Dancing with Laura McCarthy

Stevie arrived early to the 7th grade spring dance, mostly because his mother had somewhere else to be—a dinner date with that plumber guy Frank at Howard Johnson’s. She dropped Stevie off at 6:30 P.M. for the Douglas Middle School dance that the hallway posters stated started at 7 P.M. Stevie didn’t care. He’d never been to a dance before. This way, he figured, he could survey his surroundings, get the lay of the land, check out the scene.
Earlier that Saturday afternoon Frank had come to fix the toilet in his mom’s bathroom. It was strange, though, because Stevie couldn’t remember his mom saying the toilet was broken. He’d heard her flush it thirty minutes before Frank even rang the doorbell. Then Frank stomped his football lineman body into their home in big, brown work boots, carrying his toolbox, and followed his mom upstairs.
“Go outside and play, Stevie,” his mom had yelled from the top of the stairs.
“Play?” Stevie wondered out loud. He was a seventh grader. No one “played” anymore. Why couldn’t he finish eating his peanut butter and jelly sandwich in front of the television? There was a science fiction movie on—Planet of the Apes. He’d seen it before, but he liked looking at Nova in her cavegirl outfit.
Frustrated, Stevie had shouted up the stairs, “I want to watch a movie, Mom.”
“Go outside!” she demanded, an edge of impatience creeping into her voice. Then he heard his mom giggle—She never giggled!—and her bedroom door closed with a click.
So Stevie did go outside, deciding to throw a tennis ball at the side of Frank’s truck in the driveway. He’d throw, catch it on the rebound, and whip it again at the door on the driver’s side, wishing he could leave a dent.
It took Frank thirty minutes to fix the toilet. When he came outside, Stevie stopped throwing the tennis ball. He tapped Frank on the back of his sweaty shirt as the plumber opened the truck’s door.
Stevie pointed down. “Your boots.”
Frank swiveled and glared down at Stevie with cold eyes. “What about them, kid?”
“They’re not tied. You could trip.” Stevie beamed, proud that he had used an adult’s warning on an adult. Irony. Stevie knew the word. He’d learned it from Miss Mason, his pretty, twenty-something, 7th grade Language Arts teacher. Miss Mason could have played the part of Nova.
Frank had glanced at his boots. “Yeah?” He rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” He slid onto the seat and banged the door shut. A beat later he pulled out of the driveway and was accelerating down the quiet street. Stevie took a couple of steps towards the street and whipped the tennis ball at Frank’s departing truck. He missed it by a mile. Then he went inside to watch his movie.
His mom stayed upstairs, so later, Stevie cooked himself a TV dinner of salisbury steak with dark gravy, waxy green beans, and a wedge of cornbread in the corner before he showered for the dance.
After showering, Stevie toweled off, tugged on new dress pants, and planted himself in front of the bathroom mirror. He’d been planning this all day. Somehow, he’d make his frizzy hair look like David Cassidy’s. Stevie had dark hair like Cassidy, but he couldn’t make it fall smooth and wavy like Cassidy’s did with just a comb. So Stevie soaked his hair with water from the bathroom faucet until it fell flat on his head like he had just surfaced from underwater at the city pool. When he looked up, the mirror showed his hair glistening in the bathroom light. Droplets fell on his bare shoulders as he carefully parted his hair down the middle, just like Cassidy did, until the hair on both sides fell evenly and flatly towards his ears. It was the look Stevie was shooting for. He smiled.

When Stevie entered the school through the glass doors by the gym, Miss Mason was at the ticket table. She wasn’t dressed in school clothes. Instead, tonight she wore jeans and a tight-fitting, blue sweater. Stevie was glad she was chaperoning. Like a lot of boys, he had a little crush on her, although Laura McCarthy was his main crush.
Miss Mason squeezed her lips together when she saw Stevie, but they soon parted into a nervous laugh as Stevie neared the ticket table. Stevie could hear a thumping sound coming from the rock band in the gym. The hallway sign about the dance also stated the Stampeders were playing tonight. Stevie liked that—the Stampeders was a cool name.
Stevie gulped. He was even more glad he’d come early. It was just the slender Miss Mason and him. Not like in school when all the boys crowded around her desk at the end of class asking silly questions just to get her attention.
“Hi, Miss Mason.”
Miss Mason’s eyes were a mix of curiosity and amusement as they took him in. “Well, Stevie. Don’t you look sharp. I like that vest.”
That made Stevie feel so much better. Bonanza was one of his favorite TV shows. Along with David Cassidy, he wanted to look like Michael Landon.
Then Mr. Gilson, the assistant principal, walked in from the gym. Unlike Miss Mason, he was dressed in school clothes. He wore his usual dark suit and tie, a white shirt that was stretched out at the belly, and brown loafers. He gaped popeyed beneath bushy eyebrows at Stevie. “You’re really early, young man.”
“My mom had to . . .” Steve started before he stopped himself. Talking about his mom sounded weird. Uncool. Stevie chuckled, like he’d finished telling a funny story, although he hadn’t. Maybe Mr. Gilson and Miss Mason would laugh too.
They didn’t.
Mr. Gilson sat down on a plastic chair and scooted it towards the table. He nudged Miss Mason. “I told the band the last song is at 9:25. I want to get home by ten.” He opened the metal box in front of him and peered up at Stevie. “Did your father make you wear his vest?”
Stevie winced and shook his head. His father? He hadn’t seen his father in over ten years. He had a vague memory of a man who wore a white coat and glasses and smoked, but that could have been the optometrist who started Stevie wearing glasses when he was four. Stevie decided not to wear his glasses tonight. After all, Clint Eastwood didn’t wear glasses. Neither did Mick Jagger or Captain James T. Kirk. Glasses weren’t cool.
Miss Mason’s eyes sparkled as she tapped Mr. Gilson’s forearm. “Mr. Gilson, Stevie is one of my smartest students. He was the only one today who knew that Spiro Agnew is President Nixon’s Vice President. Plus, he’s a great writer.”
Mr. Gilson let go of the metal box and looked at Stevie. “A writer, huh?”
This couldn’t be better, Stevie mused. Both of them were entirely focused on him. So he paused and angled his head, as if in reflection, letting the time stretch out. He scratched an imaginary itch on his cheek. “Stories mostly,” Steve finally explained, allowing a slight smile to curve his lips. “Science fiction stories . . . like about other planets.”
Mr. Gilson groaned and extended his open palm. “Well, on this planet, Stevie, I need your ticket.”
Stevie glanced hopefully at Miss Mason for support—she would certainly want to hear more about his sci-fi stories and the made-up planet Omicron—but her eyes were on the door. Some more kids had arrived.
“C’mon, kid. Your ticket,” Mr. Gilson repeated, waving his hand.
“Um, here.” Stevie reached into his pants pocket and set the little red piece of numbered paper on Mr. Gilson’s palm. Mr. Gilson dropped it in the metal box and gazed past Stevie for the next arrivals. Stevie stepped slowly around the table, heading to the gym entrance.
“You have fun, Stevie,” Miss Mason said over her shoulder. “Save a dance for me.” She laughed.
Three kids—Stevie only knew one of them—were at the ticket table, their bodies filling the space where Stevie had stood, gently pushing Stevie to the side, making him an afterthought now to Miss Mason. That save a dance request—was she serious? How did one save a dance? Stevie would have to find out. All the boys would envy him dancing with the school’s prettiest teacher, who was laughing now at something one of the kids at the ticket table said.
Stevie moved leisurely because he wanted to eavesdrop on the conversation Miss Mason was having with Joey Clarke.
“Well, Joey, don’t you look sharp,” Miss Mason exclaimed. “I like that shirt.”
Joey said thanks, and she followed that with, “Save a dance for me.”
Stevie glanced back quickly at Joey’s shirt. It was purple. Stevie’s shirts were all white and blue. He blinked and felt his body deflate a little as he ambled into the darkened gym. Pulsating strobe lights, which emerged from the top of the Stampeders’ speakers, danced around the gym floor and walls. Stevie was the only 7th grader in the gym. The three other kids hadn’t come in yet.
That’s what you do, Stevie lamented. You come to a dance with two or maybe three other kids. Not by yourself. Then you pick your hangout spot in the bleachers, he guessed, and make jokes about Mr. Gilson, like he’s dressed for a funeral. Stevie shuffled around the gym as the Stampeders continued warming up. The long-haired, electric guitar player’s eyes were on his guitar strings, one hand moving up and down the guitar’s neck as the fingers on his other hand strummed the strings.
The truth was that Stevie didn’t know how dances worked. His mother hadn’t told him what to do. No classmates had this week. Baxter, the boy whose locker was next to Stevie’s, admitted he wasn’t going. So Stevie still had questions. Did boys ask girls to dance? Did girls ask the boys? Stevie figured he’d observe what other boys did first, then he’d imitate them. On Saturdays he watched American Bandstand but they were already paired up.
Of all the girls in 7th grade, Stevie wanted to dance with Laura McCarthy the most. She was in his third period math class, and she had revealed yesterday she was coming tonight.
“I’ll see you there,” she had said as class ended and they gathered up their books and pencils.
“Yeah, see you there,” Stevie responded, acting cool. He’d seen David Cassidy act like that. David Cassidy was one of the coolest guys on the planet.
“Maybe we can dance,” Laura chirped.
Stevie had gaped at her in stunned silence. Did she really mean that? He hoped so. Laura was the prettiest girl in 7th grade. She had shampoo commercial, silky black hair. She had a cute nose. She had boobs. They weren’t big, but unlike most of the other girls, she had them.
“Yeah, sure,” Stevie finally said, using his cool voice again, before heading towards 4th period with Miss Mason. He never wanted to be late for her class. Along the way, he couldn’t believe his luck—the 7th grade’s prettiest girl wanted to dance with him. Hopefully a slow song.
Stevie checked the gym doors every ten seconds to see if Laura had entered. Other kids were coming in now. Stevie wanted Laura to like him—like girlfriend-boyfriend like him. To think he was handsome. That’s why he combed his hair the way David Cassidy did. Why he didn’t wear his glasses. Why he left the tag on his new, husky pants from JC Penny so she’d know he’d purchased a new pair special for tonight’s dance.
He liked when Laura wore button-down shirts to school. Every now and then she’d turn just enough to open a space between the buttons so he could peek at her bra. The black ones were best. They made her seem mysterious. Magical.
Laura and Stevie had talked a couple of times that semester. They had joked about Mr. Adams, their math teacher. They called him Gomez after the character in the show The Addams Family. Once out in the hallway when Laura laughed at one of Stevie’s jokes, she leaned into him and her breast casually brushed his arm. Electric waves pulsed through his veins.
Since then Stevie desperately wanted to kiss her.
And to see her breasts. He’d heard a rumor that two other guys had already seen them. One of them, an 8th grader, bragged he’d touched one of them. Sitting behind the 8th grade table at lunch, Stevie eavesdropped while the 8th grader told his buddies about kissing Laura. He said her boobs—actually, he called them tits—were squishy. His buddies laughed when he said that. Stevie bit into his ham sandwich and thought of the way rotting peaches felt.
Stevie waited and waited and waited for Laura. The gym continued to fill up with kids, and Stevie wandered around the perimeter, pretending to be heading somewhere important—a classmate to talk to, the bathroom, a question to ask Miss Mason—whereas the truth was he had nothing important to do and no one to talk to. His eyes kept moving from the black basketball boundary lines to the gym entrance.
The Stampeders had started playing, “Jumping Jack Flash” and other “fast” songs. The gym floor filled with kids dancing. Stevie, however, never discovered how it happened. His classmates, it seemed, started dancing spontaneously. The flashing lights, the loud music, the gyrating bodies—Stevie was mesmerized. He didn’t know what to do or how to insert himself on the dance floor.
Then his eyes fell on Ron Rock.
Everybody’s eyes did.
Ron Rock was the coolest kid in 7th grade and the handsomest boy. When he walked through the gym doors, kids moved aside for him like he was a boat parting them in his wake. He didn’t actually walk, Stevie concluded. He kind of thrust his way from the entrance onto the dance floor, his hips shifting and his arms swaying in rhythm to the music. Some of his wrestling teammates did hand slaps with him as he passed them. Girls reached out to touch his arms.
Dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved yellow shirt that showed off his muscled arms, Ron kept moving until he was on the dance floor and two—no, it was three—girls moved to dance with him. The girls, all of them in jeans and with ribbons in their hair, gazed adoringly at Ron, who everybody called Ronnie. He was almost six feet tall, with blond hair and a wrestler’s build. Even that name—Ronnie Rock—was cool.
Stevie wished he had a cool name.
Minutes later Laura finally stepped through the gym doors. Wearing a short, denim skirt, knee socks, and a button-down shirt, Laura looked beautiful. Her silky black hair was tied in a loose ponytail, and a gold necklace glittered on her throat. Two of her friends were on either side of her. They all paused to scan the crowd in the gym.
Was it too early to ask her to dance? Stevie wondered. What was the etiquette here? Maybe he should do what Ronnie Rock did—just wiggle his way over to her and swivel his body left and right in front of her, like the kids on American Bandstand did. He’d smile. She’d smile. They’d dance. Maybe she’d dance every song with him, including the slow songs.
Stevie finished another circuit around the gym, pausing when he and Laura were about fifteen feet away from each other near the bleachers. He acted casual and gave Laura a slight wave. Like no big deal. Then Stevie looked away for a moment, pretending he’d been distracted by someone on the dance floor. He’d seen Burt Reynolds do that once in a movie. You know, classic cool.
Then he stepped closer, weaving his way past some dancers. The Stampeders thankfully finished their song so Stevie could talk to Laura in a normal voice. Laura’s white shirt didn’t do much to conceal her white bra—Oh, God, does her bra have little flowers on it? Her chest pushed at the buttons. Stevie struggled to hide how thrilled he was.
“Hey, Laura,” Stevie said. “About that dance . . .” Still being cool. Only if she wanted to, of course. No big deal if she didn’t.
Laura blinked and gave quick glances to her girlfriends. “What dance, Stevie?” Her eyes were a mix of confusion and curiosity, as if she and Stevie were meeting for the first time. She started snickering when Stevie inched towards her. So did her girlfriends, who turned away to hide their faces.
“What did you do to your hair, Stevie?” Laura blurted.
My hair? Stevie ran a hand through his hair like he’d seen David Cassidy do. “Nothing, really,” he lied. She noticed. The evening was getting better and better.
One of her friends, the blond one, turned back and stared at him. “It’s like you got electrocuted,” she muttered.
Laura covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her laughter. Laura was polite like that.
Stevie swiveled his head, desperate to see his reflection somewhere, but of course, there wasn’t a mirror in the gym. Laura continued snickering, her eyes on Stevie’s hair. “Did you just get out of the shower?” she asked.
“The shower? Uh . . . no, I’m just . . . you know.” Stevie pushed his hand through his hair again. Laughed with her. Gazed past her. Stayed cool.
“I think he touched a socket,” the blond girl added.
This was all wrong. “Really?” He said this in a tired voice, staying cool. Stevie gazed past them to the door, like he was needed elsewhere. Other students weaved around them. Laura kept her curious eyes on Stevie.
Suddenly, a strong hand gripped Stevie’s shoulder from behind. “You going to a Gunsmoke audition, Stevie?” Ronnie Rock was suddenly next to him, his eyes sizing Stevie up and down. “All you need is a cowboy hat with that vest.” Ronnie stared at him in disbelief.
What was going on? Stevie tried to breathe, and when his breaths turned to gasps, Laura, Ronnie, and the other two girls scurried away from him, as if he carried a contagious disease. Laura glanced back once, as if she had to confirm she actually saw Stevie’s hair combed like that.
When they disappeared into the crowd, Stevie darted towards the gym exit and down the hallway. In the bathroom, Stevie saw that his hair didn’t look slick anymore; it had dried into a mess that resembled Larry’s from The Three Stooges. “Oh no, no, no, no…” Stevie wailed.
He turned on the faucet, cupped water in his palm, and began dousing his head again. He raked his wet hand through his hair over and over, trying to recreate the David Cassidy look before finally giving up. No matter what he did, he still looked like Albert Einstein. This time, though, his vest and shirt were sprinkled with water. Stevie rested his forehead against the glass for a moment until he wasn’t gasping anymore. Then he left the bathroom.
He couldn’t go back into the gym, he decided, despite how much he still wanted to dance with Laura. It certainly seemed she wasn’t going to ask him.
Never again, Stevie resolved. This was his last dance. He wouldn’t go to the 8th grade dance, the freshmen mixer, Homecoming, or later, god forbid, the prom. Miss Mason, Laura, Ronnie—those people were all too much like Frank.
He returned to the school entrance. Miss Mason wasn’t at the ticket table anymore. Is she dancing with Joey Clarke? Only Mr. Gilson was there, his hands clasped behind his head. Bored.
Back in the gym the Stampeders were playing a slow song, and Stevie imagined Laura and Ronnie dancing close. The image made him grimace.
Stevie moved to the glass doors that led out to the school portico and parking lot.
“If you leave, kid,” Mr. Gilson warned him in a loud voice, “you can’t come back.”
Stevie pushed the door open. “I know,” he muttered. “I know.”