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Not everyone gets to be prom queen. Now that I’m in my 40’s it seems like an even sillier distinction than it did when I was in high school. From what I’ve heard my little brother’s geeky friend voted for me. I guess I had that going. I also had my dear old dad as my date my junior year. I know that sounds pathetic as hell but seeing that I had quit varsity cheerleading, switched to a rival school, promptly got kicked out, and found my way back one week before prom—what choice did I have? At least I didn’t get stood up like Lieselle did. We took our dads because they wouldn’t let two girls go to prom together back in the 80’s. We managed to have a decent time despite being completely sober. I wore a borrowed blue dress. Lieselle was voted prom queen the following year.
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That red dress makes all of the difference. Without it I would never have ended up making out until the wee hours of the morning in the Oxford hotel’s mezzanine. Unlike my previous prom dresses, this one is a slinky little number—seeing that I am now in my 30’s, wearing a full length, billowing gown seems silly. We all call the event “prom” because it is our chance to dress up and go to the big city of Denver. Officially, the evening is the “Evil Companion” book talk sponsored by our university. Either way, it’s a big deal to us. I am the only one in the group who is a lecturer instead of a graduate student and I have a date. He is blond, way too handsome for me, and horny as hell. I don’t remember his name. I do remember being a bit demure. I blush a lot, smile coyly, and keep that red dress on until I let myself in my hotel room at around four o’clock in the morning.