“Poor thing,” Mom said, running behind me and blanketing me with a towel. “She’s so scrawny they couldn’t even see her under there.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Dad asked again. He whispered, as though he understood my reluctant dishonesty.
“I’m fine, Dad.”
He still looked worried. Even Mom did. I think everyone was worried a little, except for Brian. He stood under the pavilion. He’d grabbed a knife and was slicing open the fruit he’d won.
Seven
Now
I’m not involved with sports as much as I should be, but I do enjoy chaperoning other events. We have three major dances throughout the year: Winter Waltz, Spring Fling and Prom. Someone like Marge will attend all three. I am required to choose one, and this year it’s the Spring Fling. It’s not as formal as the other two dances. Instead of gowns, girls wear cocktail dresses. Still, most students have spent weeks coordinating their ensembles and deciding how to style their hair.
The Spirit Club decorated the auditorium, making the usually outdated gymnasium look like a floral hideaway. Flowers made from tissue or cardstock are tacked to the walls and dangle from the ceiling. The aesthetic is impressive; I don’t think anyone would guess the room is a place where you typically run laps.
“Love the decorations,” I tell Marge. She’s the Spirit Club sponsor. Her navy dress clings to her hips and waist, and a sparkly overlay dangles over her shoulders. It looks like she’s even curled her hair with a wand. “You should dress up more often.”
“Thank you,” she says, pretending to curtsy. She looks me up and down, taking in my Hepburn-esque updo and black knee-length shift. “As usual, you’re a beauty.”
“Thanks,” I say, making sure my pearl earrings are securely fastened. I’m even wearing magenta lipstick; Danny says it brings out the green in my eyes.
Marge bites a strip of tape and dances on her tippy toes as she reattaches a tissue hibiscus to the wall. “Each year I think hosting will get easier,” she says. “But that’s never the case.”
“Let me help you,” I say.
“Are you being polite, or really offering?” she asks. She dons the familiar look we all get when we’ve bitten off more than we can chew.
“I’m actually offering.” I grab a roll of tape from a table in front of her. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Thanks, Dell,” she says, instructing me to reattach the flowers that are dangling too low against the far wall.
By the time I’ve finished, the place looks perfect. Just in time for the hordes of students arriving, as though they timed their entrance accordingly. The guys aren’t wearing formal suits like they would for Prom, but jackets in a variety of pastel shades: mint and salmon and daisy.
The girls’ dresses are equally colorful, making the entire lot look like a scene from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. It’s always nice to see them on nights like this. I’m used to students, especially my female ones, being bogged down in insecurity. Even on the days they arrive to class with highlighter across their cheeks and an intentional wave in their hair. Tonight, they’ve left the house feeling beautiful. Feeling confident.
The colorful outfits aren’t the only reason I enjoy chaperoning Spring Fling; it’s also a more laidback event compared to other school functions. We don’t crown kings or queens. We don’t dole out awards. Students just have fun. There’s no competition.
“Where’s that handsome husband of yours?” Pam asks. She walks up behind me balancing a plate of food in her hand. She’s wearing a red maxi dress, and her hair hangs down her back. It’s always up at school.
“Relaxing for a change.” I sip my punch. “This isn’t really his cup of tea.”
“I understand,” she says, raising her voice over the blaring music. “My ex never came to stuff like this.”
Pam and her husband divorced last year after he got slapped with a DUI. She hardly mentions him at school; I think she feels odd offering advice to people when she knows her own personal life is chaotic. I think it makes her more relatable, knowing she’s gone through heartache and made it to the other side. It gives her words weight.
“What time will the dance end?” I ask. I can’t remember from last year.
“Nine o’clock, I think,” she says. “Gives us plenty of time to clean up before going home.”
Another throng of students enters from the outside. This time I recognize several: Melanie and Ben. And Zoey. Her dress is white with sheer sleeves stopping at her elbows.
“What’s Zoey Peterson doing here?” I ask Pam.
She tilts her head to get a better listen as I repeat the question. Having heard me, she nods. “I know. Bowles said he wasn’t going to make her miss the dance.”
“But she’s suspended until Monday. That should cover school functions.”
“I guess Bowles wanted to give her a pass.” Pam shrugs and pops a miniature hot dog in her mouth.
I shake my head. Bowles, who has skipped tonight’s event, sending another administrator in his place, has a wobbly backbone. Five years ago, when I first started, he at least followed through with discipline. I didn’t think we should send the message that carrying a knife to school was a minor fault.
“Oh dear,” Pam says, staring at her phone. “The babysitter is calling already. Pray for me.”
She walks away, leaving me alone. I watch the students as they transition from confident to insecure again, working up the courage to ask someone to dance. If it’s a friend, it’s easy. Those are the ones who walk up to a person, laugh and start dancing. The hesitant ones, those are the students with real feelings involved. Melanie wraps her arms around the neck of a boy I’ve never met. They sway from one foot to
