The Late Arrival

Going from a small Lutheran grade school to a much, much larger Lutheran high school would have been intimidating had not my best friend since kindergarten been by my side. We scheduled most of our classes together, developed crushes on the same guys and giggled. All the time. At everything and everyone. Especially the guys who were the object of our crushes. We had high hopes for successful auditions into extracurriculars like pompon squad and planned our strategies to a tee – what we’d wear, the routine we’d do and scheduled our auditions back to back. We’d go in front of the coaches and knock ‘em dead. One of us made the pompon squad; and the one wasn’t me. It was devastating to a fragile teen, and the truth is I’d probably shed a tear now if I was telling you about it over a glass of wine. I got over it, but the rejected freshman girl in me still pokes at me during job interviews, or whenever I hit the publish button on a post (like this one), or whenever I submit a piece...

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...