💃🏻 Dancing with My Date: How can you fall for someone this quickly? 🕺🏻
💔 The Crush Chronicles: Johnny, Part 2
The second part of Johnny’s Story | The Crush Chronicles
To better understand this part of the story, you may wish to read “Johnny, Part One” first:
A - H A
December approached, as did one of the school’s annual dances, the oh-so cleverly named Christmas Dance. I loved attending dances, and our school had many, but I rarely went because I hardly ever had a date. This time, though, Johnny asked me.
It was clear that Johnny had feelings for me and I just…didn’t reciprocate. We hadn’t talked about it, but he and his friends, and mine, continued trying to get me to come around, and I just kept doing my Rachel thing, always keeping that slight doubt in my mind.
He probably doesn’t really like me, anyway.
When he asked me to the dance, I accepted, making it clear that we would just be going as friends. This was hard on Johnny because by this point, Joel and Erin had hit it off and began dating. Regardless, Johnny agreed, and with the four of us being best buds, we decided to attend the dance together.
Johnny was standing at the front door when I opened it that night with a bouquet of lush white roses in his grip.
“Oh my goodness!” I exclaimed, opening the door wider so he could enter, his frame overshadowing mine. “How did you know this is my favorite flower?”
He smirked down at me as I breathed in his musky vetiver scent.
“I have my ways.”
He, of course, was dressed in black from top to bottom, his black necktie blending into his smart button-up shirt and belted slacks. He had slicked his hair back with gel, cleaning up the mess atop his head. A Danny Zuko. All he needed was a comb up his sleeve.
“Get together so I can take your picture,” my mom insisted before we left, as mothers do. I’m grateful that she did go full mom that night. Johnny and I had taken professional photos together at the dance and ordered a set of prints, but that fool kept them all; I never saw them. All I have left of that night is the blurry photo my mom took of us. Luckily, though it has been through many moves, the photo is still smooth and pristine, unlike what little memories I’ve stored that have faded and crumpled with the passing years.
Dawning a black and red, mid-length spaghetti strap dress that ruched at the bust and hugged me at the waist before releasing over my hips, I smile awkwardly at my mom, who is three inches shorter than me. The fabric of my dress had a crushed velvet floral pattern that was satisfying to the touch. Self-conscious of my “big arms” (there was nothing wrong with my arms, I just wasn’t society skinny), I covered my spaghetti straps with a long black and velvety shrug. I complimented my outfit with a black choker adorned with dangling red crystal beads. My hair was bouncy and curly, almost blonde from a mistake at the hair salon, so you can see my black roots from me trying to grow it out, and my mom helped me do my makeup. That was the only time I ever wore makeup in high school: either a school dance or a school performance. Even then, I didn’t wear foundation, just eye makeup and lipstick.
As Johnny drove us in his old brown Buick on the way to pick up our friends, he glanced over at me and stated, “If they play ‘Take on Me,’ we have to dance.”
“Okay,” I agreed, thinking the chances of it being played were slim. “Why that song?”
“Oh look, they’re already outside.”
I smiled up at Joel’s driveway, rolled down my window and yelled, “Hey, sexy lady!” to Erin, her long brown hair done up with curls into an updo, her arms wrapped around one of Joel’s, both of them dressed in tones of red and black. I had already forgotten Johnny’s request.
Over halfway through the event, I sat partially leaned back in my chair at the table we had claimed, holly and battery-operated lights adorning the middle of the white tablecloth of the round table, my long-sleeved shrug draped across the chair next to me. Overheating trumped arm self-consciousness. The boys had gone to get us drinks; Erin and I chatted lip-to-ear about our dates.
Then a familiar tempo began.
I don’t know if Johnny requested it from the DJ or if it was just his night. He came to me, held out his hand and commanded in his baritone tremor that I couldn’t resist, “Let’s go.”
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