As a high school senior, I resolved to give older, more
mature, men another try. And so I fixated on Sam Bauman, an assistant coach at my school. Sam wrote soulful poetry, painted in watercolors
and had been blessed with an afro of tight blond curls my grandmother affectionately called “Iggy doll hair” in
reference to the bug-eyed troll figurines popular in the 1960s. And, unlike my
male peers, he could grow a beard. At 25, he was only seven years my senior, I
assured Jennifer.
By the time prom rolled around again, neither Jennifer nor I
had managed to secure a date. So we went together. There’s a snapshot of the
two of us standing outside her father’s house. In the picture, she’s wearing a
shiny black gown with a choker necklace, and I’m in the sparkly red Jennifer
McClintock gown I would eventually wear, seven years later, as a reporter
covering Donald Trump’s Red Cross Ball (yes, I'm name-dropping the wacko Republican presidential front runner to prove how cool I am now). Both Jenn and I had clearly fallen
victim to an overzealous hairdresser wielding a curling iron and a gallon-sized
spray bottle of Aqua Net; Ringlets of hair sprang, snake-like, from the tops of
our heads.
I don’t remember where Jennifer and I ate dinner, but I do
recall insisting we stop by Sam’s house en route to the Gainesville Country
Club so I could dazzle him with my grown-up finery. To emphasize my air of
sophistication, I made sure to fold down the top of my Mazda Miata as we arrived
at and departed from his house. The visit lasted all of five minutes, and,
alas, did not conclude with Sam brushing off his tux and insisting on joining
us. By the time Jennifer and I pulled into the country club, the snakes
squirming from our heads were frizzed and contorted into knots. We mussed them
as best we could and then promptly hit the dessert bar and then the dance
floor, electing to hop up and down while the couples around us grinded on each
other. That was my last high school dance. It was also, thankfully, the last
time I would adopt the moony glazed eyes of a forgotten wallflower.
 |
| The author, right, and her sister, Hailey |
More than 12 years have passed since I graduated from high
school and finally put adolescent crushes and school dances behind me. I
haven’t seen Travis, Chaz or Alex since our graduation. Ashley Thompson, that
gorgeous girl, attended Princeton on a soccer scholarship and married a ridiculously
tall New York Yankees pitcher. I’m not Facebook friends with Richard Schneider,
but a quick glance at his profile picture reveals he’s very much still a
Buccaneers fan. I maintained a friendship with Sam through college, but he’s
since dissipated into an acquaintance whose Facebook posts occasionally appear
in my newsfeed. And, as it turns out, Mark, like John, is and always has been
gay. He too is in a long-term relationship with another man.
During college, Jennifer and I completed an epic, six-week
journey through Europe. We now live in separate states and in separate time
zones, but we see each other occasionally – the last time was at my wedding to
my college sweetheart and number-one dance partner, Matt, a truly wonderful,
strong man who had no problem whisking me over the threshold of our house.
Mentioning him now, almost as a footnote, seems wrong because he is the biggest
and best part of my life.
Jennifer and I often communicate by text and today, while
writing this essay, I consulted her over iMessage.
“Do you remember senior prom? Did we eat dinner at your
dad’s house or go out?”
“Vaguely,” she responded. “We went out. And then you went
out with Alex after prom to play basketball.”
“Really?! So I abandoned you?”
“I went home,” she wrote. “Well, he was your date lol.”
She forgot we both went stag senior year, but the part about
me playing basketball after the dance is likely true. Leaving my best friend to
frolic with the color blind, French Canadian who refused to dance with me the
previous year sounds about right. That particular memory remains vague, but I
do clearly recall a young girl’s obsessive desire to be desired and accepted by
a boy. If only she had redirected all that pent-up, hormone-fueled energy toward
a loyal friend who would long outlast homecomings, proms, and all the drama of
high school -- maybe even all those angst-ridden diary pages whose penciled
words will surely, mercifully, fade.
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