Slow Circles

As we turned in slow circles, darkness enveloped us, though lights, now red, now green, flashed overhead. My first school dance had proven mostly a dud until a miracle happened: I got asked to slow dance.

It was a boy named Phil who asked. I had never noticed Phil before, though he was in my home ec class and we had stitched aprons and dashikis only a few sewing machines apart. With dark brown feathered hair and freckles, Phil was cute, but considered a burnout, a group I gave a wide berth. But as straight-laced as I was, I knew as soon as Phil touched my shoulders that I would be willing to brave freezing cold days at the wall to watch Phil and his friends smoke cigarettes, grow my hair long and learn to toss it around casually while I peppered my conversation with swear words, beg my mother for a jean jacket if it came to that. I had fallen deeply in love with Phil as we turned in slow circles in the dark.

The only time Phil and I had ever spoken was the scant few moments before when he had said, "Wanna dance?" and I had said, "Sure!" Other than that, our paths had never really crossed, nor had they any reason to; we were from opposite sides of the tracks. But now it was seventh grade for us and we had finally come together, it was our time.

The song could have been anything; that it was slow held the most meaning for me. Phil could have asked me to dance to a fast song - in fact, a groovy new song had just been played - "We Will Rock You/We Are the Champions," by Queen - and everyone had gotten on the floor for that one with its raucous chant and foot-beckoning beat. But it was when the lights went low that Phil had chosen to approach me. My hands rested on his shoulders, his at my waist, our faces lines up perfectly. We stared at each other, looked beyond each other, trembled slightly. He had chosen me.

The song ended and Phil walked away. I went home and cried.

My sister was sleeping that late at night, so I kept the light off as I changed into my nightgown. It was late spring; crickets had begun their nighttime songs and the sheer white curtains on our bedroom windows fluttered. The tears came as I stood at my closet, they coursed down my cheeks. My mother called to me from the kitchen.

"It was terrible," I sobbed under harsh lights. "I only got asked to dance once."

"Your nightgown is inside out," my mother said. "Why would anyone ask you to dance when you don't take care?"

***

It was heartbreak and wonder that had me.

Home ec, we never talked. We baked apple pies in kitchenettes right next to each other and the slow dance hadn't spurred Phil on to a smile, a wave. I had been sure that it was only the beginning for us, that standing in a dark gym he had seen me and something in me that made him want to turn in slow circles while colored lights danced around us.

Heartbreak and wonder. It was my first slow dance and the first time I realized that you could make a connection with someone without them even knowing it. And that no matter how much you want it to happen, there was no way to wish it into being.

Here, I was on my own.