I Have the Write

Father/Daughter Dance

           Thinking back on it now, it rather creeps me out, but at the time, it seemed the paragon of normalcy.  During my years at the fancy Catholic prep school where we read Sartre and learned to exit a car without pulling a Britney Spears, there were Father/Daughter dances.  They were one of the premier events of the Springfield social scene.  It was such a big deal that even the Jewish folks knew when it was going to be held, and all the stores laid in their finest ball gowns in anticipation of the wealthy shoppers.  Honestly, it was even bigger than the prom. 

          A very important part of the ritual was our hand-made invitations.  We’d spend an entire hour of school time making elaborate invitations which were mailed, not given, to our fathers, inviting them to accompany us to the dance.  Girls would pull the century-old wooden desks and chairs into groups, and we were given beautiful heavy-stock paper and all types of gewgaws with which to decorate the invitations.   I’d pull my desk close enough to some group of girls to appear that I was included, all the while not speaking to them.  I sat there trying to decide on a design for my invitation; I wasn’t artistic in a crafty sort of way, so doing this kind of project wasn’t easy for me. 

          As I made a severe crease in a piece of cream-colored paper, I listened to the girls prattle on about going to Bressmer’s or Herndon’s to have their fittings and get their dresses.  I heard them wonder aloud whether they’d be getting a traditional corsage or a wrist corsage.  Trimming a piece of pretty white lace to make a border for the invitation’s wording, I heard them talk about meeting up at Bauer’s, the finest steak house in the city, so they could all schmooze together and enjoy the best meal money could buy before heading off for their special night out with Daddy.   Carefully gluing a few well-placed gold paillettes, I continued listening as the girls talked about where they were getting their hair done, hoping and praying their mothers could get them an appointment with the most skilled homosexual stylists.

          After what seemed an excruciating amount of time, I managed to get to the most important part of the invitation, the verbiage, which needed to be done in my very best cursive.  As I wrote, wishing I were somewhere else reading The Once and Future King for English class, I barely heard the lovely young ladies discuss their fathers’ tuxedos, which were perpetually pressed and ready for the next big event.  As I finished, I ignored the special few who bragged that their fathers were renting limos for this year’s event.  I looked at my invitation and marveled at myself; it was actually quite pretty considering I had made it.  Five minutes before the end of class, I neatly addressed the invitation and walked to Sister’s desk for the obligatory stamp I was given.  She offered to take my invitation and mail it as she would all the others, but I told her I’d forgotten to add something and took it back to my desk.  I added nothing and stamped the envelope.  As the bell rang, the giggling gaggle of girls rushed Sister’s desk for their stamps and left their invitations with her as they crowded out the door and on to their next class. 

          Blending into the hoard, I made my way out into the hall, carrying my stack of books with the invitation sitting on top.  Lunch hour was next, and as I entered the cafeteria, I picked up the pretty invitation I had made by its corner and, with some derision, Frisbee-flung it into the nearest trash can where it landed perfectly on top of someone’s partially-eaten spaghetti.  I proceeded through the cafeteria on my way outside to crouch under my favorite bush for my lunchtime cigarette, feeling a little guilty about wasting a perfectly good stamp.