Early Autumn

Today feels like autumn and reminds me of the smell of wax on the classroom floor and new sneakers and post-football game dances I attended in high school. And the one I attended when I was 24.

Yeah, I said 24.


I was in grad school and house sitting for a professor. The house did not need as much watching as did the 16-year-old girl, Erin, who lived in the house and was reportedly "a little wild."


She wanted to go to the Friday night football game, so we went, and I realized it was the first football game I had ever attended while wearing something other than an ill-fitting, polyester-wool blend marching band uniform.


After the game, she asked if she could go to the dance. The boy she liked, Jesse, would be there, and she hoped that maybe, possibly she would get to dance with him. The situation was complicated by the fact that Jesse wasn't a boy she admired from afar, but was a member of her peer group (she, of course, didn't use the term "peer group"). The only other person who knew she liked Jesse in that way was their mutual friend, Matt. She hesitated to reveal her true feelings to Jesse because if he didn't return them, things would be awkward all around. This John Hughes-esque plot earned my complete sympathy, but I wasn't convinced I should let her go to the dance. When I was 16, I went to my share of post-football game dances, where I mainly spent my time hoping that the DJ would play A-Ha and laughing at the girl who always wept openly while singing along to Bryan Adams' "Heaven." But I had heard that more nefarious things occurred during these dances. People got drunk in the parking lot, did drugs in the bathroom, and had S-E-X under the bleachers by the football field.


No way am I letting stomach pumping or unintended pregnancy occur on my watch.


I agreed to let her go to the dance, but only if I could keep an eye on her. She seemed happy with that deal. The sign indicated that the dance was only for Tallawanda High students, so I was worried that I wouldn't be able to get in. I needn't have worried. Realizing that I could pass for a high school student helped me understand one possible reason I was having problems garnering respect in my college classroom (the other possible reason was that I was a rather incompetent T.A.).


As we walked into the cafetorium (no kidding, that really was its official name), Erin gasped, "There he is!"


And there he was, Jesse, in all his 17-year-old male glory. He was a scrawny guy, and he would have been sort of cute had he not been trying so hard to look like a badass in his baggy jeans, black t-shirt, and the poor-excuse-for-a-moustache that languished above his upper lip. The bad boys I had crushes on in high school tended to look more like the members of Duran Duran than the suspects arrested in trailer parks on "Cops," but different strokes for different folks, I supposed.


Erin quickly joined her friends on the lower level of the cafetorium while I watched the spectacle from above. It looked a lot like the high school dances I had attended, but it was now 1993, which meant more flannel and Doc Martens. Erin did not once go to the girls' room to do drugs. I breathed a sigh of relief.


A slow song came on, and Erin appeared beside me, grabbing my arm. "You. Have. To dance. With Jesse."


"Um, why do I have to dance with Jesse?"


She gave an exasperated sigh, "Because Matt is dancing with me, and then part way through the song, he'll have us trade partners."


I had to admit that this was kind of a brilliant plan, which took full advantage of self-perception processes and cognitive dissonance theory. Maybe I would use this as an example in class if I ever taught social psychology in the future! (You will soon find out why I've never used it as an example in class.)


And so, I found myself swaying back and forth on the dance floor with Jesse and his anemic moustache. I looked at Erin and Matt, who were dancing right next to us. Erin was beaming. I looked at Jesse, who had a strange gleam in his eye. Was he stoned? That kid who sat across from me in study hall was always stoned, but that kid's eyes were always red-rimmed and glazed over, not . . .


Suddenly, Jesse was moving us across the dance floor, away from Erin and Matt and toward a kid who apparently thought he was a member of House of Pain, and whose dance partner appeared to be passed out. Jesse pointed at me, signed the number two then the number four, and then to make sure his message was abundantly clear, mouthed the words, "She's twenty-four." A high-five was exchanged.


O.K., so no one will ever know about this, right? No one could possibly find out about this incredibly ridiculous experience I'm having right now. . . Right?


Jesse managed to reveal my age to two more of his hoodlum friends before Erin and Matt managed to catch up to us and trade partners. I was incredibly relieved until I said to Matt, "You know, you're a good friend to Erin."


To which Matt replied, "Are you kidding? It's not everyday I get to dance with a twenty-four year old woman." The way he said "woman" made me very, very uncomfortable and also made me wonder how much longer this song could possibly go on. Was it some kind of extended dance remix?


The song finally ended. Erin was giddy. "Can they come over? Just for a little while? Please??" Images of "Cops" returned, but she was just so hopeful. I told her they could come over for one hour, and if they didn't leave after the hour was up, I would call the police. She laughed.


I soon found myself in the professor's lovely home with four obnoxious adolescent boys and one adolescent girl who was wearing way too much eyeliner. And the worst thing that happened was that one of the boys had brought his Cypress Hill cd with him and insisted we listen to it.


At one point, I went upstairs to the guest bedroom where I was staying to get a sweatshirt. When I came out of the room, there in the dark, blocking my way, was the shadowy figure of Jesse, chest thrust out, head thrown back. He swaggered toward me.


"I'm a really good kisser," he announced.


In the most matronly tone I could muster, I ordered him to go back downstairs.


The hour was almost up, and I worried about what would happen when I finally asked the boys to leave. What happened? They left. No harm done, unless you count having "Insane in the Brain" stuck in your head for the next several days, and I might count that.


Who you tryin' to get crazy with, ese? Don't you know I'm loco?