“No Madeleine, not this time. Just get him there.”
In the old home video, Lucas was planning on asking me to the eighth-grade formal. It’d be way more poetic to pull my little stunt at the same dance, but unfortunately, it’s still months away. I don’t have months to wait, but luck is on my side when I check and see that there’s a sixth-grade Sadie Hawkins dance at the middle school on Saturday night. I volunteer as a chaperone and the organizers reluctantly accept, despite finding it extremely odd considering I don’t have a child attending the school. I rattle off a spiel about the school nurse needing backup to treat any dancing injuries now that the kids are bumpin’ and grindin’ these days.
Finding the dress I wore to the dance all those years ago is not a problem. My mom kept it under plastic over the years because she’s a memory hoarder. Sadly, I had a growth spurt in high school and the dress barely covers my belly button. I try zipping up the back, and I swear the zipper cackles when it hits a roadblock a few inches from where it started. I improvise by layering it over a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. I look like an overstuffed sausage sleeve, but Lucas will appreciate the effort. I hope.
I find a polaroid from the dance and precisely recreate my hair and makeup, right down to the crunchy curls and smeared red lipstick. I buy Lucas a boutonniere and I wear a matching corsage—which fits nicely over my lime green cast, thank you very much. I purchase a disposable camera and stuff it into my child-sized purse. This is a historical reenactment, people, and I don’t skimp on the details.
It all seems like a great idea until I arrive at the dance and parents stare at me in confusion. At first, they probably think I’m the mammoth middle schooler that developed too early, thanks to all the hormones in dairy these days. By the time they realize I’m actually an adult, they look worried that I’ve taken a quick break from sanity. I smile and move along, never staying in one place too long, lest they grow curious and want to come talk to me or have me committed. Madeleine assures me she is on her way with Lucas, and when my phone buzzes in my hand, I don’t even have to glance down to know it’s go-time. They’re here.
The timing is impeccable. As I make my way to the small stage at the front of the dance floor, I spot the unattended microphone and head straight for it. Across the stage, my eyes lock with those belonging to a pint-sized middle schooler who is beelining for the same destination. She’s closer to the mic and scurries to beat me to it. She has flashcards in her hand and a determined expression on her face. She’s basically me, 14 years ago.
I turn over my shoulder and see Madeleine all but dragging a disheveled Lucas through the doors. It’s clear he doesn’t want to be here and has no clue what’s going on, but I need him to stay.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” announces the small girl through the mic.
C’mon, Miss Honor Roll, make it quick.
“Thank you all for coming to the ninth annual Sadie Hawkins dance,” she intones, making sure to over-enunciate each and every syllable. “It is time to announce the winners of Mr. and Mrs. Sadie Hawkins Dance 2017!”
She holds for applause that never comes.
Most of the “cool” middle schoolers ignore her, and the half that are listening wear expressions that clearly signal she’s seconds from losing them. And I’m seconds from losing Lucas. He’s shaking his head and tugging his arm out of Madeleine’s grip. He’s trying to head back out the door, back to wherever he’s been hiding out over the last few days, too stubborn to return any of my phone calls.
“But first, a bit of history,” the tiny middle schooler continues. “As you probably know, the Sadie Hawkins dance is an American folk event. It was first featured on a comic strip in the early 1930s and—”
“LUCAS!” I shout through the microphone after wrenching it out of the girl’s hand and holding it just above her reach. The mixed reactions from the crowd are silenced by the sharp whine of feedback that issues from the amps.
“Hey! You can’t do that!” reprimands the miniature MC. “I’m the student body president and chairperson of the dance committee!”
She comes up my elbows, so I’m able to pretend I can’t hear her. When she finishes puberty, she’ll understand why I have to do what I’m about to do.
“Lucas!” I shout again. He turns and finds me on stage. “Don’t leave!”
For a second, he stops fighting and stands there, shocked. Madeleine releases her grip on him and quickly reaches for her cell phone. I hope her phone freezes before she can load Snapchat.