "I'm sorry, I found Ashley and Priscilla, and they didn't have any dates, so I started talking to them, and I couldn't get away," she explained, breathless -- but her hair was mussed, her lipstick smudged, her dress a little disheveled.  I placed an arm around Al, realizing what Kristi had been doing for the last two hours.  "Come on, it's the last dance..." she said, and I found myself for the first time in my life with nothing to say.  I stepped away from Al, and she and Kristi stared at me.  Apparently, I had a decision to make.
 

 Now if this were an episode of the Wonder Years, I know exactly what would have happened.  I would have turned away from Kristi (leaving her with a shocked, betrayed look on her face), taken Al's arm, and danced away into the night as the screen faded to black and Daniel Stern added some wistful narration.  Something along the lines of, "Who was I supposed to choose?  The beautiful girl who made me feel awkward and uncomfortable, or the girl who was a good friend and let me by myself?  The girl who had left me to make out with somebody else, or the girl who had danced with me all night long?  I realized that it wasn't even a choice.  I learned that night that beauty is more than a pretty face.  It's about compassion, kindness, and friendship."  And then  "By With a Little Help From my Friends" plays us to the next commercial.
 

 But as I stood there, all I could think about was how Kristi filled out that dress.  How her eyes sparkled.  How her breasts pushed against my chest when we danced.  And I took her hand, and said "I'll see you on Monday, Al.  Thanks."   Al turned away, burying her face in her hands, but I didn't give her a second look.
 

   I drove Kristi home that night, walked her to the door, and she took my hand and said "I had a wonderful time."  Then she walked inside, leaving me standing dumbfounded and unkissed on the front porch, until I finally walked back to my car and drove home.
 

 After that, Kristi didn't say much to me in English class.  And whenever I called, she was either somewhere else or too busy to talk.  Suffice to say that the Homecoming Dance was our first and last date.  It wasn't until months later that I learned the reason why.   A friend of mine who was a friend of Kristi's attributed to her the following quote:  "It's easy to make yourself like someone.  You know, like I made myself like Josh so he would take me to Homecoming.  I only had to dance with him twice, I mean, I practically had the whole evening to myself.  And I didn't have to go without a date."
 

 And what about Al, you might ask?  Well, she didn't speak to me for about a week, despite my continual apologies.  But by the time I had found out the truth about Kristi, we had been dating for about six weeks, having had a moment of clarity about each other one special evening on my friend's trampoline...which is another story altogether.

Return to the archive.