Observations from a Middle School Dance

“Someone needs to chaperone the middle school dance this Friday,” She Who Controls the Universe announced.

“No!” cried my middle schooler.

My daughter apparently knows my wife’s super secret sexy name for me.

“He’s not going!” my daughter insisted.

But I was going. When my wife announces Someone’s gotta do something, Someone does it.

So Someone went, hoping to get a good column out of it. And the dance began with great promise. Ms. Fretsky, the teacher in charge, offered a hasty orientation. “When the kids start clumping together,” she said. “Just jump in there and break up the grinding.” Then she flittered away to oversee punch construction.

The music began and I began patrol, unsure how to confront my first clumping. I probably needed something clever and sarcastic.

“You there! Stop that! What do you think this is? Your grandparents’ house?”

Yet whenever clumping began, Ms. Fretsky got there first, shoving into the clump, gesturing wildly, indicating that the students should immediately move in opposite directions and review their Spanish vocabulary words on the way.

I pulled a little notebook out of my shirt pocket to scribble down observations.

Kids eyed me nervously.

“African American students dancing,” I noted. “White girls just standing in groups watching enviously.”

My daughter sidled up to me. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

“Making trenchant observations about the dance.”

“Augh!” she said.

“You know,” I responded. “It’s called a ‘dance,’ not a ‘stand.’”

She rushed away to stand with her girlfriends.

I continued to scribble. “White boys, affecting an air of ironic detachment, are all mashed into chairs against the walls.”

All scratching their chins, unable to decide what they regretted more: leaving their Nintendo DSes at home or their Yahtzee dice.

Except one boy, who looked like a third grader. Defying my stereotypes and wearing a ridiculous porkpie hat, he was confidently dancing with a group of very pretty girls. The tiny dude fancied himself ultra cool. In truth, he looked ultra geeky. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why the girls just didn’t tell him to go away and play with his Star Wars Lego set.

I studied this curiosity. How could such a geeky boy have such pretty girls in the palm of his hand? Suddenly, Mr. Porkie Hat ducked into the girls’ restroom with his groupies.

Drugs!

I immediately reported to Ms. Fretsky, who rushed into the jane. A moment later she emerged.

“That boy with the porkpie hat?” she said.

“Yes.”

“He’s a girl.”

I scribbled another note: “Doublecheck that I have three daughters.” 

My oldest came over. “Stop stalking me!” she hissed.

“I am not stalking you,” I hissed back. “I was stalking a boy who turned out to be a girl.”

“Augh!” She rushed off to stand some more with her girlfriends.

But I stood against the wall to give her some space. Beside me sat two boys, looking miserable now that the pizza was gone. Bored, I began a sociological experiment. “No kissing!” I barked. “Keep a lid on it!”

Arms folded, I turned back to the dance floor. The two boys looked at each other. Exactly seven seconds later, one stood up and shuffled away.

I enjoyed this so thoroughly, I did it five more times. I sidled up to two boys frozen against the wall. “No kissing!” I barked.

Each time one slowly stood and awkwardly shuffled away.

After exactly seven seconds.

Clearly a significant sociological finding. And if I ever figure out why, I’ll let you know.

My daughter, who was stalking me, came back. “What are you doing!?”

“Keeping the grinding to a minimum,” I said.

“Please stop talking to my friends!” She rushed off.

And then it happened. With Ms. Fretsky nowhere in sight.

Rihanna was pumping. The kids cheered, massing into a ball of sweaty, pulsing humanity.

Wild clumping!

I waded in. It was as hot as a sauna.  “Spread out!” I demanded.

I even gestured wildly like the Grindinator, Ms. Fretsky.

But the mass pushed back. I started panicking. The circle ignored me, growing, pressing, suffocating.

My gahd! They were grinding!

With me right in center, like some addled 90-year-old man, searching for his hat on the beach, who suddenly looks up to discover he’s wandered smack into the middle of a beach volleyball tournament in a nudist colony.

“Break it up!” I shouted again. The gyrating mass of humanity, surrounded by a circle of dozens of cheering, clapping teens, still ignored me. My wind whirled. “Cut it out! Move back!”

Nothing.

I couldn’t, like a complete loser, just slink away.

The grinders, just like the terrorists, would win.

I threw both of my hands up high, took a deep breath and braced myself to shout, “Move back, NOW!”

But before I could shout, someone shouted first.

I don’t know who. Perhaps one of the teachers playing the music on stage. Or one of the kids. Whoever it was, they had bizarrely mistaken my raised hands for some John Travolta dance move.

Or they were completely mocking me.

“You go, guy!” the voice cried.

So I danced.

Ridiculously.

A disturbing combination of Travolta, Steve Martin and Pee Wee Herman.

The circle of clapping students went crazy. The teachers on stage cheered.

The grinders stopped, dumbfounded.

After ten seconds I slunk away, deeply embarrassed.

A few songs later the dance thankfully ended. I snuck away to my car, where I found my daughter and friends waiting.

We slid inside. My daughter looked forward, pretending an invisible man was driving.

“Did you have a good time?” I asked.

She was silent a moment. “You actually danced,” she finally accused.

I looked at her. “Someone had to.”

From the back seat, a voice piped up, saving the day. 

“Mr. Barrett, you were so cool.”

My daughter’s hand quickly covered the hint of a smile. “Please,” she begged, “don’t ever tell him that.”

By Chris Barrett, Publisher