Dances are for lovers, right?

I’m seventeen– a senior in high school, just months away from venturing off to college
and into the rest of my life, and as I sit here thinking and writing and remembering, I realize that
soon I’ll enter a new chapter in my life: I’ll discover my future, I’ll make new friends, and
hopefully, I’ll fall in love– again. See, I’m a romantic at heart: painfully embarrassing years of
failed relationships, unreciprocated “love”, and countless “Aww” stories litter my past– not the
kind of “Aww” stories that are genuinely sad, but the kind that are genuinely comical. The kind
that listless, grey-eyed girls comfort you about, or that your parents laugh at with you– Countless “Aww” stories where I longingly fawned over girls; supplanting vocabulary I didn’t possess with expensive perfume, or giving them boxes of dainty, Swiss chocolate or a bit of my innocence or my heart. Funny because I was eight or ten or sixteen, and I was too scared or too embarrassed to even manifest enough courage to talk to these girls that I admired. So naturally, I sought refuge in the things witnessed in Richard Gere movies– romantic stuff– sweeping a girl off her feet stuff. I was in love with love.

Of course, my mom found all this stuff pretty “cute” – so naturally, she funded all my hopeless romanticism. She drove me to the mall, and she helped me pick out
the perfumes, or she suggested that:

“She’ll like these earrings.”

She never discouraged me from these little adventures in fantasy and humility. She never warned me that all these girls aren’t enthralled by romanticism – or by me– but these stories make me laugh, they make me smile. Those moments of raw, unadulterated innocence. Those moments where I stood in front of a counter, looking for just the right earrings for her. I was pure then. No fear of embarrassment or failure and not truly in love– just that feeling of soft warmness that radiates across the skin, leaving a prickly sensation that runs deep into the bones and into the marrow. That feeling that filled me with life– with a purpose. That feeling that was impossible to explain then, and that I still can’t explain now– just love– that feeling that the weight of world revolves around.

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Not all the stories were cute though. In fact, one hurt– it physically hurt to remember– that tightness and the internal gnawing in my stomach; the sunken, swollen eyes, and languid malaise. I wasn’t in my body– I was disjoint– just a spectator in a husk: A surreal feeling of deadness. Like a cold anchor hammering on my chest, dragging me down into my own stomach– drowning me in wet, black numbness.

I was thirteen years old, a shy introvert, and a tubby pale kid, but there I was: In the seventh grade at Laurel-Nokomis Middle school– with a shaved, white, head racing with Richard Gere movies, and my moms loving encouragement. I’d already amassed a far share of those “Aww” stories by then, but course, that was the past now... this time I knew for sure, I knew I loved her. I loved Mary McCray– I still do. I still remember sitting two rows away from her, and a seat back in math class– just sitting and staring: in love with Mary, in love with love.
She looked like an angel– so innocent and transparent and confiding. I wanted to bear my soul to her, and write her poetry and walk with her on the beach and write sonnets about her– that’s how I felt, but I didn’t know about any of that, and since I really lacked the social skills to actually communicate with her on any level other than adverted eyes, and stuttering, awkward sentences I was relegated to just feeling– hoping that somehow I would feel so hard that she could feel it.

I liked Mary because she was pretty and nice and she smiled at me– that smile: I just knew she loved me too.

She always wore this puffy white sweater with soft lavender trim, and when she threw her hair back in math class, and gentle rays of sunlight cascaded across her silk, blonde hair– it glistened with an auburn hue– like an aura of fire, and her steely-grey eyes seemed to sparkled like white diamonds. Those eyes cut through me and filled my stomach with prickly warmness, filled with me a purpose– with life.

An angel I thought– honest to god– an angel.

I fawned over Mary for months. Looking for the words and the courage to talk to her.
Of course, I never thought about what I’d say, I mean, we were thirteen. I simply knew Mary loved me, that smile...That’s what convinced me– I decided I’d make my move: I’d ask Mary to the school dance, and then I’d ask her to be my girlfriend– the perfect plan I thought: Bulletproof.

Of course, I couldn’t simply ask her to the dance, I had to
give her some perfume first... I mean, what would Richard Gere do? I surely couldn’t talk to her
either... but I knew: I’d write her a note!

I still remember the perfume, Cool Water. My mom helped me pick it out. I still remember that soft, cradling smile she wore the whole day- so motherly, so genuine and so loving. The whole ride up my face beamed with bubbly excitement. I remember a sun shower that day, and how on the ride up, all trees and the grass seemed to glisten whimsically when the gentle November sun reflected off the dewy leaves– everything was a vivid, sparkling green that seemed to glow– seemed alive and breathing.

I still remember the woman at the counter,

“Well young man, she must be some special girl”
I could feel my face flushing red:

“Yes Ma’am, she’s an angel!”

The woman at the counter and my mother chuckled gently, and the woman gave me an
epic “aww”– an “aww” that turns my skin into reptile hide to think about now– scaly and cold. Some cosmic foreshadowing- irony: because back then, that “Aww” encapsulated everything I wanted Mary to feel.
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D-day finally arrived: I carefully lowered the bottle into the gaudy white bag the woman had given me. I handled it like the holy grail, one inch wrong, one slip was sacrilege. It had to be perfect for Mary. I carefully, tenderly placed the simple note on the bottle, and I put two pieces
of transparent tape across, intersecting in an X shape, hugging the teal bottle snugly, gently to hold the simple, innocent note. It read:

Dear Mary,

You’re the nicest, most beautiful girl I’ve ever met, and I would be honored if you would go to the dance with me.

Love,
Dustin

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There it was.

The bell shook my soul awake. God, the sound of that bell. I felt my whole body ringing with it to some eternal rytheme, some internal harmony, a calling, a catalyst, an impetus, I pulled the bag out of my backpack and levitated out of my seat. I floated to the door behind Mary. I must of been flying, I thought, because everything seemed so dreamy and spacey– almost ethereal– I was in the clouds and all I could see was an angel. I tried to call out, to signal her, but I felt some invisible barrier in my throat that choked me, blockading any words from escaping. I was frozen, and I felt like some incredible force was at work in stomach, sliding up my throat. I could taste it– brackish and acidic– I almost vomited– air sickness– but I swallowed it back. Courage, I thought. Suddenly Mary turned and seemed to catch sight of my stumbling mess as I crashed back to reality
As she turned, her eyes lit up when they met the sunlight. She looked like she was soft in her fluffy white sweater, but on fire at the same time with an auburn aura that seemed to immolate her entire body. I just stared in awe– in love.
Her lips moved, but so gently that the words seemed to echo down from the sky.. “Are you alright?”

I was confused for a moment, but I then realized why she had turned– I busted ass, tripped over myself– I was lying sprawled out on the ground with the gaudy white bag in my hand. I could feel my cheeks flushing red– streams of shame I desperately wanted to jump in and drown in at that moment.
“Uhh, Yeah, I’m fine...uhh Mary?”
“Yeah?”
“Uhh...I got something for you..”
I almost shoved the bag in her hands in my nervous embarrassment
“Uhh... it’s a gift ya know, just like a little, thing...”
Those shining eyes... I could feel that tingling, crawling all over my skin. I tried to talk, but her beaming smile put an end to that monstrosity of a sentence. Words no longer sufficed... I just melted in the presence of her reaction.

“Thanks.”
She said genuinely.
“I uhh, have to go, I’ll see you tomorrow Mary.”
I almost power walked away, or maybe I ran, I don’t remember. I just felt as if some tremendous
pressure had been lifted from my chest, and that barrier in my throat toppled. That tingling, prickliness seemed beyond warm. I felt on fire– electric. I took a few deep breaths and just let the moment burn into me.

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The next day in math class was agony– real cruel and unusual torture. Rejection hurts of course, but the gnawing anticipation kills: being in the dark drew out every minute– every thought, and weighed down heavily on my nerves and on my confidence: it inspires cowardice and second-guessing– So did the clock– it moved languidly– taunting me, conserving and savoring every minute of drudgery: my leg shook furiously, nervously, as I watched the circular machinations: a pointless, monotonous process– appropo for a math class though. But I felt like a crack addict at a DEA convention– so out of place, so nervous, so anxious, and with sweat beading down my frightened forehead– a math class wasn’t any place for lovers...

I waited for what seemed like an eternity. Mary raced through my mind the whole time. What would she say? How does she feel about me? I felt incredibly nervous: gripped in an involunterary paralysis– an on-edge feeling, like someone constantly touching my back with an ice cube, but I couldn’t see them. Waiting, jaw open, anticipating the feel. Would it freeze or would it burn? How long would it last? When?
I took my eyes off the clock and shifted them to Mary. She was in her seat, sitting innocently, gently. I could hear chatter from girls around the class, among them “aww”s, and condescending “him, are you joking’s,” but I shut out the noise. Mary sat, poised, naturally, almost smoothly in her seat– answering math questions industriously, obliviously. Surprisingly, class started to roll along swimmingly once I turned my gaze to her, until I heard a foreign cacophony break the seemly impregnable order of that Math class:
It was a feigned, slack-ass attempt at a cough:
“Dustin likes Mary!”

Nick Reed– a douchebag, that’s about all I could think. I felt those crimson rivers rushing into my cheeks again– so quick and powerfully I thought they would rupture through: Nothing could contain that kind of embarrassment.

I looked as Mary’s hair seemed to float in the air, defying the laws of gravity. She gave Nick a contemptuous glare and then gave me a tempering glace. I noticed her steely-grey eyes as she began to smile, but it wasn’t her smile– it seemed foreign and forced, an awkward smile, like she was expressing sympathy for some poor, pathetic joke. Like the green ribbon at the science fair– that “nice try, douche” ribbon. She turned back around and seemed to try and bury her face in the desk to escape the aura of juvenile humility.

Nick Reed was bigger than me, and stronger than me– even older. A bully, mean-spirited I thought, I didn’t talk to him much at all– I tried to avoid kids like him, for this reason specifically, but at that moment, I was prepared to deck him. Not just because he embarrassed me, but because I embarrassed Mary. I hated feeling that love was laughing at me. Luckily, Mrs. Horn brought order back to the class, and I simply sank underneath myself– into those crimson rivers. It wasn’t the fact that others knew– although that was the initial catalyst– but it was Mary’s face, that foreign smile, that made me want to drown at that moment.

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After class, I walked out the door– reserved, almost resigned to my fate. Mary was waiting outside, and I walked towards her frightfully, preparing for the worst. I just didn’t want to see that smile again We both avoided eye contact– avoided it like the plague. I focused on trying to pick out cracks in the concrete sidewalk.

“Yes”

A gentle, yet blunt yes. A reassurance in romance. That yes seemed to affirm everything, all my beliefs, and all the foolishness. I was in shock. I almost said “what?”– almost.

I felt that automatic, stupid grin creep along my face, and warmness
deep in my stomach. The perfect plan I thought, bulletproof.

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The night finally arrived, and I could tell from the feeling– I could feel that familiar, peculiar force churning in my stomach– fear. It was November, but I was sweating– sweating through my shirt as I walked up to the building.

My god, there she is.

She had a scintillating white dress on, with gold earrings, and her blonde hair sculptured carefully, perfectly. She had silver and gold glitter sprinkled on, and she glistened in the November sunset– she was glowing with life..

This dance was my first. When she saw me, she gave a reassuring smile, a motherly smile, an “aww” smile... Mary basically lead me around that night– or while she was with me. We went inside, and I got her a drink. I noticed my hands were shaking. We were early– we just stood. I looked at Mary, and her steely-grey eyes: she seemed uncomfortable, I thought, like she was looking for something or someone. I felt compelled to say something– to break the ice, but there was nothing– I just froze– paralysis. I felt a throbbing tension, like something was about to crack, a bomb was going to explode Tick, Tick, Tick. I could hear it– I could feel it. Thank God. Just then, a group of our friends arrived, and defused the situation. I wiped the beading sweat off my nervous brow. God bless these kids I thought. I was terrified– terrified that Mary would discover the truth– that I wasn’t good enough for her.
The dance began though, and we all stood and chatted in the back for a moment. I didn’t really know what to do, I just smiled dumbly, innocently and I waited for Mary.
She seemed to chat with her friend for an eternity, but finally, the girl went off and faded into all the other swirling, twisted faces. Mary turned and caught eyes with me for the first time that night. I knew I had that dumb grin on my face, cause Mary gave me that sympathy smile– that forced smile. Her eyes almost seemed purely grey, neutral and innocent.

“Dustin, I’m going to go dance with some of my friends for a minute alright?”
I must of nodded, I don’t know, I was in shock. I didn’t speak for a minute, and I
remember feeling that empty numbness– Not because she went to dance with friends, but because she didn’t come back. I stood against a brick wall that entire night, feeling hollow, like I was inside a body that wasn’t mine. I couldn’t feel myself, just numbness and drowning, like an anchor had fell on my chest. The swirling dance distrorted my sense of direction. I couldn’t see straight, just contorted faces, and a cacophony– chaos. I had no direction, or no where to go, I just felt abandoned, I felt dead.


Sara, one of Mary’s friends grabbed me with a soft, compassionate hand, and asked where Mary was. I barely could speak, I just shook my head and told her I didn’t know. I knew I was on the verge of washing away. I could feel the glassy, hollowness of my eyes– they felt fragile, I thought. I knew I was on the verge of crying myself out of my body, I could feel it. Courage, I thought.

I just sat against that wall.
That is, until later Sara came back and told me Mary had asked out Nick that night.

I don’t know. I cracked. I went cold, I remember how my hands felt like ice, and the incredible anger and bitterness– it terrified me: She was an Angel I thought--An honest to god Angel? She couldn’t be, she was with devil now. My bulletproof plan was shot to pieces. At that moment, I just had an unquenchable thirst to destroy all things Gere.

I don’t remember why I walked over to her, perhaps I wanted to hear why she had even agreed to come and embarrass me in the first place, I don’t know, perhaps it was automatic at that point, but apparently I walked over to her. I walked boldly, and fearlessly– like a man in front of a firing squad coming to terms with his fate– accepting it.

Mary was standing by a group of friends on the opposite wall. I saw her look up with those steely-grey, neutral eyes, and then it seemed like her neck was too delicate and gentle to hold up those eyes, and they glided softly to her feet. I looked hard at her, and tried to I cut through her with my eyes:

“Mary...”
She lifted her head up slowly, gracefully, and as she did a white light reflected off her hair, creating that glowing auburn aura, and sparking those neutral grey eyes– igniting them into a incandescent silver. She looked radiant, immaculate– like an angel. And then she smiled– an innocent smile. Her smile. She was pure and white and looked soft, glowing.. I felt like some terrible force– some vile force was being driven up from my stomach– something I wanted to hold back, but I was a spectator now, I wasn’t in control. When I saw Mary’s smile twist into a contorted grimace, I knew something had occurred: Her lip begin to tremble and quaver fiercely, and those silver eyes melted into innocent, milky-white tears. She looked at me accusingly, with the eyes of an angel. They seemed to say “Sorry, I tried, I really did, but I don’t love you– I didn’t want to hurt you.”

I realized what had happened. I had spit squarely in Mary’s face.

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I remember the ride home that night with my father. When he arrived at the office, he looked prepared to unleash the fury on me, and rightfully so, but he didn’t. He got me outside. I knew I looked worn: my eyes sunken and swollen and listless– I looked dead. My father was scared, I could see it. I cried the whole ride home. He didn’t say a word– he just gripped the steering wheel tightly and stared straight ahead. He was witnessing something profound– something father’s should have words for, but he didn’t. Something died in me in that night...

I’ve never been to a dance since– I’m petrified of them. I lost faith for the first time in romanticism, and it wasn’t cute. It was awful– to feel like a husk. To feel unworthy of humanity.

I wrote a letter to her apologizing for what I’d done. I never talked to her again though. I didn’t have the courage. It was a lesson I was bound to learn. She was pure, she was an angel. She didn’t want go with me to that dance, but she didn’t have it in her heart to turn me down, but I spat in her face. I didn’t hate Mary. I loved her, but sometimes love doesn’t love back.

Mary moved her freshman year in High School– to a private school in Naples– I haven’t seen her since then, and I haven’t talked to her– although sometimes I wish I had the chance– the chance to apologize in person– to look back and laugh at that story, and to just be her friend, to talk to her, and listen.
I can’t.

But sometimes, in November, after a sun shower, when the world glistens with sparkling vividness– with aliveness, I still see her as the light gently caresses her hair. An angel– an honest to god angel. I look into those white-diamond eyes, and she’ll smile, and I feel alive– warm and soft, and innocent again. I step off the wall, and I ask Mary to dance with me, and I feel electric. I feel immortal. I feel love.