WOADS: Women Only Appreciate Dancing Solo
For thirteen-year-olds, the stakes are always high. But never are the stakes more fatal than at a middle school dance. Fluorescent hallway lights seeping into the gym ballroom, threatening to reveal the pimples on the faces of the pubescent crowd cowering in the corners. And for a particular brown-haired girl with little to no fashion or social sensibility, those dances meant hovering around the outside of the bobbing dancers, heart beating.
He showed up at her door, 3B, at 6:58 PM. When he had promised over the phone that he would arrive at her apartment door promptly at seven PM, she had not stopped to consider the good deal of wiliness that it would take him to properly get into her building, pass the buzzer, and navigate the hallways to her difficult-to-find door, but as he stood in front of her with one disconcertingly vibrant pink carnation, she couldn’t help but wish she had worn her serrated headband for extra protection.
The Decider, The Fan-Maker
Sitting, five years old, on an endless navy carpet, knees tucked to my chest, I remember the first and only moment I knew exactly what I wanted. I was in kindergarten, and we were learning about China. Although at this point in my life I knew very little, I did know how to get what I wanted. And that day, I wanted to make a fan. A beautiful, delicate, lacy fan — just like the ones that the elegant Chinese women would hide coyly behind in pictures.