Sadie Hawkins

I have played this entirely wrong. Entirely wrong, Mrs. Trent. I thought if I showed up at the Sadie Hawkins Dance without a date, it wouldn’t matter, because there’d be extra girls looking for one. You know how there are always extras? I mean, I’ve never been to a Sadie Hawkins Dance before, but I know that there are always extras of just about anything, so I figured there would be extra girls standing around in case a guy wanted to go to the dance, but nobody asked him out in time for the dance, you know?

Frankly, I was shocked none of the girls asked me. I play on the German volleyball team. I started a silent film club. I wear bolo ties even when I don’t have to. I might not be what people my age perceive as a catch, but I still thought at least one of these young women would see that I am the dance date of a lifetime. You should have seen the look on my mother’s face when I told her nobody had asked me. She had to set down the sculpture of Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney she was working on, and catch her breath. None of it makes sense.

My mother was the one who had the brilliant idea of having me show up without a date. She reasoned that all the girls were too intimidated to ask me, but once they saw that I was at the dance anyway, they would jettison the loser they’d brought, and spend the rest of the night with me. She even guessed that multiple girls would ditch their dates for me, and I might have to referee some kind of physical combat to see who wins my hand. And that’s to say nothing of the girls I assumed would be here, no date in sight, just hoping that the boy they never got up the gumption to speak to would be waiting to forgive them and ask for a samba.

Yes, I know this all sounds wild coming from a fourteen-year-old, but that’s what happens when you’re raised by all the octogenarians who live in the nursing home where your mother teaches art therapy. I have grown up being very aware of how fleeting life is. That’s why I taught myself how to write a sestina by the time I was eight. You can’t take one day for granted. There was no way I was going to miss a school dance because of some arbitrary rule about needing to be invited by a girl.

And what an arcane stipulation, Mrs. Trent! Have we not progressed past such antiquated ideas of gender? The assumption that boys always ask girls out, and so it would be backwards to have the girls do the asking? Nobody buys all that anymore. Girls can ask me out whenever they want. In fact, I fully expect to be proposed to by a woman someday. And it better be in Lisbon, or I will probably (politely) turn down her proposal. Where were you proposed to, Mrs. Trent? Or is that a sore subject since Mr. Trent moved out a week ago?

Oh, I just picked up that tidbit while I was eavesdropping outside the staff lounge. I usually have my lunch there, because when I try to eat in the cafeteria, many of the other students throw chicken nuggets at me. I wouldn’t say it’s the majority of students, but when it comes to chicken nuggets, even a handful of people throwing them can mean risking serious injury. Anyway, I’m sorry your marriage is in shambles. That must be why you’re here chaperoning a school dance instead of out somewhere at a cocktail bar discussing fascinating adult topics like politics and ripped sweatshirts will be making a comeback.

Regardless of all that, I’m happy you’re here. You’re the only teacher I feel like I can confide in. I’ve felt that way ever since you caught me reading Vanity Fair magazine in your class and you didn’t write me up. By the way, the latest issue features a stellar interview with Damien Hirst about being an enfant terrible. I wish VF had an advice column, because I could surely use some.

What should I do?

I can’t just leave. Everyone’s already seen me and asked me who my date is and I told him “Lulu” and they said “Who’s Lulu?” and I said “This girl who goes to our school” and they all said “We’ve never heard of her” and I said “That’s because she’s always in detention, because she comes from a broken home and acts out all the time, which gets her in trouble a lot, but also makes her extremely beautiful in a tortured sort of way” and they said “Okay, cool, well, have fun tonight.”

Now, I need a Lulu. I need a Lulu, Mrs. Trent. Do you know anyone who looks like a Lulu? Perhaps a niece? A younger cousin? I know you and Mr. Trent never had children, because he doesn’t believe he’d be a good father due to his own childhood trauma. (Again, staff lounge. I think that was a Thursday.)

I have to walk through the gymnasium at least once on the arm of a young lady who looks like a delinquent or I’ll be the fool of the school. I can’t risk my reputation. The best middle blocker on the German volleyball team cannot be found to be lacking when it comes to romance. What should I do, Mrs. Trent? I know I’m not exactly the Homecoming King, but I want to hang on to whatever niche charm I’ve managed to accrue so far this year. I still have the rest of high school to build on that, but not if the foundation is decimated.

Goodness, I can already feel the vapors overwhelming my sinuses.

Yes, I would definitely say it’s an emergency. What else would it--

But Mrs. Trent, if you pull the fire alarm, the building would have to clear out. In all the confusion, nobody would even notice that I was leaving school without my Lulu. That means, if I do manage to find a Lulu, it wouldn’t even matter, because people would be more focused on--

Ohhhhhhh.

Mrs. Trent, you are an angel. A soon-to-be-divorced angel. If you were about sixty years younger, I’d ask you to ask me to the dance.

Just give me a few minutes before you pull the alarm. I need to run to the men’s room and fix my hair. You never want to look shabby during a fire drill even when you’re the only one who knows it’s only a drill.