The 1987 prom court was lined up in the hallway leading to the gym: gangly teenaged boys in rental tuxedos and girls whose heads and arms were adrift in seas of poofy frilly antebellum dresses. None of us knew who would be the first, second, third, fourth attendant or king or queen until it was announced on a stage in front of parents and other well-wishers. One by one, names were called and people disappeared through the sunlit hallway into a pitch black gymnasium where they’d ascend the stage and fidget nervously in a spotlight as woots, hollers and cameras clicked away. My nerves glitched up as each name was called. I don’t get it. This is only for the pretty people. I'm not pretty. I’m awkward, overweight and nerdy. Then another name. This is totally bad news... Then the last attendant's name was called, and it wasn't mine. I knew that meant the next name announced would be the person who was prom queen. Me? I whispered to the only person left...
Finding out everyday that sometimes, late is right on time.