When I was in 7th grade, I went to my first dance.

I was rather excited . . . and scared at the same time. There was a girl I liked then. Her name was Kari. She had been new to the school, and was one of the few whom didn't think I was an idiot and even talked to me as we walked home from school at times. Of course, I lived in the opposite direction, and had about a 2 mile walk to circle back around . . . . Every day . . . but I didn't mind. It was nice to have someone to talk to that didn't think that I was a moron, or dumb, or stupid.

Unfortunately, I was branded by many of my classmates as a 'not so bright guy' to put it in the most kindest, most optimistic way I can think of . . . What they actually mostly called me was Moron, . . . idiot, . . . stupid, . . . big dork, Etc, etc., etc., all because I had attended classes for learning disabilities. They never called me these things directly, but I’ve caught them on more than one occasion talking ‘about’ me, using these words.

But Kari, the new girl I um, sorta walked home from school with, didn't know me at all. She just started the 7th grade at this school and didn't know anyone yet. She treated me with respect, and courtesy. She was happy to have a friend to walk home with, and I loved her for it.

The night of the dance, I remember dressing up in my bell-bottom slacks, silk shirt (that I've never worn because I never really had a reason to). I put on some aftershave, but maybe I put too much on, because it was a bit strong. I had heeled shoes, that actually made me an inch taller than I already was, which basically made me VERY tall . . . I was already many inches above my classmates. The silk shirt was buttoned down maybe a button too much, I buttoned it up . . . then un-buttoned it . . . then buttoned it back. I guess I eventually decided I'd play that one by ear . . . I had never been out to a 'dance' before, so I didn't know how to dress appropriately.

My School was about a mile and a half away, I rode my bike there, a sears special that had been my trusty companion for a few years to this time. I had combed my hair till it was just right, but the wind kept messing it up. I had straight, Dutch boy style hair, and no matter what I did, it would just plop down . . . best not to mess with it.

I rode to school; it was getting dark, but I could see enough for me to get there. I’d have to deal with the dark when I left, but that was later, and I’d deal with it then. I was excited. I parked my bike in the bike locks, locked it up, and jaunted to the dance.

‘Seventh Grade Dance’ . . .

I think there was theme to it, but who really cared about those things. It was a chance to hang out with the guys . . . or, er . . . maybe some girls too. Kari would be there. Maybe we could dance some . . . never mind that I couldn’t dance, nor even knew how to ask a girl to dance. Still . . . the prospect was enticing. It was new, exciting, and scary at the same time.

I went by the other groups of guys, said hi to some I knew . . . kinda floated from group to group. I never really stayed in once place too long. I didn’t feel comfortable around people who really didn’t want me around them. None of them were really my friends. Actually they were more ‘Luke-warm’ friends at best. Those are friends that don’t really like you, don’t really want to have anything to do with you, but they would never say so to your face. They just smile, listen to whatever you have to say, and mentally blast you with their Psionic powers until you are eventually pushed away . . . FAR away.

I had some juice, a cookie or two . . . I think they are the exact same at every grade school dance. It’s what the teachers say to entice unsuspecting kids into doing something outside their comfort zone . . . “There’ll be cookies! C’mon! You’ll love it! We have Punch!”

I did the circuit again . . . I had it down, that if I just walked around all night, kind of just meandering close to a group, standing around by myself for a couple minutes, then meandering off, no one (and by ‘one’ I mean, no ‘teacher’) would ask me if I was ‘Alone’, or ‘You should ask a girl to dance’. No kid likes to be forced into doing something that isn’t well within their comfort zone. Tricked? Yes. But not forced.

Kari was there, in a Fort Knox gaggle of girls. It would be difficult at best to get to talk to her. Still . . .

No one really paid me any attention, no one noticed. I was for all purposes . . . invisible. It wouldn’t be for a couple years yet, before I would figure out that that was a bad thing at school dances.

Eventually, couples started dancing, either through force, or osmosis, I don’t know. Just suddenly, there were people dancing. Not really sure how it worked, and it wasn’t part of my agenda, so I didn’t care . . . Not that I was really all too sure what MY agenda was . . . just that it was comforting saying to myself that ‘I had an agenda’.

I orbited around the Fort Knox gaggle for several dances, casually moving closer and closer . . . meandering, and stopping for a time near a group of guys that I didn’t know every once in a while so as not to arouse suspicion.

I kept getting closer, and closer to the group with Kari . . . I was almost there (not that I would have known what to do when I got there, but I figured, first: Get there, Second: Figure out what I am going to do once I got there. I was a goal-oriented kid.

“Wanna dance with me?” It was Sandy ‘Whastername’, a short girl with curly blond hair. She was shy and in some of my classes. I never really noticed her. She never really noticed me. In fact, we were sorta invisible to each other. Up until this moment, I don’t think I even knew what her voice sounded like. And here she was, asking me to dance?

“Um”, I said . . . remember, I have NEVER danced before, didn’t know how . . . didn’t even want to. “Well, er . . . ok”. So we danced . . . a SLLLOOOOOWWWW dance. Well, at least I could do it, so it wasn’t that bad . . . just turning slowly is all it is. In fact, I was quite enjoying it. And it made me take a closer look at Sandy ‘Whastername’. She was a little short and stubby, sure, but not all that unpleasant to hold. She didn’t smile much, but then again, neither did I. We didn’t talk, nor even look at each other, really. But I was feeling more confident in myself. Yeah! This could really work! I could dance! AND talk to girls! I was an ok guy . . .

The song, at a crescendo, wasn’t even half way over, before Sandy ‘Whatsername’ dropped her arms and stopped dancing. Without pausing, nor running, she just walked over to the cookie table, got a cookie, and walked back to her group of friends that were busy in some sort of ‘girl’ conversation.

It had happened so suddenly, that I was left, holding the dance, so to speak. I was dancing, and then I wasn’t. She left, and I was still there . . . awkward. Moreover, she never said a word, nor even nodded to me other than her first sentence. Come to think of it, this was my first and last ever contact with Sandy ‘whatsername’, the first girl I ever danced with at a school dance.

I stayed there for a few moments, getting bumped and low growled at by other couples on the dance floor. As I stood there, a teacher announced that that dance was the last one. Time to go home. It was over.

It was too late to say ‘hi’ to Kari. The doors were closed on that; she was now back in the corner in a bigger gaggle of girls. Fort Knox had grown. It was Time to know when I was licked and should give up, which is exactly what I did.

I quickly slipped out. I just wanted to go home. The dance was a bust, and a girl I did’t even know, ‘dissed’ me on the dance floor. I headed down the pathway, past the 1st grade rooms, through the monkey bars, into the flock of spring-loaded wobbly ridy thingys, and . . .

BAMM!

One split second, I’m sauntering towards the bike racks, hands in pockets, head down, and the next, pain . . . oh, and I’m on my side. Oh! And there is a wild, crazy, guy on top of me, wailing his fists into my head and kicking me in my stomach. I was dizzy, and it was a few moments before I realized the full extent of what was happening to me.

I was getting beat up.

Evidently, I had been waylaid from the side by a wiry guy slightly shorter than me with a butch haircut. This guy, had a fire in his eye, and he kept screaming “YOU HIT ME, YOU HIT ME!” Which was very odd, since it was in fact, HE who hit ME and not the other way around. Still, he screamed it over and over. He was unrelenting.

My head hurt very much. I had hit it on one of the spring-loaded wobbly ridy thingys (which was evidenced by the fact that it was still wobbling what seemed minutes after I hit it). More than that, though . . . My hand hurt. More particularly, my pinky hurt on my left hand. It hurt VERY much. When I put my (left) hand up to ward his punches, I confirmed that my hand WAS hurt badly. It hurt even more now. I curled up into a ball.

In my potato bug defense, I didn’t hurt as much. Well, my finger hurt, and my head was still very woozy, but I was comfortable. Time seemed to slow a bit, and I tuned the screaming out somewhat. It seemed like I had a lot of time on my hands suddenly, and I could ponder the evening. So I did.

Eventually, someone pulled him off, with, “He’s had enough, ‘garbled name here’. You should leave him alone.” To which the guy screamed, “HE HIT ME,” and jumped on me and kicked me some more before being pulled off a second time. This time, two people held him some, telling him to calm down and talking to him. One was Wally Crumpler, the other was Wally’s best friend, another name I couldn’t (can’t) remember . . . but it gave a clue to the kid who was (still) screaming at me. It was Wally’s best friends brother.

Slowly, I started to uncurl from my position, still holding my finger that hurt A LOT. I would find out later that it was broken. I focused on my finger, saying ‘ow’ a lot. My knee was also bleeding, but I didn’t see that before. My head still hurt, but I could at least think a little. I stumbled up on my feet, and almost fell down again. Jack, Jason, Jimmy, lunged at me again, but was held back. I didn’t flinch . . .but that was mostly because I didn’t see him lunge. Most likely, I would have yelped like a little girl and crawled back into the fetal position.

I heard someone in crowd say “Let him kick the SPED’s ASS!” and someone else say “Shutup”. A familiar voice had said “SPED? Whats that”. A snort and then someone answered, “A Special ED student. He came from the Idiot classroom.”

I was oblivious to all around me. All I knew was that this dance SUCKED. I was called names, a girl I didn’t know, dissed me on the dance floor . . . and I got beat up. . . AND my whole body hurt. I don’t know why JUST at that time, my eyes started to tear up, but it was uncontrollable. I couldn’t stop them, and I tried with all my might. NO! Not now I cried inwardly.

I saw Kari in the crowd just as someone next to her said, “aww, the SPED’s gonna cry!” She was looking at me, and at the other kid. She was the one that had asked the question about what a SPED was. She looked at me for a few moments, and then some other girls pulled her away. “C’mon Kari, my dad’s here”

Everyone saw me tear up. Expressionless, my face began streaming water. All were watching me as my shame and humiliation came to bear full fruit. The more I told myself, ‘DO NOT CRY’, the more water came plummeting down my face.

I vaguely heard Wally’s best friend asked his brother what I did to him.

“He HIT ME!” the nameless kid said. “HE hit me with a ball!” That confused me, I hadn’t thrown a ball in months, much less ‘at’ someone. Still the tears streamed unbidden. I stood there, not moving, almost hoping that the more motionless I became, the more people would forget that I was there and walk away. It didn’t work.

Still, Wally’s best friend questioned his brother on why he jumped on me and beat me up. It came out, that Wally’s best friend’s bother had been in Special ED too. Was STILL in special ED, and had ALWAYS been in Special ED. Wally’s best friends brother had been playing at recess one noonday, and one of those BIG rubber balls (and I mean those HUGE planet sized ones that it takes several people to push up) had come out of nowhere when he wasn’t looking and had beaned him (literally) into the ground. The ‘when’ was a little fuzzier, and, after a little cajoling, it came out that it had been a YEAR and a HALF earlier, when I had . . . supposedly . . . hit him with this ball. Talk about memory like an Elephant!

Anyways, I didn’t recall the actual issue he was referring to, until it popped into my head weeks later. I had been out playing with some of the Special ED friends, and we did have one of those balls. Wally’s best friends’ brother wanted to play, but the others weren’t hearing him, and kept passing it around to each other. When it came to me, I had decided to toss it to Wally’s best friends’ brother, who, unbeknownst to me at that time, had given up, and started walking away . . . just to get beaned in the head. All the teachers ran over and took care of him, and the bell had rung, so I just went in, thinking it was handled.

. . . A year and a half, he held that grudge. I didn’t even know who he was.

The crowd dispersed. Eventually, I limped to my bike. No adults showed up. No other kids helped me or asked me how I was.

I rode my Sears Special home in the dark, crying the entire way. . . and yes, my finger was still broken.