Dance Fever

At St. Peter Paul and Mary School things are tough for Lane 1, or so he says. Most of the students in seventh grade have been going to school together since preschool. Seeing him suffer at the hands of a crappy public school system, I transferred him last year. Trying to fit in with this lifelong group of friends hasn't been anything he has been interested in, until recently. Since spring has sprung and my little man is now Studley Dudley, he isn't missing any chick-meeting opportunities that might come his way.

Every couple of weeks since the beginning of the school year, St. Peter Paul and Mary has sponsored a dance for seventh and eight graders. Last week, Lane 1 told me that he wanted to attend an upcoming dance. I asked what the sudden interest was since he had never mentioned going before.

"Since there's only 30 students in the seventh and eight grades, our school invites other private school students to come. So there's going to be kids from every town around us there."
"Do you think you'll know any of those kids?"
"No but John told me the chicks from the other schools are hot!"
"Ah, so that's it. Okay, you can go."

Not another word about it was mentioned until Friday night, when he declared he had nothing to wear.

"Mom, all of my clothes are gay! Why don't you ever take me to the mall?"
"You have plenty of decent clothes, just pick something and put it on."
"I have to take a shower first!"
"Fine take a shower but you're going to have to hurry."

Tucked under his arm was his Axe Body Wash (Kilo scented), a towel, and some potential outfits. In a cloud of steam, he finally emerged, smelling like a French whore. Sporting Axe body wash, Axe deodorant, gel and hairspray with a towel around his waist and his hair was spiked (I'm so thrilled that friggin' style is back, I could puke.)

I was taken aback. I had no idea how emotional he could be. Practically in tears after his shower, he tried on nearly everything he owns. I thought that was a girl thing. I had no idea what a primpin' pimp I was raising. He dropped all of the clothes in a heap.

"Hey Ma, can I get up on some of your Levis?"
"Hold up, homey G. You want to wear my jeans?"
"Yeah."

I guess it's my fault for buying and wearing men's jeans in the first place but they just fit me better. Damn! I thought that was going to be a good way to keep my daughter from raiding my closet when she was big enough. I never even thought Lane 1 would have any part of my wardrobe.

"Son, I'm a little bigger than you and I doubt they will fit."
"Please! Just let me try 'em on."
"Fine. But you aren't wearing them hanging off your ass."
"I'll wear my belt."
"Deal."

I couldn't believe he fit in them. And before y'all get any crazy ideas going through your heads, to answer a question from my friend or anyone else who might be thinking, no, I do NOT have the ass of a 12 year old boy! Thankyouverymuch!

The dance was from 7 to 9, although that is an hour after bedtime, I made an exception. I handed him $20, told him not to spend it all, leaned in for a kiss and he said "See ya!" No, thank you for the money, ride and jeans, and no kiss goodbye, nothing. Twelve year olds suck!

So 9 p.m. rolls around and I go fetch the boy. There he was outside, soda in hand, lots of kids I've never seen before standing around him with a couple of his friends, one boy points to my car, Lane 1 hugs all the girls and walks up to the car with a huge smile on his face.

Coming of age, oh boy!

He got in the car, handed me $12 and said, "Sorry I spent that much, John was broke so I paid for him to eat."
"That's okay. Did you have fun?"
"Yeah! Hey Ma?"
"Yeah."
"Sorry I was a jerk earlier."
"Ha, me too."
"Thanks for not getting mad at me, and thanks for the jeans and giving me a ride and money and stuff."
"Hold up G. I didn't give you my jeans, they were a loan."
"Okay, well thanks anyhow Mom. I guess I better get all of these phone numbers out of your pockets then, huh?"
"You got phone numbers?"
"Yeah!"

He showed me his palms where girls wrote their names and numbers. Then he pulled some random pieces of paper out of his pockets. He also told me that he can't wait for the next dance and agreed not to have pre-dance jitters or breakdowns.


"Did you actually dance or were you just scoping out the chicks?"
"I danced to every song!"
"Who'd you dance with?"
"Every girl that said 'yes'."
"You are your father's son, ya know."

Years from now, the memories for all of those girls who said "yes" will include, the scent of a male French whore with spiky hair. I miss the days I had to fight with him about looking and smelling nice.




Lane 2 consoling Lane 1.
"It's okay brover, you look pretty."
Thanksgiving 1997