“Oh, Mom,” my daughter Anna crooned after her Junior Prom. “It was so romantic!” She floated off to her room, her head swimming with fresh memories. During my teen years, I’d learned that whether prom was romantic, silly, boring, or awkward, it always leaves an indelible mark.
My Junior Prom was in the spring of 1983. A disappointing first kiss the year before hadn’t quelled my optimistic teenage belief that I’d soon meet the boy of my dreams.
But three weeks before Junior Prom, I was still dateless. In desperation, I threw a note with my address on it out the team bus window during an away track meet, in hopes that an athletic stud would write to me. A few days later I received a letter from a pitiful geek who’d fished my note out of a mud puddle on his way to the library.
The following week, a boy in my science class with a seemingly perpetual sinus infection followed me to my locker. Speaking nasally through a chapped red nose and a full set of metal braces, he asked, “Woodyu go wid me do da prom?”
Caught off guard, I stuttered, “Uh, I might be going with someone else, I’m not sure … I’ll let you know….”
I’d lied. Unless I wanted photos of me and Mr. Crusty-Nose arm in arm under the balloon arch, I needed a plan and fast.
I thought of my football player friend — well, actually, he was the water boy who played lineman if the team was hopelessly losing during the fourth quarter. A likable, husky kid with a jolly disposition, the team had nicknamed him “The Duke.” He seemed the perfect candidate to be my prom date – not popular enough to reject me, and free of excess nasal mucus.
I cornered The Duke after school and proposed that we go to the prom “as friends.”
“Excellent!” he responded with a smile.
The next day, I broke the news to Mr. Crusty-Nose. I felt like schmuck lying to him, but good thing I did, because the next girl he asked became his wife and they’re still married to this day. I guess you could say, he owes me.
My cousin and I swapped dresses – I gave her the violet taffeta monstrosity I’d worn the previous year, and she gave me her pink lace number that wasn’t much better.
The Duke showed up in a thoughtfully coordinated rental tux – a mauve poly blend with matching velour cuffs and collar, a ruffled shirt, and an enormous mauve bow tie. He offered me a substantial wrist corsage with pink carnations and baby’s breath, and I adorned his wide lapel with a white rose. Although there was no romance in our arrangement, we felt like a million bucks and were ready for fun.
We sat with The Duke’s intimidating football player friends at dinner. I was glad to have the Duke as my buffer. Halfway through the cordon bleu, one rowdy boy suddenly pointed and shouted, “Hey, it’s The Duke and The Duchess!” Laughter erupted. I swallowed my chicken and faked a smile, unsure if I was being accepted or mocked.
When the DJ began playing and electric lights flashed on taffeta gowns, I shook off the joke’s sting and hit the dance floor. The Duke requested his favorite song, “You Dropped the Bomb On Me” by The Gap Band, and we danced a mauve streak.
Later, our group crashed for the night in the basement rumpus room of our friend’s house. We all changed into sweats, and stuffed those itchy corsages into our duffle bags. Her parents took our car keys and let us drink a little beer. Two couples ducked into the hallway to make out, but most of us just talked and horsed around into the wee hours of the night.
The Duke and I didn’t go on any starlit walks or hold hands.
He remained a gentleman, and I was grateful to him for making it a fun night. I might’ve sacrificed the romance that all teenage girls dream about, but not everyone gets to be The Prom King and Queen.
Some of us have to settle for being The Duke and Duchess.
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