I was at my locker the next morning before homeroom when Sara ecstatically rushed up to me.
“Omigod! I did it! I won! I got thirty-seven more signatures than Manda!” she shrieked. “Mr. Masters confirmed it this morning when I dropped by his office!”
Thirty-seven. What a coincidence. That’s the exact number of names I’d single-handedly gotten for Sara. I knew it would be far too much to ask Sara to acknowledge any role I played in her victory, so I didn’t even bother. Besides, the dance isn’t as big a deal to me as it is to her. I just wanted her to keep being nice to me for a change.
“So what exactly did you win, anyway?” I asked.
Sara giggled deliriously.
“First of all, I beat Manda! I won! I’m the winner! Second of all, I’m in charge of the dance committee! Not her!”
As BFF of the self-appointed Boss of Everything, Sara has very few opportunities to be in charge of anything. It’s no wonder she wanted to win so badly.
“Omigod! Mr. Masters said he’s going to make a major announcement this morning!” She hopped up and down with excitement. “A MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT!”
“About the dance?” I asked.
“No,” she snapped. “About the honor roll.”
“But Mr. Masters already announced the honor roll.”
I knew this because I was on it. And when Sara rolled her eyes, I also knew I’d just allowed my Nerd Self to get ahead of my Trying to Be Normal Self. Again.
“OF COURSE ABOUT THE DANCE.”
“Of course,” I said.
“So you’re with me on the committee, right? You have to be on the committee. I won’t take no for an answer.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not the dance-committee type.”
“Think of it as an opportunity to show support for your school,” she said. “And besides, what else do you have to do after school, now that you’re not running around in the woods anymore?”
She had a point there. Unlike my cross-country teammates, I didn’t have a new activity to fill my afternoons now that the season was over. The Sampson twins tried to encourage me to try out for the basketball team until they saw for themselves that I can’t dribble and move my legs at the same time. Molly is breaking new ground as the only girl on the boys’ wrestling team, but I have zero interest in appearing in public wearing a spandex unitard. And humming a terribly out-of-tune “Happy Birthday” was the only explanation Padma needed for why I wouldn’t try out for the school musical.
At first, I welcomed the opportunity to come home right after school. I thought more free time would equal less stress. I quickly discovered that more free time equals more opportunities for my parents to fill it with things I don’t want to do.
“Jessie! You’re not doing anything! Chop these onions!”
“Jessie! You’re not doing anything! Take out the trash!”
“Jessie! You’re not doing anything! BE OUR SERVANT WITHOUT A RAISE IN YOUR ALLOWANCE.”
Jessie needed to find something to do. And fast. And how much worse could it be than crying over the cutting board and dragging stanky garbage cans? Maybe—like cross-country—being on a dance committee would be something I’m surprisingly good at. Because I’m not at all emotionally invested in the school dance, I could be the most impartial member of the committee and make decisions unclouded by my own personal interests. Who knows how many CEOs got their start on school-dance committees?
“Okay,” I said to Sara. “I’ll do it.”
“Omigod! This is going to be the best.”
“What’s going to be the best?” asked Manda, who had slipped in between us.
“Oh, you know,” Sara said, “chairing the dance committee with Jessica as my second-in-command.”
“Jessica? As your cochair? Ha! Good luck!”
Manda was usually very good at “I don’t care” hair tosses. But it was obvious to Sara and me that she cared very, very much.
“Come on, Jess,” Sara said, linking my arm in hers and escorting me past Manda. “I can’t wait to share my vision for the dance.”
And during the short walk to homeroom, Sara shared her vision for the dance, which apparently was no longer a school dance at all but an extravagant ball.
“It’s called”—she paused dramatically—“the Glamarama Gala.”
And so began a breathless monologue that included phrases like black-and-white dress code and floor-length formals and tuxedos and crystal accents and orchids and roses and lilies and silver carpet not red carpet because red can be so harsh in photos.…
“Um” was all I could say. “Well.”
“Omigod! It’s the best vision ever!” She twirled a curl around her finger. “Unless you have a vision you’d like to share?”
I obviously hadn’t given much thought to my vision, since I’d been on the dance committee for a grand total of two minutes. But that’s not to say I didn’t have an idea or two.
“Well,” I began hesitantly, “that sounds really… ambitious.”
“What’s wrong with ambitious?” Sara said defensively.
“It’s just that something, I don’t know, simpler might be more…”
“More what?” Sara said huffily. “BORING?”
“It’s the first dance in a decade, right?” I started slowly, then quickly gained momentum. My brain works that way sometimes. “I’m thinking it could be cool to acknowledge that this is an important part of Pineville Junior High history, you know? Maybe give it, like, a retro theme and decorate with old yearbook pictures and stuff. We could call it Friday-Night Flashback.”
Judging from the repulsed look on Sara’s face, I either: (a) had just come up with the worst idea she’d ever heard or (b) still reeked of skunk.
“What is it with your obsession with ancient stuff?” she said, gesturing toward my R.E.M. Green T-shirt as we took our seats. “No, my idea is definitely better, and it will make things go a lot faster if you just agree with me.”
That was my first indication that Sara wanted me on the committee to conspire—not contribute.
“Good morning, students. This morning I’m pleased to make a very special announcement,” said our school principal, Mr. Masters, over the PA system.
“Omigod!” Sara grabbed me by the arm. “This is it!”
“Thanks to the devoted efforts of the Pineville Junior High Spirit Squad…”
She squeezed hard.
“Omigod! That’s me!” She looked around the room to make sure everyone heard her. “That’s me, everybody!”
“I’m happy to announce that a week from Friday, Pineville Junior High will host its first school dance in ten years.”
Cheers erupted from all over the building. Sara jumped out of her seat.
“You’re welcome, world!”
The class applauded as she took her bows. Tears of joy shone in her eyes. I’d never seen her like this before, so thoroughly proud of herself. It was like she was the first person in history to win an Academy Award and the Powerball jackpot on the same day.
Our principal continued.
“The Down-Home Harvest Dance will be a unique opportunity for all Pineville Junior High students to practice and perform the celebrated folk art of square dancing.”
Square dancing? I asked myself.
“Square dancing?” asked 399 Pineville Junior High students.
“Yes, square dancing,” Mr. Masters replied, as if answering all four hundred of us directly.
“SQUARE DANCING?” Sara tugged angrily on her earlobe, as if to dislodge the terrible thing she had just heard. “Omigod! I didn’t work so hard for SQUARE DANCING.”
“Square dancing,” said Mr. Armbruster appreciatively. “There’s nothing quite like a good do-si-do.”
Sara brazenly risked a detention by grabbing a bathroom pass off Mr. Armbruster’s desk without asking and stomping out of the room in a huff. Apparently he was too caught up in memories of do-si-dos from days gone by to do much about her insubordination.
“Bow to yer partner,” he was saying to himself. “Bow to yer corner.”
Well, I thought, at least one person is excited about the Down-Home Harvest Dance.
Sara never showed up for first period. But Manda did. And boy, did she look pleased with herself as she galloped into Language Arts twirling an imaginary lasso.
“Howdy, pardners!” she said in a country-girl accent. “Giddyap!”
She laughed hysterically at her own joke, then—crack! like a whip!—got dead serious.
“I have nothing to do with this ridiculous square dance,” Manda said to no one and everyone at the same time. “Ask Sara. She’s the one who got all the signatures.”
Manda wasn’t wasting any time distancing herself from what she assumed would be a social disaster.
“The whole concept is lame,” Manda said. “What’s Pineville known for harvesting, anyway?”
“Drama,” Hope said.
Now that was funny.
To be honest, I was with Mr. Masters on this. The only dancing I can do that resembles actual dancing is the kind of dancing with specific rules. So, like, the Electric Slide is my jam. Square dancing is all about rules. As a concept, it seems far less terrifying than a freestyle free-for-all. Not that I’m actually attending the dance. I might help Sara plan it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll show up for it.
Sara reappeared during second period. Apparently she’d spent the first half of Language Arts trying to persuade Mr. Masters to come to his senses. But he was unmoved. To him, the Down-Home Harvest Dance is a perfect compromise. We get a dance, but a highly structured one with very specific rules guaranteeing a lack of “inappropriate body contact.” Win-win.
“It’ll be the most glamorous square dance”—Sara choked on the words a little—“Pineville Junior High has ever seen!”
“That’s because it will be the only square dance Pineville Junior High has ever seen,” Manda replied. “Oh, and good luck getting anyone to show up when no one even knows how to do-si-do.”
Then Manda swung her imaginary lasso and yeehawed away from us.
Sara appeared untroubled by the fact that not a single Pineville Junior High student knew how to square-dance. As second-in-command, I felt duty bound to discuss the pitfalls of our situation.
“Manda has a valid point,” I said to Sara. “No one will come to a square dance if they don’t know how to square-dance.”
Sara removed a book from her backpack and held it up for me to see. Who knew our library had a copy of Square Dancing for Dummies?
“Oh, they’ll learn how to square-dance.”
As Sara already knew—and we would discover for ourselves in sixth period—that’s what gym class was for. And our gym teacher, Mr. Wall, was not happy about it.