I wasn’t enthused about the prospect of senior prom. My love interest at the time lived 1,728 miles away and certainly would not be making the trip to Washington in order to attend a formal dance. And, anyway, the romance was not reciprocated in that relationship.
Still, I wanted to have the quintessential American high school experience of that one last ball and all it entailed: dress shopping, hair appointments, a fancy dinner with friends, corsages and boutonnieres, and (last and maybe least) dancing.
Dallen Baker, with car paint and balloons, asked me to prom on a Thursday during 5th-period choir. I happily agreed. We were friends, albeit remotely, and had attended school together since those early elementary years. I bought an Adrianna Papell gown from Nordstrom that I loved. It was eggplant in color, gauzy, and floor-length, with olive and gold beading across the straps and hem.
On that Saturday night in May, we dined at a seafood seaside restaurant in Anacortes with friends before making our way to Maple Hall in the tiny town of LaConner. Inside, we joined the masses: dancing, shouting, laughing, and imparting compliments to peers. We danced to fast songs in a sweaty jumble of bodies and then paired off for slower songs.
The patio off the dance floor was a welcome escape with fresh air and space, and I found myself chatting with friends and acquaintances there. My body and brain were grateful for the decreased stimulation.
After some time, Kaitlyn found me and gently pulled me out of a conversation. “Hey, Dallen is upset that you’ve been out here for so long,” she said. “I think he feels abandoned.”
I felt crushed. For Dallen and for whatever expectations he had had coming into the night. I was not living up to them. I had hurt him. Inadvertently, surely. But the hurt still hurts; I knew it well. I ventured inside to find him for another slow dance, and we swayed back and forth. I hoped my hands, laced gently behind his neck, and my head, resting softly on his shoulder, were enough to say “I’m sorry.”
