My Homecoming Nightmare

Last night, the night of Homecoming at my local school, was, by far, the worst night of my life.

It was an autumn evening worthy of a painting.  A brisk chill hung heavily in the air like mist on a cold winter morning, and the ultramarine sky was speckled with glimmering stars and pale gray clouds.  There was no wind, no snow, and no rain.  For the people of Flambeau in northwestern Wisconsin, it was the perfect night for a football game.

As I stepped out of my dad’s black truck and onto the pavement with an excited smile on my face, I could hear the half-time show starting on the track.  The mindless chatter of football fans in the bleachers could be heard from the other side of the school.  The concessions stand was packed with customers.  The air was chilly but not bitter, and it felt good to be out in that perfect autumn night.  I was at the school with my dad.  We planned on hanging out at the game until eight-thirty, when the Homecoming dance would begin.  It was the only reason I had come at all.

The football game was predictable.  I barely paid any attention to the bulky boys in jerseys romping about in the muddy, dew-covered field like a pack of warthogs.  I had never understood football, and had no interest in watching the entire game.  Somehow, I had wandered over to the concessions stand to find something to sustain me for the rest of the night, but nothing caught my appetite.  So, with the pale, silent moon peeking out from a crack in the clouds like a shy child, I pulled out my pen and my sketchpad from my purse.  Without further ado, I quickly sketched a picture of the moonlight.  A few people saw me sketching and asked if I was a senior.  I simply said that I was a freshman, and all they did was chatter to each other like squirrels and walk away, their hot chocolate and hotdogs in hand.

By the time that eight-thirty rolled around the clock, my dad and I made our way to the main door of the school.  I found a safe place for my coat, scarf, gloves, and purse in the girls’ bathroom, where all the other girls left their stuff.  I was in a frilly purple dress and black leggings; a simple but cute outfit.  I got a few compliments on my dress and my eyes, which were pasted with sticky mascara and dark magenta eye shadow.  The dance barely started when I came in the gym.

As soon as I saw it, I fell in love.  All the ceiling lights were dimmed, and there was a DJ in the corner, which was run by someone I recognized.  I was about to go say hi to see if he remembered me, but he looked busy so I did not want to bother him.  There were little lights in blue, green, and pink dancing across the high ceiling, the white brick walls, and the shining floor.  A popular song with strong bass was playing, but the gym was empty.

I was one of the only people there at the moment.  A few other girls were there, one of whom I knew, and they were already dancing to the full-bass pop songs I knew nothing of.  They swung their hips about and were laughing, but I just stood there.  I felt so awkward and quiet.  Normally I would quickly approach someone I did not know and begin to converse with them, so I would always make new friends.  However, whenever I did make a new friend, that person would always go back to their circle of the friends they knew much longer than they knew me.

I felt invisible.

 When the field went silent and the football lights dimmed, most of the high schoolers changed into their dresses and button-down shirts in the bathrooms, eventually herding themselves into the gym.

Yes! I thought to myself triumphantly.  Now the real party’s about to start!

Little did I know that there would be no party.  At least not for me.

Occasionally, I showed a familiar face that I could do the moonwalk that Michael Jackson used to do, and they were dually impressed, but it would disappear within a moment.  I turned into a wisp of air.  The triumphant seniors, the excited juniors, the silent sophomores, and the foolish freshmen were all mixed into their little circles of chattering, having fun, and dancing the night away.  I felt glad that there were lots of people at the dance now, because now would be my chance to fit in and have fun.  A few girls I knew from one of my classes were in one thick circle during a party song, and I flitted over to join them in the dance.

But whenever I would bend down to pick up a rose, its vicious thorns would frighten me away.

Every circle I approached would close whenever I was near.

There were a few songs that taught the dance as the lyrics went on, and everyone got to get in that, and I used my special flexibility and rhythm skills to stand out like a star.  When the song told you to stomp your right foot, everyone just lifted it and put it back down again, but I actually followed the lyrics and I stomped.  When the song told me to slide to the left, I slid.  When it told me to dance real smooth, I was snapping my fingers and twirling about, my feet light against the floor.

Still, as wonderful as I probably looked, nobody cared to look at me.

The slow dances were both the worst and the best.  While the girls held their boyfriends and the boys held their girlfriends in slow, tiny steps across small circles in the gym, I often sat off to the side, waiting for a single boy to ask me to dance.  But I knew, from somewhere deep inside, that those days were over.  I then realized that the number one rule of high school is that you can’t be single.

So, with nobody to dance with, I turned to my imagination.

On a little table by the DJ, there are a few notepads where high schoolers can request a song by writing down the name and the artist.  I wrote down “The Waltz of the Snowflakes, Tchaikovsky” three different times, and they did not play it.  They said before that they played any kind of music, and I could only assume that ballet music was included, but even so, I never heard that song that night.

Thus, my mind was my only escape from the hell I had thought would be heaven.  Closing my eyes and letting my arms hang loosely at my sides, I concentrated on the familiar Christmas tunes that I had grown up listening to every winter, and I allowed it to fill me up.  I put my hands in the air as if I was about to dance with a gentleman.  The Waltz of the Snowflakes, with me being the only one hearing it and dancing it, was the most beautiful thing I had ever experienced.  My steps were light and wide across the floor, gliding between and around the slowly moving couples in a tangled line of snowy magic.  I felt as if it was winter, like I was waltzing with the Prince of Winter himself.

I lifted my chin high, continuing to spin in sync with the waltz I heard so clearly.  The Winter Prince held me gently, one hand on my hip and another on my side.  Our steps were perfectly synchronized across the magical snowy place we were dancing in.  Often I would look up at his lovely face; his soulful, dark eyes so contrasted to his pale skin, his short silver locks that frayed this way and that, and the gentle smile that played on his perfect lips.  He was smiling at me.

I let out a gasp of delight.  Here I was, dancing with the Prince of Winter to the most beautiful music in the world, silver and blue surrounding me in ice and snow, and nobody could tear us apart now.  Winter had found me on that picturesque autumn night.

Until, to my dismay, the song ended.  The waltz with the Winter Prince was only in my mind.

As another pop song began and the high schoolers around me excitedly squealed because a popular song was playing, I just stood there in the middle of the dance floor, the blue, green, and pink lights bouncing onto my flushed face.  Nobody had seen that I was dancing a different dance.  Nobody had seen that I was dancing with the air.  Nobody cared to know that I was alone.  The lights, as beautiful as they were, were like a mocking reminder that I would always be alone.  Looking at those girls that were either kissing or dancing with their boyfriends, I felt jealous of them.  For a single moment, I wanted a boyfriend of my own.

But deep down, I knew that if you open the rose too early, the petals will fall off.

And so, after a few more winter waltzes in my head and more popular, catchy songs were being danced to in the gym, I had had enough.  I looked expectantly at the door, and sure enough, there was my dad, standing there in the light I craved so much.

All I wanted was to get out of there.

On the way home, I talked to my dad about the whole thing.  He felt so sorry for me and was completely willing to listen to my angry and sad rants, but after ten minutes, there was nothing more to be said.  I was so tired from waltzing about with nobody to support me, and I wanted to sleep.

When we got home, I cried into my dad’s shoulder in the kitchen.  It felt awful to be invisible, like you were not even there, like you never existed.  My dad insisted that the boys didn’t know what they were missing when they passed up the chance to dance with a beauty such as me.  I love my dad, and I’m very happy that he is always there for me, but part of me still wanted to dance the night away with the Winter Prince.  I missed him, and I still do.

When I crawled into my bed and began to type out what you are reading now, my older sister knocked on the door to my room, and we chatted for a while about the dance, movies, and breaking the fourth wall in stories.  As usual when I chat with my sister at night, we struggle to keep our laughs quiet.  Eventually, when midnight rolled around, she left with a smile and a simple good night, turning off my bedroom light and closing the door.  I continued to type, and within an hour I had finished what your eyes are scanning right this minute.

I feel better about this whole thing, now that I crashed it all out on this post, but the sting of the rose's thorns are still there.  Somehow I know that there will be social circles I will never be able to break.  Somehow I know that I will always be different.  But you know what?  That's okay.  It's okay to be different.  Nothing can change who I am.

That is all.