Tuesday, May 26th
Prom photos were distributed today during homeroom. Apparently the photographers made short work of that-- though they did have four days, even if it was over a holiday. Of course Jessy and I didn't have any coming. Michelle, the Ladybugs' coach, said she had already framed and hung up the best of the photos taken on home plate the other day, and that's good enough for me.
'Hey,' Becky said to me, 'so how was the prom?'
I looked at her. 'It was all right.'
'Janine rocked,' Vivian said beside us, and I turned and glared at her.
Becky giggled. 'You rocked? How did you rock?'
I shrugged. 'Oh, it was nothing.' The bell went off and the Pledge began.
In the PE cabana a girl called April leaned over and said, 'Oh! Janine! My God-- I couldn't believe it! Poor Stephen! And lucky you!'
Her friend said, 'Awww, Stephen was pretty lucky too.' I blushed at that.
In the corridors people who never even seemed to notice me said hello. Two girls I don't even know came down the gallery once, one after the other, with their hands raised to slap my palm as they passed. It was embarrassing. Did any of this matter this much?
And so all morning a certain tentative engagement nagged at the back of my mind. I really was not sure I wanted to keep it, especially under the circumstances-- But it could not be helped. At lunch I wandered in a little nervously, my eyes flitting all over the place to see if I had been noticed. I had not, other than by the usual crowd, which is now two-thirds of our girls' club. As I sat down with my salad the others all looked oddly at me. 'What?' I wondered.
Then a voice came directly behind me. 'Is this a closed party, or may a stranger join you?'
I whirled round and gazed up at Stephen. Someone else waved him towards the seat beside me and he set down his tray and sat. 'Hi,' I finally said.
'Hi,' he said, and unfolded his napkin. 'How was your weekend?'
'All right....' I was blushing. All five of the others were staring at me in silence. I realised that none of them, save Jessy, had ever seen me with a boy before. And this, of course, was the prom king-- three of the others had not even been there but the story was already widely circulated directly and indirectly, and-- from what I have heard-- thanks to FaceBook, AIM, text messages and even old-fashioned telephones. Rumour even has it someone scrawled 'Janine rocks' in one of the boys' toilets. (And no, it does NOT really say 'Janine sucks'. For one thing, it would be inaccurate.)
Stephen and I did not talk about The Dance. We discussed our other impressions of the prom, the food, the place, the table arrangements... and the Cadillac. He asked and Jessy and I both told him about the weekend spent working Mommy's ice-cream parlour, and he seemed impressed with that, the costumes, the location, staying on our own for two nights, and all. All he had to report from his own weekend was having worked in the distressed-animal shelter over Saturday and Sunday and assisting a 'pretty cool' veterinarian who showed him how to bandage a racoon's leg and then meeting a little girl and her family who were unexpectedly and tearfully reunited with a recovering cocker spaniel they had lost weeks ago. From his telling of it the whole table of girls were sappy with damp eyes and pathetic sighs of 'Awww....' I do not think any of us had expected to find Stephen the talented comedic actor-- and our prom king-- was such a gentle, noble-minded philanthropist when it came to helping unfortunate creatures.
As we cleared off at the bell he and I stood up together. 'You know, Janine,' he said, 'I really wish there was another dance coming up.'
I felt something let go in my tummy-- okay, maybe not my tummy. 'You do?' (Why did I say that?)
'If I had known you needed a date-- if I had thought, I guess--'
'But I had Jessy,' I said.
'Ah, yes, a sister, the perfect backup date,' he smiled. 'Girls are so lucky. You don't know how lucky you are to have each other. You have this nice club, all these good friends, you have each other for company-- Sometimes it's hard being a guy.'
I stood there in the centre of the cafeteria whilst people went round us with their books and food trays, just gazing into his eyes.
'What I mean is-- I think I should have asked you to go with me. If you would have--'
'I would have,' I said bluntly.
He smiled. 'Really?'
I just nodded like there was something rattling loose in my head.
'Well, maybe you would this time, if I asked you to go with me... maybe tonight, like for supper? It doesn't have to be anything special, just--'
'Yes,' I said.
He smiled at me again. I love that smile. 'Really?'
I nodded. 'Yes really. It sounds nice.'
'Well,' he said, looking round himself like he was not sure what to say next, 'that's cool then.' So I told him where I live and he said he would collect me round six. He has a car, an older Chevy, kind of an apple red-- Daddy would like it. In fact Daddy would like Stephen. He's polite and intelligent and articulate enough to hold an actual conversation... and he's going to Eastern Shore for biology before going pre-med.... My head felt light as I turned round to go, but all the girls had gone. That's Jessy-- she has never eavesdropped on me, mainly out of respect, but also because she knows she will get the best of it from me personally anyway. I took one step and felt my knees go weak. Then the bell rang-- I was late for Chemistry.
I suppose some people might say Janine's been late for chemistry for too long.
...
Showing posts with label dancing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dancing. Show all posts
26 May 2009
On polite dancing
Monday evening, May 25th
It's about 11.30. The Memorial Day weekend is come and gone and I type this in the back of the dark-green Cadillac at about 65 miles per hour on Route One in Delaware. Jessy is asleep in the other side of the seat. We closed the ice-cream parlour at about 9.00 and were able to leave right from there with our bags and prom gowns and everything. We're both still in the Colonial gear-- Jessy has loosened her stays (she scarcely needs them anyway) and we're both barefoot, which is common for us anyway.
Daddy and Mother and the little ones are staying at the beach house tonight-- Lisa will miss a day of kindergarten and return home tomorrow. Jessy and I will have school at 7.45 as usual-- Roger will drive us. And Dottie will manage the ice-cream parlour as it goes into that weird schedule between Memorial Day and the end of school, when hours are shorter and the staff are less available till they know what their summer will bring.
I face the next few weeks with some degree of anxiety. I recognise that Stephen respects me, even likes me, for what I did at the prom, which I believed at the time and still believe was only simple human courtesy. Vanessa's moronic date doesn't have that concept. He is like what I assume too many people are nowadays, especially in America-- crass, selfish, without any understanding of the larger issues in life. In fact Vanessa is probably only just like him, though I don't know her very well and maybe that's unfair. But Stephen is different. We all understood why he was elected prom king-- he deserves it for being an all-round nice guy who is smart, entertaining, and mannerly. He is what we should all want to admire about people our age. And it broke my heart when Vanessa's date, a guy whose name we don't even know, stepped on his feelings like that. It's the king-and-queen dance! No one ever said they are a couple! And what is it about dancing in this country that makes people believe it's always about romance? Don't people realise there are many, many, other reasons to have a dance with a guy? Since I have been tall enough to look like a woman I have danced at formal affairs, with guys my age, even younger boys, and also older men, other people's fathers, my own father-- is that about romance? Dancing is just a social activity, it's what you do when you're at a party, especially a formal one. Sometimes-- as it's been with me-- it's been political. Sometimes there are men you simply cannot decline-- to be seen with them makes me look good, makes my family look good, makes my father look good, and may get something accomplished. I have said this to people before and someone actually said it makes me a kind of prostitute-- but when my dad has told me I have to dance with this man or that man I have just got up and done it, because I knew there was a reason. And yes, even since I was about 14, about half of them have propositioned me-- may I say here that most of those were Americans. The British men I have danced with would never have presumed to ask. They recognised it was a dance. And the French men-- I shall not say here, but by no means did I feel awkward round them either. The Frenchman places his hand a little too low on your hip, more like on the top of your bottom. Exactly once did I reposition a guy's hand, but I was a little too immature then, and I came to accept that it's just how they are. The Englishman places his hand on your side, at the bottom of your ribs. It's very proper. The Japanese man does too. The American doesn't know where to put his hand-- he tends to take your lead. If you put your hand on his shoulder, he puts his on your back and pulls you closer. If you put yours on his arm, he puts his on your side and keeps a distance. He seems afraid to look like he's trying something, because inside he really wants to be be trying something, but living in denial about his true motives he has to go to all this effort to make it look like he's not trying what he's really trying to come up with a way to try. He is a teakettle nearly boiling over, and stupidly he holds down that little cap as though that can even work, and the whistle comes out in some other way, usually in the look in his eyes. He looks at you like he wants to possess you, to consume you. When I see that look I just want to get out of there.
And I have danced with many men of my father's generation who were fathers themselves, and they will ask me about school, or about my college plans, or about whom I'm dating-- like the way any father would. When I don't care to talk too much about that I will ask the man about what he does, how he likes his profession, what his goals are, you know. Men like to tell us about that. They think we are impressed. I am usually not impressed by careers and accomplishments and goals and such-- it's only a courtesy to start a conversation that makes him feel comfortable. What impresses me is when a gentleman can have a dance with a girl who is not his daughter or his date and be able to look her in the eye and converse about something of substance. We don't want you to look down at our chest, we don't want you to hold our bottom, we don't want to hear any sleasy pickup lines, and we don't want to look like you possess us. What makes us respect you most is when you respect us. And you've a far better chance of having us want to go off to somewhere private with you if we respect you-- because what girl would go off with a man she doesn't respect?-- and would you really want that girl?
I am resolved-- the very next time Stephen asks me to dance, I will accept.
...
It's about 11.30. The Memorial Day weekend is come and gone and I type this in the back of the dark-green Cadillac at about 65 miles per hour on Route One in Delaware. Jessy is asleep in the other side of the seat. We closed the ice-cream parlour at about 9.00 and were able to leave right from there with our bags and prom gowns and everything. We're both still in the Colonial gear-- Jessy has loosened her stays (she scarcely needs them anyway) and we're both barefoot, which is common for us anyway.
Daddy and Mother and the little ones are staying at the beach house tonight-- Lisa will miss a day of kindergarten and return home tomorrow. Jessy and I will have school at 7.45 as usual-- Roger will drive us. And Dottie will manage the ice-cream parlour as it goes into that weird schedule between Memorial Day and the end of school, when hours are shorter and the staff are less available till they know what their summer will bring.
I face the next few weeks with some degree of anxiety. I recognise that Stephen respects me, even likes me, for what I did at the prom, which I believed at the time and still believe was only simple human courtesy. Vanessa's moronic date doesn't have that concept. He is like what I assume too many people are nowadays, especially in America-- crass, selfish, without any understanding of the larger issues in life. In fact Vanessa is probably only just like him, though I don't know her very well and maybe that's unfair. But Stephen is different. We all understood why he was elected prom king-- he deserves it for being an all-round nice guy who is smart, entertaining, and mannerly. He is what we should all want to admire about people our age. And it broke my heart when Vanessa's date, a guy whose name we don't even know, stepped on his feelings like that. It's the king-and-queen dance! No one ever said they are a couple! And what is it about dancing in this country that makes people believe it's always about romance? Don't people realise there are many, many, other reasons to have a dance with a guy? Since I have been tall enough to look like a woman I have danced at formal affairs, with guys my age, even younger boys, and also older men, other people's fathers, my own father-- is that about romance? Dancing is just a social activity, it's what you do when you're at a party, especially a formal one. Sometimes-- as it's been with me-- it's been political. Sometimes there are men you simply cannot decline-- to be seen with them makes me look good, makes my family look good, makes my father look good, and may get something accomplished. I have said this to people before and someone actually said it makes me a kind of prostitute-- but when my dad has told me I have to dance with this man or that man I have just got up and done it, because I knew there was a reason. And yes, even since I was about 14, about half of them have propositioned me-- may I say here that most of those were Americans. The British men I have danced with would never have presumed to ask. They recognised it was a dance. And the French men-- I shall not say here, but by no means did I feel awkward round them either. The Frenchman places his hand a little too low on your hip, more like on the top of your bottom. Exactly once did I reposition a guy's hand, but I was a little too immature then, and I came to accept that it's just how they are. The Englishman places his hand on your side, at the bottom of your ribs. It's very proper. The Japanese man does too. The American doesn't know where to put his hand-- he tends to take your lead. If you put your hand on his shoulder, he puts his on your back and pulls you closer. If you put yours on his arm, he puts his on your side and keeps a distance. He seems afraid to look like he's trying something, because inside he really wants to be be trying something, but living in denial about his true motives he has to go to all this effort to make it look like he's not trying what he's really trying to come up with a way to try. He is a teakettle nearly boiling over, and stupidly he holds down that little cap as though that can even work, and the whistle comes out in some other way, usually in the look in his eyes. He looks at you like he wants to possess you, to consume you. When I see that look I just want to get out of there.
And I have danced with many men of my father's generation who were fathers themselves, and they will ask me about school, or about my college plans, or about whom I'm dating-- like the way any father would. When I don't care to talk too much about that I will ask the man about what he does, how he likes his profession, what his goals are, you know. Men like to tell us about that. They think we are impressed. I am usually not impressed by careers and accomplishments and goals and such-- it's only a courtesy to start a conversation that makes him feel comfortable. What impresses me is when a gentleman can have a dance with a girl who is not his daughter or his date and be able to look her in the eye and converse about something of substance. We don't want you to look down at our chest, we don't want you to hold our bottom, we don't want to hear any sleasy pickup lines, and we don't want to look like you possess us. What makes us respect you most is when you respect us. And you've a far better chance of having us want to go off to somewhere private with you if we respect you-- because what girl would go off with a man she doesn't respect?-- and would you really want that girl?
I am resolved-- the very next time Stephen asks me to dance, I will accept.
...
The prom
Thursday, May 21st
Of course I had decided that I would just go. It got tedious explaining to people that I was not going because no one asked me. I felt like I was complaining, trying to pick up sympathy-- 'Poor me, no one loves me!' Actually that has never motivated me at all. I come from an entire family that doesn't know what it means to want to be like other people. My mother was even like that, marrying early and marrying someone in the entertainment business! --what was she thinking? --and my stepmother broke all new ground, settling in a foreign country and marrying someone over twice her age at the time! --was she throwing the rest of her life away? Some decisions get made for reasons that other people don't have to agree with and might never understand. I'm not going to prom to look popular, or conventional, or just pretty. I'm going to prom because it's a party, and if it's one thing this family does well, it's show up and have fun at a party.
Daddy has been at me about holding up the family reputation, which is kind of funny considering that the family reputation is about not caring what other people think. But he is sensible and conservative now and he knows the value of society, especially for Jessy and me. So I took out the deep-blue gown I had for the dinner we attended at UEA last spring. The colour is majestic, really-- it's what's known as heraldic blue, the colour on flags, and it appears on the coat-of-arms on Daddy's side. And it's very staid and traditional, more like something from the 1950s-- it's pared away at the shoulders and closed at the neck, with a high waist peaked in front and draped straight to the ankles. The back is open but not enough to keep from wearing a bra with it, which helps, you know. And I felt very pleased with myself for being able to open my wardrobe, put on a dress, and say I am ready for the prom.
Jessy's is a little more typical, in a light shade of sapphire with a straight neck and spaghetti straps. She wore her silver strap shoes with it. I wore my navy-blue pumps which have 3" heels. I usually do not go for anything quite so high but with these at least I know I can dance in them! I did her hair and she did mine. For her I just pulled it all back-- her hair has got so much body and such a natural curliness to it that there's almost nothing you can do with it. I envy her for it-- she's always got this almost-wild look, billowy hair all over the place-- it will fall past her shoulders if you brush it all the way down, and fifteen minutes later it's up about her ears and dropping down in her face. I clipped it up with a not-so-little silver hair clip and folded the rest over on top with pins. She looked like a just-tamed jungle girl trying to fit back in with society! --but with the silver clip and studded pins and her good silver cross round her neck she looked stunning-- if I have to say so myself!
She did mine too, just putting it all upon top in kind of a swirl-- my hair's got plenty of body too, and is generally wavy, but I have got nowhere near the thickness she's got and I really have to rely on the hair spray to hold it in place. Jessy dug out a little tiara-- not too gaudy, honest-- that held it down and with a couple of pins it worked pretty well. With the closed neck I wasn't going to wear any jewelry-- and I should say that neither of us has our ears pierced, and aside from a few (usually whimsical) clip-on earrings we never wear anything but a necklace. Daddy pointed out once that in the original TV version of Rogers-and-Hammerstein's 'Cinderella' she appears at the ball in nothing but her shoes and the dress-- and there is something beautifully pure and elegant about that. If the girl makes the dress, the accessories start taking away from that. I never accessorise beyond good sense as a rule.
Of course we had Roger to drive us, and he appeared at the foot of the steps in a lovely black tuxedo with the dark-green classic Cadillac. Mother insisted on taking photos, but our first stop was only round the corner at Castle Field, where the Ladybugs had a game scheduled. The plan was that they should all arrive early-- 5.30-- for a photo with me on my way to the prom. Roger drove the car right up to the back of the tower and let us out, and all the girls ran over to fawn over the dress-- and Jessy's too of course (they know her, but she coaches the younger group). The photo was set up with me standing on home plate surrounded by the team in all their red-and-white livery, a few bats and gloves in place for good measure. We took about six or seven, with Jessy directing us in a few varying poses, as well as a few with her in them too. People had started coming in to watch the game and so we were something of a spectacle for parents and siblings, at least one local news reporter, and a troop of Brownies from down the coast somewhere. Then it was 6.00 by then and time we should be off. I exchanged hugs and kisses with all the girls and wished them luck in the game without me-- 'We'll win this one just for you!' they promised. And Roger handed us into the car again and we were off.
'I think my shoes got dusty,' Jessy observed in the car.
Mine had too. We got out some Handi-wipes and took care of that.
At the hall Roger pulled up at the kerb and let down the window. 'All set, ladies?'
'Yes, of course, Roger,' I said. 'Really it's only a party.'
He nodded, as though knowing better, and got out.
Sitting in the right rear seat means I get in last and out first-- one must never cross over someone else in the car. (The exception is when one gentleman rides with two ladies-- but none about that now.) I stood up and stepped aside for Jessy and just then a garishly long limousine arrived and began disgorging about eight people, most of whom were in one way or another ill-dressed. I thought I recognised a few of them and then turned my back as Jessy stood up beside me. 'Thank you, Roger,' I said quietly. 'We'll ring when we're ready.'
He smiled at me and nodded reverently. 'As you wish, Miss. And may I say-- you two look lovely tonight.'
'Thanks, Roger!' Jessy smiled.
'Thanks,' I told him, touching his sleeve, and then we turned to greet our public.
Even in this short time the people from the huge long limousine were already skipping immaturely in to the building. I counted three boys and at least five girls-- how many people did that thing hold? By contrast we had our conservative older car made for five in a pinch. As we strode in I thought how that seemed to represent the difference between us and most people round here. We live a quiet life, our own way-- though we are essentially friendly and pleasant people (I think) we don't intermingle so much with others. Though I have often disparaged that phrase from Frost that is so often misinterpreted-- 'good fences make good neighbours'-- we do live with a fence, a wall, really, and there are fences round most of the other parts of our lives too. We stay separate. That's deliberate. And I know that seems snobby-- it really isn't meant to be-- but it is more a result of how we have had to live than anything we chose to begin with. What is it that St James says? --'good religion that is pure and undefiled before God is this: to visit widows and orphans in their affliction, and to keep one's self unstained by the world.' And we do live in that way, just like that. And there is nothing in that about mingling in society so much that the society's standards become your own. 'To keep one's self unstained by the world' sometimes requires a wall round your house. It is a wall behind which everyone who wants our company is welcome-- but it is still a wall to keep what is unwelcome out. If that makes me an inaccessible princess, then I am sorry-- but maybe what makes me inaccessible is your standards and not mine.
The prom was fine. I mean, it was a prom. There were tables with food and there was dancing and there were people we knew, and we said hello to everyone and mingled politely. Most of the people we know were happy to see us, and I was commended for coming with my sister anyway. She is always popular and did locate a few 10th-grade classmates who had come with older dates. And there was drama-- some long-standing couple had a tiff and someone walked out, and there were more than a few spills of food, possibly owing to preexisting inebriation, and there was too much bad language and much too much poor manners. But, we endure. The real drama occurred when it came time to announce the king and queen of the prom.
I imagine that, for people who have attended a school long enough, these decisions are never much of a surprise. I do not know the 12th-grade class so well and was only gratified that one of the nicest guys I knew of it was crowned prom king. Stephen stood up by himself with the hokey-looking crown on, waiting for the announcement of queen-- he had come with a girl who is really a good friend, which I think is the best way to share your last school dance anyway. Then they named Vanessa queen. Whoops and cheers-- and wolf whistles! --went up from the assembly. She was crowned and then they were invited to dance the king-and-queen number, respectfully slow and not too intimate, you know. So they did.
Then Vanessa's date, an exceptionally scruffy-looking guy in a bad suit who attended some other school, reached his low threshold for tolerance of someone else getting attention and-- I do not make this up! --rose out of his chair and cut in on the king-and-queen dance so that his girlfriend, never mind that she was our school's prom queen, should not dance with anyone else. I swear people sat there openmouthed in disbelief. Poor Stephen stood all by himself, five feet from his assigned prom queen, not knowing what to make of it. Later someone suggested he should have swung a punch at the guy, who held Vanessa in an exaggerated embrace with his head down on her shoulder.
Jessy nudged me-- but I already had made up my mind and pushed back my chair. Stephen looked up and saw me coming. I guess everyone else watched me too, but I really did not notice. I stopped one step away from him on the dance floor and offered my hand. In that one instant his face changed, as he went from feeling like the biggest stepped-on loser at the prom, in front of all his classmates, to being someone whose company was desired and valued.... oh, you know what I mean. And then we were dancing.
'You looked like you needed a partner,' I said quietly to him.
Other people were getting up to dance by then too. We were not so conspicuous now. 'I don't know what happened,' he said to me.
'There's no accounting for bad manners,' I told him.
He held me a little closer then-- not to be forward, but because he really wanted to. Then he said, 'Thank you.'
Later when Jessy told our parents about it, she called it 'noblesse oblige'. 'Janine was my hero!' she said.
And Daddy said, 'That is exactly the type of behaviour I expect from you girls.'
Stephen brought me back to his table-- which of course was not Vanessa's table-- and introduced me round. We know each other from the musical, and he was Sebastian in 'Twelfth Night'. I had never seriously thought of him as anyone I would have much to do with beyond the usual pleasantries, you know-- we have some things in common but my stature is just nowhere near what his is and I would never have presumed-- Never mind that. Back at our table Jessy sat with Rosie and a few others and chatted away, like she is capable of doing, and a chair was pulled out for me and I sat beside Candy, Stephen's date/friend and found myself visiting with 12th-graders. One of the other boys asked me to dance. When I returned from that Candy told Stephen she liked how we looked together-- she is a friend-- and made us stand up again. So we danced again.
By this time I was not feeling like a stranger from somewhere else. Sean, who is in choir with me, asked me to dance. Then Brett, whom I dated in November, asked me too. A few of the 11th-graders asked Jessy too-- and at least one 12th-grader did as well. Jessy really is the prettiest beauty in the whole school and in spite of being still only 15 she has a certain approachable grace that I don't have and tends to deserve more attention.
At the end of the night we were out stepping into the car and Stephen left his crowd and called to me. At the car door I turned and he handed me a corsage. 'I just wanted you to have something,' he said personally.
I tried to avoid Roger's eyes then and accepted it. 'Um, thanks,' I said.
'This is your car?' he asked, just now noticing it.
I shrugged. 'It's Daddy's car.'
'Nice,' he said, and then looked at me. 'Well, I wanted to thank you, for, you know--'
'Don't mention it.'
'Well, it meant a lot.' We sort of smiled at each other then. Then he asked, 'Do you have plans this weekend?'
I swallowed. Really? 'Um, yes, I do. We're working--' I sort of turned round to Jessy, sitting in the car, then-- 'up in New Jersey. Just for the weekend.'
'New Jersey! All the way up there? When do you have to leave?'
'Well... tonight, actually.' I smiled and then looked at Roger who was still holding the door. 'Are we all ready?'
'Whenever you like, Miss.'
'You're leaving now? I mean-- are you getting changed, or--?'
I smiled. 'We're pretty much leaving right now. I'm sorry.'
'Oh,' he said, and looked really disappointed. For a moment I was too.
'But we'll see each other in school, right? Tuesday.'
'Yes,' he said, then, as though that was a good idea. 'Tuesday. Sure.'
'I have fifth period lunch,' I said.
He nodded. 'I know. I've seen you.'
I smiled at him. 'See you at lunch, then.'
'Yes. All right. Have a safe trip, Janine.'
'Thanks. We will.'
We stood there, not wanting to leave, and then someone from his carload called to him. He looked, and then turned back to me and I was standing right in front of him. So he leaned in and kissed me, just a little, on the cheek. And he whispered to me, 'Thanks for the dance. You're a princess.'
'Oh,' I said, but I was blushing. He turned to leave. 'Good night....'
'Good night, Janine,' he said, and then turned and hurried over to his car.
Roger made a smug little smirk as I turned and and ducked into the car. I was beet-red.
'Well,' Jessy said in the car, 'that's a development.'
'It is hardly a "development",' I said.
'Hm, I don't know.... Prom king saved from certain humiliation by pretty little princess from nowhere, and then makes a lunch date sealed with a kiss.... I could develop that into a development.'
I batted my hand at her.
...
Of course I had decided that I would just go. It got tedious explaining to people that I was not going because no one asked me. I felt like I was complaining, trying to pick up sympathy-- 'Poor me, no one loves me!' Actually that has never motivated me at all. I come from an entire family that doesn't know what it means to want to be like other people. My mother was even like that, marrying early and marrying someone in the entertainment business! --what was she thinking? --and my stepmother broke all new ground, settling in a foreign country and marrying someone over twice her age at the time! --was she throwing the rest of her life away? Some decisions get made for reasons that other people don't have to agree with and might never understand. I'm not going to prom to look popular, or conventional, or just pretty. I'm going to prom because it's a party, and if it's one thing this family does well, it's show up and have fun at a party.
Daddy has been at me about holding up the family reputation, which is kind of funny considering that the family reputation is about not caring what other people think. But he is sensible and conservative now and he knows the value of society, especially for Jessy and me. So I took out the deep-blue gown I had for the dinner we attended at UEA last spring. The colour is majestic, really-- it's what's known as heraldic blue, the colour on flags, and it appears on the coat-of-arms on Daddy's side. And it's very staid and traditional, more like something from the 1950s-- it's pared away at the shoulders and closed at the neck, with a high waist peaked in front and draped straight to the ankles. The back is open but not enough to keep from wearing a bra with it, which helps, you know. And I felt very pleased with myself for being able to open my wardrobe, put on a dress, and say I am ready for the prom.
Jessy's is a little more typical, in a light shade of sapphire with a straight neck and spaghetti straps. She wore her silver strap shoes with it. I wore my navy-blue pumps which have 3" heels. I usually do not go for anything quite so high but with these at least I know I can dance in them! I did her hair and she did mine. For her I just pulled it all back-- her hair has got so much body and such a natural curliness to it that there's almost nothing you can do with it. I envy her for it-- she's always got this almost-wild look, billowy hair all over the place-- it will fall past her shoulders if you brush it all the way down, and fifteen minutes later it's up about her ears and dropping down in her face. I clipped it up with a not-so-little silver hair clip and folded the rest over on top with pins. She looked like a just-tamed jungle girl trying to fit back in with society! --but with the silver clip and studded pins and her good silver cross round her neck she looked stunning-- if I have to say so myself!
She did mine too, just putting it all upon top in kind of a swirl-- my hair's got plenty of body too, and is generally wavy, but I have got nowhere near the thickness she's got and I really have to rely on the hair spray to hold it in place. Jessy dug out a little tiara-- not too gaudy, honest-- that held it down and with a couple of pins it worked pretty well. With the closed neck I wasn't going to wear any jewelry-- and I should say that neither of us has our ears pierced, and aside from a few (usually whimsical) clip-on earrings we never wear anything but a necklace. Daddy pointed out once that in the original TV version of Rogers-and-Hammerstein's 'Cinderella' she appears at the ball in nothing but her shoes and the dress-- and there is something beautifully pure and elegant about that. If the girl makes the dress, the accessories start taking away from that. I never accessorise beyond good sense as a rule.
Of course we had Roger to drive us, and he appeared at the foot of the steps in a lovely black tuxedo with the dark-green classic Cadillac. Mother insisted on taking photos, but our first stop was only round the corner at Castle Field, where the Ladybugs had a game scheduled. The plan was that they should all arrive early-- 5.30-- for a photo with me on my way to the prom. Roger drove the car right up to the back of the tower and let us out, and all the girls ran over to fawn over the dress-- and Jessy's too of course (they know her, but she coaches the younger group). The photo was set up with me standing on home plate surrounded by the team in all their red-and-white livery, a few bats and gloves in place for good measure. We took about six or seven, with Jessy directing us in a few varying poses, as well as a few with her in them too. People had started coming in to watch the game and so we were something of a spectacle for parents and siblings, at least one local news reporter, and a troop of Brownies from down the coast somewhere. Then it was 6.00 by then and time we should be off. I exchanged hugs and kisses with all the girls and wished them luck in the game without me-- 'We'll win this one just for you!' they promised. And Roger handed us into the car again and we were off.
'I think my shoes got dusty,' Jessy observed in the car.
Mine had too. We got out some Handi-wipes and took care of that.
At the hall Roger pulled up at the kerb and let down the window. 'All set, ladies?'
'Yes, of course, Roger,' I said. 'Really it's only a party.'
He nodded, as though knowing better, and got out.
Sitting in the right rear seat means I get in last and out first-- one must never cross over someone else in the car. (The exception is when one gentleman rides with two ladies-- but none about that now.) I stood up and stepped aside for Jessy and just then a garishly long limousine arrived and began disgorging about eight people, most of whom were in one way or another ill-dressed. I thought I recognised a few of them and then turned my back as Jessy stood up beside me. 'Thank you, Roger,' I said quietly. 'We'll ring when we're ready.'
He smiled at me and nodded reverently. 'As you wish, Miss. And may I say-- you two look lovely tonight.'
'Thanks, Roger!' Jessy smiled.
'Thanks,' I told him, touching his sleeve, and then we turned to greet our public.
Even in this short time the people from the huge long limousine were already skipping immaturely in to the building. I counted three boys and at least five girls-- how many people did that thing hold? By contrast we had our conservative older car made for five in a pinch. As we strode in I thought how that seemed to represent the difference between us and most people round here. We live a quiet life, our own way-- though we are essentially friendly and pleasant people (I think) we don't intermingle so much with others. Though I have often disparaged that phrase from Frost that is so often misinterpreted-- 'good fences make good neighbours'-- we do live with a fence, a wall, really, and there are fences round most of the other parts of our lives too. We stay separate. That's deliberate. And I know that seems snobby-- it really isn't meant to be-- but it is more a result of how we have had to live than anything we chose to begin with. What is it that St James says? --'good religion that is pure and undefiled before God is this: to visit widows and orphans in their affliction, and to keep one's self unstained by the world.' And we do live in that way, just like that. And there is nothing in that about mingling in society so much that the society's standards become your own. 'To keep one's self unstained by the world' sometimes requires a wall round your house. It is a wall behind which everyone who wants our company is welcome-- but it is still a wall to keep what is unwelcome out. If that makes me an inaccessible princess, then I am sorry-- but maybe what makes me inaccessible is your standards and not mine.
The prom was fine. I mean, it was a prom. There were tables with food and there was dancing and there were people we knew, and we said hello to everyone and mingled politely. Most of the people we know were happy to see us, and I was commended for coming with my sister anyway. She is always popular and did locate a few 10th-grade classmates who had come with older dates. And there was drama-- some long-standing couple had a tiff and someone walked out, and there were more than a few spills of food, possibly owing to preexisting inebriation, and there was too much bad language and much too much poor manners. But, we endure. The real drama occurred when it came time to announce the king and queen of the prom.
I imagine that, for people who have attended a school long enough, these decisions are never much of a surprise. I do not know the 12th-grade class so well and was only gratified that one of the nicest guys I knew of it was crowned prom king. Stephen stood up by himself with the hokey-looking crown on, waiting for the announcement of queen-- he had come with a girl who is really a good friend, which I think is the best way to share your last school dance anyway. Then they named Vanessa queen. Whoops and cheers-- and wolf whistles! --went up from the assembly. She was crowned and then they were invited to dance the king-and-queen number, respectfully slow and not too intimate, you know. So they did.
Then Vanessa's date, an exceptionally scruffy-looking guy in a bad suit who attended some other school, reached his low threshold for tolerance of someone else getting attention and-- I do not make this up! --rose out of his chair and cut in on the king-and-queen dance so that his girlfriend, never mind that she was our school's prom queen, should not dance with anyone else. I swear people sat there openmouthed in disbelief. Poor Stephen stood all by himself, five feet from his assigned prom queen, not knowing what to make of it. Later someone suggested he should have swung a punch at the guy, who held Vanessa in an exaggerated embrace with his head down on her shoulder.
Jessy nudged me-- but I already had made up my mind and pushed back my chair. Stephen looked up and saw me coming. I guess everyone else watched me too, but I really did not notice. I stopped one step away from him on the dance floor and offered my hand. In that one instant his face changed, as he went from feeling like the biggest stepped-on loser at the prom, in front of all his classmates, to being someone whose company was desired and valued.... oh, you know what I mean. And then we were dancing.
'You looked like you needed a partner,' I said quietly to him.
Other people were getting up to dance by then too. We were not so conspicuous now. 'I don't know what happened,' he said to me.
'There's no accounting for bad manners,' I told him.
He held me a little closer then-- not to be forward, but because he really wanted to. Then he said, 'Thank you.'
Later when Jessy told our parents about it, she called it 'noblesse oblige'. 'Janine was my hero!' she said.
And Daddy said, 'That is exactly the type of behaviour I expect from you girls.'
Stephen brought me back to his table-- which of course was not Vanessa's table-- and introduced me round. We know each other from the musical, and he was Sebastian in 'Twelfth Night'. I had never seriously thought of him as anyone I would have much to do with beyond the usual pleasantries, you know-- we have some things in common but my stature is just nowhere near what his is and I would never have presumed-- Never mind that. Back at our table Jessy sat with Rosie and a few others and chatted away, like she is capable of doing, and a chair was pulled out for me and I sat beside Candy, Stephen's date/friend and found myself visiting with 12th-graders. One of the other boys asked me to dance. When I returned from that Candy told Stephen she liked how we looked together-- she is a friend-- and made us stand up again. So we danced again.
By this time I was not feeling like a stranger from somewhere else. Sean, who is in choir with me, asked me to dance. Then Brett, whom I dated in November, asked me too. A few of the 11th-graders asked Jessy too-- and at least one 12th-grader did as well. Jessy really is the prettiest beauty in the whole school and in spite of being still only 15 she has a certain approachable grace that I don't have and tends to deserve more attention.
At the end of the night we were out stepping into the car and Stephen left his crowd and called to me. At the car door I turned and he handed me a corsage. 'I just wanted you to have something,' he said personally.
I tried to avoid Roger's eyes then and accepted it. 'Um, thanks,' I said.
'This is your car?' he asked, just now noticing it.
I shrugged. 'It's Daddy's car.'
'Nice,' he said, and then looked at me. 'Well, I wanted to thank you, for, you know--'
'Don't mention it.'
'Well, it meant a lot.' We sort of smiled at each other then. Then he asked, 'Do you have plans this weekend?'
I swallowed. Really? 'Um, yes, I do. We're working--' I sort of turned round to Jessy, sitting in the car, then-- 'up in New Jersey. Just for the weekend.'
'New Jersey! All the way up there? When do you have to leave?'
'Well... tonight, actually.' I smiled and then looked at Roger who was still holding the door. 'Are we all ready?'
'Whenever you like, Miss.'
'You're leaving now? I mean-- are you getting changed, or--?'
I smiled. 'We're pretty much leaving right now. I'm sorry.'
'Oh,' he said, and looked really disappointed. For a moment I was too.
'But we'll see each other in school, right? Tuesday.'
'Yes,' he said, then, as though that was a good idea. 'Tuesday. Sure.'
'I have fifth period lunch,' I said.
He nodded. 'I know. I've seen you.'
I smiled at him. 'See you at lunch, then.'
'Yes. All right. Have a safe trip, Janine.'
'Thanks. We will.'
We stood there, not wanting to leave, and then someone from his carload called to him. He looked, and then turned back to me and I was standing right in front of him. So he leaned in and kissed me, just a little, on the cheek. And he whispered to me, 'Thanks for the dance. You're a princess.'
'Oh,' I said, but I was blushing. He turned to leave. 'Good night....'
'Good night, Janine,' he said, and then turned and hurried over to his car.
Roger made a smug little smirk as I turned and and ducked into the car. I was beet-red.
'Well,' Jessy said in the car, 'that's a development.'
'It is hardly a "development",' I said.
'Hm, I don't know.... Prom king saved from certain humiliation by pretty little princess from nowhere, and then makes a lunch date sealed with a kiss.... I could develop that into a development.'
I batted my hand at her.
...
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