For weeks, me and my girlfriends had been looking forward to this party. Every PE, recess and lunch break was spent coordinating outfits, hairstyles, and practicing dance moves. After those details were finalized, we moved on to the most important of matters... Who would dance with who(m) (? I've always been blurry on who/whom).
In typical sixth grade fashion, none of us approached the potential date ourselves. A team, consisting of all the girls, except the one who actually liked the boy, skipped together, arms linked, across the recess field to the dirt patch where the boys were playing touch football. Without ever unlocking arms, the team of friends called out,
"Hey, Jeremy! JEREMY! Come here! We gotta talk to you!"
Jeremy came over, huffing and puffing, slightly agitated for being interrupted in the middle of his performance, he thought to be worthy of the super bowl highlight reel. From there, the negotiations began...
Ellen: Hey, do you like Holly?
Jeremy: Ummm, I don't know. Why? Does she like me?
Casey: Do you want to be her boyfriend?? 'Cause she'll be your girlfriend, but only if you wanna be her boyfriend.
Jeremy: Ummm, I don't know. I guess.
Stephanie: Well, you'll have to ask her to dance at the party next week. Okay?
One of the boys from the middle of the field: Hey man! COME ON! We're playing defense now!
Jeremy (running back to the game): Sure. I mean, I guess.
The girly bunch skipped back to where I was nervously awaiting,
"He said yes! He's your boyfriend now and he's going to dance with you at the party!!! Eeeeek!" We all squealed and jumped up and down, before plotting our next victim's entrapment.
By the end of recess that day, all of our "dates" had been informed of their roles. The stage had been set. It was going to be the best party in the history of ever.
Party night finally came. I spent a solid hour and a half trying to get my feathered bangs to look just right (which is a contradiction in terms, I do realize). I tucked my teal silk blouse into my DuckHead shorts, and made sure my braided leather belt was centered perfectly. I liberally applied a coat of strawberry Lipsmackers, then practiced winking a few times in the mirror. You know, 'cause that's what you do at boy/girl parties. I decided a few more practice tries were necessary... Wink.... Wink.... I was getting it down. I totally looked twelve, maybe even thirteen when I cocked my head to the side, then winked. Yep, that eleven year old Holly was a girl of the past. Jeremy was sure to melt when he saw my grown-up look. I was nearly ready.
In the same moment I was perfecting my flirty move, my older brother, Nick, walked into the bathroom and saw me winking away at the mirror.
After cackling for what felt like an eternity, Nick called out to the entire house, "Holly's in here WINKING AT HERSELF! Bawahahahahahaha! WHY?? Why are you winking at yourself?? Bwahahahahahahaha!"
The irritation and embarrassment continued as my Daddy insisted on snapping a picture of me all ready for my first boy/girl dance party.
Maybe I should give it a whirl on Bert. Where's a mirror, I need to practice....