No matter how the school day begins--pausing in my car to spit beats like Eminem or running to class with a water bottle full of scalding coffee--my school day ends with dance.
Today I was tap-tap-tapping away in front of the mirror. I noticed that the only tan left from summer vacation was on my knees. The white socks I was wearing made me look like a grandma with shapeless ankles. The thirty strong deafening roar of thuds, stomps, and shuffles was interrupted by the double doors swinging open. In came the administrators--crisp clothes and cold demeanors. We tried to silence ourselves, but each awkward movement was amplified by the tap shoes. The principle called out a single name, "Mary Grace Hearth".
She looked up from her feet with a dopey smirk. It was the same dopey smirk she gave when she announced to the class the day prior that she had been fingered by a boy during study hall. Apart from her mouth, that never seemed to close, she walked with confidence unlike any freshmen I knew, even when answering to the principle. She exited the room with the administrators flanking both of her sides. The class stared, only moments from beginning the whispering and speculating. The dance teacher quickly made the music louder and shouted choreography to us. While tap-tap-tapping away I leaned over to Courtney in front of me. "What's up with Mary Grace?" I shouted into her ear, which only sounded like a whisper over the metallic stomps.
"You've heard. She got fingered. She told everyone."
Mary Grace had told everyone. The insidious words had exited her mouth with an expression of lax smugness. The other freshmen stared, the sophomores laughed, the juniors rolled their eyes, and the seniors looked on with worry. After four years of high school, I could see the want for acceptance underneath her haughtiness. Rick, a senior, interrupted her boasting by simply saying, "You shouldn't be proud of that."
Dance class had ended, and the girls were changing in the dressing room. Those wearing thongs were situated in the corner hoisting their jeans on, while the rest paraded around in bras that looked like lingerie before undergarments.
"So, who was the guy?" One the girls asked, spraying perfume in no general direction.
"Russel Haggard. He's not even cute, " answered another.
"Did you know they live in the same neighborhood? They could have just waited," piped in a girl adjusting her makeup.
"How did they not get caught?"
"Some fat kid was sitting in front of them, and that teacher must be really fucking clueless."
I slipped my shoes on. "I feel bad for her. She just wanted attention."
The girl capped her perfume and spoke for the dressing room, "She deserved it. She told everyone. What a fucking skank."
The bell rang, and we picked up our things and left.
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