“Would you like to dance?”

The whole school buzzes and hums with excitement the whole day leading up to the dance. It’s my first real dance and I’m not quite sure what to expect. It starts right after school lets out on Friday.

We stand in line and pay $3 to get in to the dark, decorated gym. Streamers on polls, flashing lights, and plenty of empty space. Groups of friends separate off into sections.

It is instantly clear how much more comfortable the 8^th graders are than us, the puny 7^th grade kids. They form dance rings in the center of the gym, and shake it to *NSYNC selections. Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears for the girls, some peripheral rap and rock for the boys.

I love to dance. I jerk and spasm and spiral and rock my way into a sweaty mess in a short time. Most of my friends are bopping or tapping along. About half way through the dance, I have to stop for water.

When I come back from hydrating, I take a seat next to the bleachers in the back of the gym to watch the others. It’s dark and I can’t really tell who is who in the mass of people who have finally loosened up and are shimmying and grooving in the center of the gym.

We hear the opening notes to a slow song, and roughly half of the Jr. High population immediately disburses to the far corners of the gym. Jiving is one thing; holding someone close and being romantic and stuff – that’s a whole other beast that most of our awkward, hormonal selves aren’t quite prepared to face.

I am content to sit next to the bleachers here. Someone else has other plans, though. A tall, blond boy approaches from my right side.

“Hey! I don’t know if I’ve met you. What’s your name?” he says, his words coming out all mushed together and rushed. He’s an 8^th grader. I’ve seen him before. I am fairly certain I’ve never actually met him though.

“Umm. I’m Sarah?”

“Hi, Sarah. I’m Ryan. Would you like to dance?”

“Umm. Sure?”

So we dance. Awkwardly. So incredibly awkwardly. The dance ends soon after the song, and he walks with me to my locker. “Where do you live? What’s your number? We could hang out?” he chatters non-stop all the way.

I am completely frazzled. I’ve never really done this boy-girl thing before and I don’t even know this guy and I don’t know what to say and what comes out of my mouth is, “Listen, it was nice dancing with you. Thanks for asking. But I don’t think it would be a good idea if you just started showing up at my house, and calling me on the phone, and ….”

“Oh,” he says, crestfallen. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. I mean. Yeah. Okay.” He walks away.

Monday after school, a group of girls is hanging out at the library. One girl asks me,

“How did you get Ryan to dance with you?”

I am puzzled.

“He just came up and asked me.”

“Really?” she asks. “He was my boyfriend all last year and I tried to get him to dance with me at every single dance, and he never would.”

“Oh…” I reply. This is easily the most uncomfortable ‘boy talk’ of my life. “Well, I don’t know then. He just asked me. Sorry.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Weird.”

We are making address books in class. We learn how to put the dashes in our phone numbers and to capitalize the street names in front of our houses. We write our addresses in shaky, oversized letters on thick, dark lines across the page. Everybody in the class gets a copy of our Class Address Book, photocopied on the big copier in the office, with three staples holding it together down the left side.

On Sunday, the phone rings. It is for me.

“Sarah, it’s Ni-ick,” my papaw says.

I am excited! This is the first time the phone rang for me that it wasn’t Sissy or some other family member. A real phone call!

“Hi,” says a little voice on the other line. “I called everybody in our Class Address Book so far down to you and you’re the only one who is home.”

We talk for a minute or two, our nine-year-old selves having little to contribute in the way of conversation.

The trouble, though, is that now a boy has called me. A real boy. From school.

Papaw tortures me mercilessly.

He croons to me, “I just called…. to say…. I love you. I just called… to say… I care.” Some weird old song from a long time ago. Embarrassing.

I’m taunted around the house with “Nick. N-Nick.Nick. Nick. NICK. Nick. NICK-O-LODEON!”

“Oh, Ni-ick. So glad you called,” he mimics me. Except, I don’t think I even said that.

“NO! It’s not like that! I was the first one on the list to answer. He wasn’t even trying to call me especially.” My protests, pouts, and shouts go unanswered. Papaw is not the least bit concerned with who Nick did or did not mean to call.

I live in constant fear that another boy will accidently call me someday. Papaw doesn’t care when four years go by, then ten, and Nick never calls me again. He carries on in his own little pretend world where Nick and I are estranged lovers, holding out for the day we can be together, just calling to say "I love you."