In high school I probably had fewer dates than anyone in my grade. I was too odd, too foreign, and too full of ideas about romance drawn from 19th century novels to attract the boys in my class. Nevertheless, I did go to my senior prom, and my date was a sophomore in college, no less. I will call him Don. I thought he was terrific. He loved art—he was an Interior Design major—and books. He took me to “films” instead of movies. Best of all, whenever he saw me he would compliment me on my outfits and my hair. He even noticed if I changed my shade of lipstick.
Don would drop by the house in the afternoon and spend hours chatting with my mother, whom he adored. He found her exotic, and would beg her to tell him stories about her adventures in the jungles of Ecuador or the dangers and privations she endured during the Spanish Civil War. I did think it weird a few times when I had to leave for orchestra rehearsal and Don stayed behind, sitting in the sun with my mother, talking and laughing.
Early in the spring of my senior year, Don hinted that he wanted me to invite him to the prom. I jumped at the chance. None of my friends had been asked yet, and here I was, prima inter pares for a change. A couple of months earlier Don had had a nose job which had transformed his aquiline but distinguished nose into an upturned and, I thought, ordinary-looking one. But he was pleased with it and the appalling post-op bruising had finally faded.
As the day of the prom approached, Don was even more excited than I. He spent hours at the tux rental store until he found one with the perfect fit, and he kept asking about the dress I would be wearing. My mother took me shopping, and I was finally able to describe the dress—pale blue with lengthwise jacquard stripes in a darker shade. But that was not enough. He wanted a fabric sample, which my mother cut out for him from one of the inside seams.
Since not one of my friends’ dates had shown the slightest interest in what she planned to wear to the prom, why, I asked, did Don want the fabric sample? “Well, if you must know,” he said, “it’s so we can harmonize the flowers and the ribbons of your nosegay with the color of the dress. I’ll be working closely with the florist.” He was so looking forward to this that I didn’t have the heart to ask him what a nosegay was.
The great day came and Don arrived at the house, resplendent in his well-fitted tux and his new nose. With a flourish, he handed me the nosegay, a small bouquet in purple, lavender, and pink that really did go well with the dress. We got into his parents’ station wagon and drove to the school.
The prom was held in the gym. I noticed with some pride that all the other girls wore boring orchid corsages that spoiled the neckline of their gowns. We lined up for photos, and Don was directed to put his hand around my waist, which he did. Then the dancing began. Although we were surrounded on all sides by nuns and priests, that did not prevent my classmates from clinging to each other to the strains of “Moon River,” the class song. They clung and swayed, clung and swayed—all of them except Don and me. To my surprise, he was not a very good dancer. In couples dancing, there has to be a certain amount of physical contact in order for one partner to lead and the other to follow. But Don held me at arm’s length, and I could barely feel his fingertips guiding me. At least my dress and the nosegay didn’t get squished.
Don went back to college, and after graduation I went to Spain for the summer. There I went dancing by a guy who didn’t know a nosegay from a head of cabbage, but who knew how to grasp a woman in a tango. I was startled but soon recovered. My only regret was that he had failed to notice how well the color of my heels harmonized with my dress.
One Response
At least you have the memories – prom isn’t supposed to be the be all and end all (I didn’t have one) – and your date made a lovely effort to show you and your dress off to good advantage.
I participated in the ritual (helping decorate ahead of time – I painted a time tunnel, dress and dance the day), and Howie Chen from our chess club took me – and I would like that photo burned wherever it might appear in the universe (my beehive hairdo!).
Don’t actually remember the dance – and it was in college, not high school – I have no clue whatever happened to Howie after school, and I was not interested in studying chess moves, just in playing by the seat of my pants, so that pretty much sums it up.
You look lovely.