Everybody Was Not Dancing In The Moonlight

In 3^rd grade while I was exploring my romance with Greg, Ross Young, the class clown, was having bladder problems. The following two years, Ross was on sabbatical from Saint James School because of the shame he underwent with his bladder problems. (This devilish young chap went to the bathroom every 20 minutes.)

As he walked to his seat in Miss. Sellers’ 6^th grade homeroom class, I could hear the thump of his cowboy boots, brown leather with a hint of cow smell. Ross was back, sans bladder issues. He made a joke at my expense, and just like that, I was crazy for him.

At lunch that day we separated into our groups. Ross went with the popular jocks and cheerleader and loose girls. (Yeah we had loose girls at 11 in my school. Beat that Teen Mom!) And I went to the far end of the lunch room with my three friends. (We weren’t a big enough group to be known as the losers. We weren’t a big enough group to even be known.) I informed my friends of my crush, and they rolled their eyes as we continued to discuss strategies for our upcoming math tournament.

A month or so passed and it was time for the back to school dance. Picture it: It was the year 2000. My parents were cheap, so I was wearing a reversible dress that looked like a sack. Its pattern resembled something along the lines of a Hawaiian shirt’s ugly cousin. My curly hair was brushed out to look matted, and it complimented my round, plump…everything. To put the cherry on top, my lips glistened with cherry red lip gloss.

I walked into the dance and immediately spotted Ross. I stood around him wishing and hoping and thinking and praying (kind of like the oldie’s song) that he would ask me to dance. After an hour of Back Street Boys and rap music I had never heard before, I realized, like always, I had to take my love life matters into my own hands.

I approached. I tapped his shoulder. I asked to dance. He said no. I went to the bathroom and cried. Surprisingly, no one noticed me tearing up because as mentioned earlier at this point, no one really bothered to know me.

When I finally dried my face which matched the color of my lip gloss after sobbing, I emerged from the bathroom. I turned around and spotted another much dreamier boy who would help me continue the search for my NJB.