So I’m standing in a large darkened gym, watching a bunch of middle school kids fake like they are dancing — for the record they’re not very good.
I’m here, because in a moment of weakness, I told my school teacher-wife I’d help chaperone.
The music is loud. Between 40 and 50 kids line the walls — boys on one side, girls on the other. The dance floor is empty.
I’ve been here before.
About 30 years ago.
Over to the left, there’s the arrogant little twit who is sure he’s the perfect specimen of masculinity. He thinks he’s immortal and he honestly believes that every girl here is dying to hook up with him. He struts around like a rooster, high-fives his buds, and practices that same look Rod Steward made famous in 1975.
Rod’s version was better.
Thirty years ago this kid’s name was Greg; he started on the eighth grade football team and his Dad bought him a real motorcycle. He was just sure he had qualified as the Alpha Male of the eighth grade.
Superjock is talking to the standard issue, perky blond cheerleader-princess who, even though she’s only 13, has the body of a high school senior but the maturity of fifth grader. Cheerleader-princess flirts back, bats her long eyelashes, and struggles to make sure her other girlfriends notice who she is talking to; after all, jelousy is an important weapon when you’re 13.
Just down from the cheerleader-princess stands the Geek.
He’s dressed in pressed khakis which are just a little too short and a shirt that’s always tucked in. He mom got the pants on sale at Old Navy and she lovingly irons them. She has no idea she might as well staple a sign to her kid’s head which reads “Kick Me.”
Geek boy is smart, and when he hits college, he will probably make a fortune from the scholarships that schools across the country throw at him.
But right now, at this very moment, he’s the outcast. Right now, he’d give up his soul to flirt with the cheerleader-princess — and have her flirt back. Which is too bad, because he doesn’t notice the little doe-eyed sweetheart who’s standing three people away from him.
She’s too short to be a cheerleader and her small body hasn’t developed its curves yet. But she has the face, and the personality of an angel. She spends her time buried in books. This year, she’ll set a record for the number of As one student can earn in a semester.
The kids stand there — not dancing. A faceless discjockey plays a cut from Kayne West. A handful of brave couples try their hand at some slow moves, but quickly stop and fade back into the shadows.
Thirty years ago, the song was by Journey or — God forbid — Air Supply. The moves are the same; it’s just the music that’s changed. Of course, back then, eighth graders didn’t stop dancing to take a call on their cell or to send a text message.
Kayne continues his ballad.
My wife pulls me close and hands me our toddler.
Zach smiles, coos and points to the scrum of kids, where, somewhere, his sister stands, reminding her group that she, too, has been nominated as one of the dance’s potential queens.
For the moment I’ll pulled back to reality, but all too quickly I go back to 1977. Standing there, watching, I’m back in a time where the whole world seemed to revolve around who fit in where.
Behind me, Karen giggles.
She watches as Sara and several of her compadres practice their Rockett-style kicks, then fall in a heap on the floor. The Geek and the little Doe Eyed girl join them, laughing, too.
Over to the side, superjock stands alone. The cheerleader-princess has rejoined her gaggle of friends while superjock has sacrificed an evening of laughter for the chance to silently cultivate his image.
And still, the music plays.
Yeah, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
I’m here, because in a moment of weakness, I told my school teacher-wife I’d help chaperone.
The music is loud. Between 40 and 50 kids line the walls — boys on one side, girls on the other. The dance floor is empty.
I’ve been here before.
About 30 years ago.
Over to the left, there’s the arrogant little twit who is sure he’s the perfect specimen of masculinity. He thinks he’s immortal and he honestly believes that every girl here is dying to hook up with him. He struts around like a rooster, high-fives his buds, and practices that same look Rod Steward made famous in 1975.
Rod’s version was better.
Thirty years ago this kid’s name was Greg; he started on the eighth grade football team and his Dad bought him a real motorcycle. He was just sure he had qualified as the Alpha Male of the eighth grade.
Superjock is talking to the standard issue, perky blond cheerleader-princess who, even though she’s only 13, has the body of a high school senior but the maturity of fifth grader. Cheerleader-princess flirts back, bats her long eyelashes, and struggles to make sure her other girlfriends notice who she is talking to; after all, jelousy is an important weapon when you’re 13.
Just down from the cheerleader-princess stands the Geek.
He’s dressed in pressed khakis which are just a little too short and a shirt that’s always tucked in. He mom got the pants on sale at Old Navy and she lovingly irons them. She has no idea she might as well staple a sign to her kid’s head which reads “Kick Me.”
Geek boy is smart, and when he hits college, he will probably make a fortune from the scholarships that schools across the country throw at him.
But right now, at this very moment, he’s the outcast. Right now, he’d give up his soul to flirt with the cheerleader-princess — and have her flirt back. Which is too bad, because he doesn’t notice the little doe-eyed sweetheart who’s standing three people away from him.
She’s too short to be a cheerleader and her small body hasn’t developed its curves yet. But she has the face, and the personality of an angel. She spends her time buried in books. This year, she’ll set a record for the number of As one student can earn in a semester.
The kids stand there — not dancing. A faceless discjockey plays a cut from Kayne West. A handful of brave couples try their hand at some slow moves, but quickly stop and fade back into the shadows.
Thirty years ago, the song was by Journey or — God forbid — Air Supply. The moves are the same; it’s just the music that’s changed. Of course, back then, eighth graders didn’t stop dancing to take a call on their cell or to send a text message.
Kayne continues his ballad.
My wife pulls me close and hands me our toddler.
Zach smiles, coos and points to the scrum of kids, where, somewhere, his sister stands, reminding her group that she, too, has been nominated as one of the dance’s potential queens.
For the moment I’ll pulled back to reality, but all too quickly I go back to 1977. Standing there, watching, I’m back in a time where the whole world seemed to revolve around who fit in where.
Behind me, Karen giggles.
She watches as Sara and several of her compadres practice their Rockett-style kicks, then fall in a heap on the floor. The Geek and the little Doe Eyed girl join them, laughing, too.
Over to the side, superjock stands alone. The cheerleader-princess has rejoined her gaggle of friends while superjock has sacrificed an evening of laughter for the chance to silently cultivate his image.
And still, the music plays.
Yeah, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
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